Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

His mobile phone rang. ‘Yeah?’

‘Henry, it’s me, Angela.’

‘Deputy Chief Constable Angela?’

‘How many Angelas do you know?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

He was driving with his mobile cradled to his ear by his right shoulder. Totally illegal, but still with both hands on the wheel.

‘The kiss was nice.’

Henry almost growled. ‘Yes, it was,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘No pressure, honestly.’

‘Cheers, goodnight, boss … see you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, bye,’ she said throatily.

Henry tossed the mobile phone on to the passenger seat and, not for the first time, cursed the device. How did life go on before they existed? Sometimes that more simple life was hard to bring back to mind.

A few minutes later he drew up on the drive outside his house in Blackpool. He climbed jadedly out of the car and walked to the front door and stepped inside to the warmth and welcome. He relaxed as Kate appeared in the hall, already in her dressing gown, looking ravishing and more beautiful than ever.

‘Long time, no see,’ she said with a grin. She gave him a tender hug, then pushed him away, screwing up her nose. ‘This is nothing personal, darling, but I think you need a bath.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Then some decent food, a bit of a chill and a good night’s sleep. Again, nothing personal, but you looked wrecked and uptight.’

‘Spot on.’

‘You do the bath side of things and I’ll put something together for you and bring up a glass of JD for the bath. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds good. Are the girls in?’

‘Yeah — in their rooms. Dying to see you.’

The tension drained from him as he exhaled. ‘It’s been a helluva day.’

He placed one foot on the first stair tread, the bath beckoning him with the prospect of hot water, Radox bubbles and wrinkly skin. He never got to the second step because the blight of his life intruded once more. The mobile phone which, even with its ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ ring tone, pissed him off severely, blaring from out of his jacket pocket.

He wished he’d left it in the car.

He fished it out, was relieved to see it wasn’t the deputy chief calling — unless she had withheld her number. He answered it.

‘Henry-’ he started to say, but before he could utter ‘Christie’, a woman’s voice cut in coolly.

‘It’s me, Jackie Kippax …’ He opened his mouth to say something, but she continued, ‘I’ve caught Eddie’s murderer for you.’

‘What?’

He heard her take a breath. ‘He’s right here in front of me …’

Henry heard a male voice say, ‘You got it wrong, lady.’

Jackie said, ‘Shut it, you fucker … Henry, I’m sat right opposite him now and I’m going to do exactly what he did to Eddie.’ She screamed out the last few words, ‘ And blow his fuckin’ brains out! ’

There was the sound of scuffling. Then a clatter, a scream and a loud gunshot — and suddenly the phone went dead in his hand.

Contacting the police these days could be a nightmare. Henry had heard some real horror stories about members of the public trying to phone in and either just never getting an answer or being passed from pillar to post with no one willing to take responsibility. One story, which might have been exaggerated over time, was that of an old-aged pensioner wanting to report a burglary at her house in Blackburn. Instead of phoning treble-nine — because she didn’t want to cause any bother — she phoned the number of her local nick. The phone rang and she waited for a reply. And waited. Ten minutes later, still no reply. She hung up and patiently tried again … and waited … then was relieved when a recorded message cut in and told her no one was available, but that her call was being forwarded and she was very important. The phone continued to ring out until another recorded message forwarded her on again … and again … until one hour later, the phone was answered — by a gruff, no-nonsense detective in Skelmersdale who told her she had the wrong number, try again, and hung up. She got through six days after the burglary, by which time she’d been done again.

Fortunately for Henry Christie, he could cut through all that crap. Even he, as a fully paid up member of the constabulary, often had problems making contact with people because no one seemed to want to answer their phones, preferring the non-confrontation of voicemail which meant that the recipient could decide when and if they should respond, and always did so at their leisure. Henry almost hated voicemail as much as mobile phones.

He had the direct, emergency number of the force incident manager, who was basically the boss of the Control Room at headquarters — and that night he used it, but even then it was not easy to get his message across.

‘No, I don’t know where she was calling from,’ Henry jabbered down his mobile whilst reversing out of the drive. With a squeal of tyres and a quick wave to Kate on the doorstep, he accelerated off the estate.

‘So, er, what exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Get someone round to her address for a start?’ he suggested.

‘In Blackburn?’

‘Yes, in Blackburn.’

‘What was the address again?’

‘Jesus — don’t you listen?’

‘I don’t think there’s any need to take that sort of tone with me, sir,’ the affronted FIM said. He was an inspector Henry did not know and guessed was fairly new to the job.

‘Look — sorry, OK … but there’s a pretty serious incident happening somewhere and I know this is all pretty vague, but we need to get patrols to her flat and for others to be made aware that something’s going down … the ARV crew need to be put on alert, too … authorize them to arm, please.’

‘On the strength of an iffy phone call?’

‘Just do it, OK? It’s a precautionary measure.’

‘Your name’s on the log.’

‘Whatever.’ Fucking jobsworth, Henry thought as he sped towards the motorway junction at Marton Circle. He was travelling through a forty zone and as he passed a speed camera he was doing sixty — and it flashed. The least of his problems, he thought, knowing he could get it written off under the circumstances.

‘Have you got your PR with you?’ the FIM asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Tune into Blackburn’s channel, will you?’

‘Will do.’

Henry hit the motorway at ninety whilst at the same time reaching across to the glove compartment to fish out his PR, which had been stuffed in there, hardly used since his transfer to a desk job. Somehow, he didn’t seem to need it all that often in the office. He switched it on, praying there was some charge left in the battery. There was, and as he reached a hundred, he was fumbling with the channel selector to find Blackburn’s wavelength. Once he’d done this, he helped himself to one of the cheese, ham and piccalilli sandwiches Kate had rustled up for him and stuffed into his sweaty mits as he ran out of the house, still unwashed. He devoured the food and felt an immediate benefit to his system.

As he drove, he listened to the deployments initiated by the FIM though actually carried out by a radio operator from Blackburn comms. Two patrols were sent up to the Kippax address, blue lighting it. Other patrols were asked to make to the area in readiness for something untoward happening and the ARV crew covering the division were given the authority to covertly arm. It is a fairly widely held belief that mobile firearms officers patrol with their weapons on their persons. In fact, their guns are secured in a safe in their vehicle, which they can only unlock in certain tightly controlled and authorized circumstances.

Henry’s mobile rang.