Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘What’s going on?’ It was Angela Cranlow. He was going to ring her personally once he’d finished his snack, but the FIM had beaten him to it. With a mouthful of sandwich, which he tried to swallow as he talked, Henry briefed her.

‘And that’s it? Not much to go on.’

‘I agree.’

‘Could it be a wind up? Just to annoy you?’

‘She sounded genuine enough … definitely needs bottoming, though. Even if she’s just pissed up and drowning her sorrows and maybe got hold of a gun.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. I take it you’re on the way?’

‘Yep. Are you turning out?’ Henry asked.

‘Would you like me too?’

‘That’s not the issue.’

‘In that case, no … keep me updated and it might be that you have to personally debrief me after.’

Henry’s heart sank. How the hell did he get himself into such predicaments? He shocked and amazed himself sometimes … most times. His phone beeped, indicating there was another incoming call.

‘Speak soon, boss, got another call.’ He thumbed to it and saw it was from a withheld number. ‘Hello, Henry Christie …’ There was nothing, just a rustling sound as though the other phone was in someone’s pocket. ‘Hello?’ he said hopefully. Still nothing. He glowered at his phone as though it was offending him, then put it back to his ear and lodged it on to his right shoulder, realizing he should have plugged it into the hands-free. At one hundred miles per hour, that would have been the safer option. Then the phone went dead. He looked at it again, this time in frustration, then concentrated on the transmissions from his PR.

‘Echo Romeo Seven, just arrived at the address.’ That, Henry knew from the call sign, meant that the ARV had arrived at Jackie Kippax’s flat, the first patrol to get there. The comms operator acknowledged him and Henry waited impatiently, nervously, for any developments, although he doubted whether Jackie would be there.

‘Echo Romeo Seven to Blackburn,’ the ARV chirped up after a few minutes.

‘Go ahead.’

‘No reply at the flat and it’s all in darkness. Any further instructions?’

‘Standby … DCI Christie, are you receiving?’

‘Receiving,’ Henry said.

‘Did you hear Echo Romeo Seven’s transmission?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything further for him?’

Henry cogitated for a moment. ‘Just tell him to hang fire there, will you — or at least in the vicinity of the flat. I’m, about fifteen minutes away, just on the M65 now.’

‘Echo Romeo Seven, I received that.’

‘Blackburn to DCI Christie — what about the other patrols? Can I stand them down? I’ve got a lot of jobs outstanding which need to be allocated.’

‘Yeah, carry on,’ Henry said, feeling a little foolish he’d got so many people rushing round. He slowed as he reached junction 4 of the motorway and turned on to the A666 whilst continually looking at his phone, willing it to ring again. ‘C’mon Jackie,’ he urged. He would only be happy when he had seen her face to face and assured himself she hadn’t actually blown someone’s head off.

He drove past Ewood Park, retracing the journey he’d made when he had turned out for Eddie Daley’s death. He dropped the phone and picked up his PR as an idea struck him.

‘DCI Christie to Echo Romeo Seven.’

‘Go ahead, boss.’

Henry thought he recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Bill?’

‘Certainly is — doing my duty on division.’

It was Henry’s old friend, Bill Robbins, the firearms trainer who he’d bumped into at the training centre a while back and who’d given Henry a blast down the firing range with a.44 Magnum. Henry remembered him moaning about having to turn out for regular operational duty as well as doing his ‘day job’.

‘I’m sure everyone in Blackburn will sleep safer in their beds knowing that,’ Henry said. ‘However — you’re certain there’s no one in at Jackie Kippax’s flat?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Do you know where the Class Act is?’

‘Yeah, Mincing Lane?’

‘Meet me there in a few minutes. I’ve an idea where this woman might be.’

The A666 squeezed into Blackburn town centre, morphing into Great Bolton Street under the massive railway bridge at Lower Audley, then for a short stretch became Darwen Street before the one-way system kicked in and Henry was obliged to bear left into Mincing Lane. It was an area he knew well, mainly because this was the section of town, including Clayton Street, where most of Blackburn’s on-street sex trade was plied.

At 10.30 p.m., Mincing Lane was quite busy traffic- and pedestrian-wise as there are a number of pubs in that area. The figures of the prostitutes were easy to spot; usually alone, sometimes in pairs, hanging around on the corners of their patches dressed in tight-fitting mini skirts and blouses. Henry had once dealt with the murder of one several years before.

As he drove slowly up Mincing Lane he wound his window down, allowing the symphony of the street to assault his eardrums. Music blared from quickly opened and shut pub doors; groups of youths moved around, shouting. There was a siren in the distance. And the smells, too, invaded his nostrils: chips, burgers, curry, the odd, strange waft of cheap perfume and above all, the aroma of hops from the beer being brewed by the giant brewery on the other side of town.

The Class Act, a name which belied the reality, was situated exactly where it should have been to attract the trade it did: just on the edge of the town centre and the cusp of the sleazy district of the sex trade, catering for the people who often crossed that line.

The place had been in existence for as long as Henry could remember, its reputation well known to most members of the constabulary. The name had changed a few times, but its nature, as in the spots of a leopard, had not. Even though Henry had never had any direct dealings with the place, he could recount numerous incidents off the top of his head which had taken place there, the most notorious ones being a double murder in the late 80s and a serious assault in which a man had had his left leg sawn off in the 90s. The Class Act frequently featured in the chief constable’s daily bulletin of news from around the county, but despite numerous efforts by the police to close it down, it remained stubbornly open.

And to be honest, Henry loved this sort of place.

It said so much about the town itself.

But it wasn’t open that night.

The Ford Galaxy with smoked out windows, which was the Armed Response Vehicle, was parked with two wheels on the kerb ahead of him on the opposite side of the road to the club, hazard lights flashing.

Henry drew his Rover in behind it, clicked on his hazards and looked across to the club, which was in darkness. The building stood alone, its front entrance opening directly on to the pavement, but the double wooden doors were firmly closed. Dark alleyways ran down either side of it, places where many people had been assaulted over the years.

Henry got out and was approached by Bill and his ARV partner, a female officer Henry did not know. They wore reflective jackets over their body armour and Henry could just see their holsters poking out below the hems of their jackets — including the muzzles of their pistols. They were both still tooled up and Henry realized that the authorization had not been revoked. Both were sipping coffee from polystyrene cups with lids on. Bill handed an extra one to Henry.

‘Hope you don’t mind, boss,’ he said. ‘We did a quick drive through on the way down from Fishmoor. Thought you’d appreciate one, too.’

‘No probs.’ Henry gratefully accepted the drink. He knew it all looked pretty slack, drinking like this in the eye of the public, but he was gagging after his sandwich and his adrenaline-fuelled dash across the county which had dried him up like a kipper. He broke back the seal on the lid and took a gulp, burning his mouth.