Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘Bloody hope not.’ Henry gestured to the office. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘Out doing jobs … on Eddie Daley’s murder, yeah?’

‘Right.’ Henry stomped back to his office, cursing today’s reliance on communications. If you couldn’t get hold of someone these days it was always a problem. In the old days, if you couldn’t make contact you lived with it. Maybe he was being a bit too nervous, but Mansur Rashid, whether he had killed his wife or not, was a violent man, as evidenced by Dr Khan’s injuries. If Angela Cranlow and Graeme Walling had gone in a bit gung-ho, they might have bitten off more than they could chew.

He tried her mobile again and got the same response, then sat at his desk deep in thought, tapping his chin with his knuckles before rising and walking into the outer office and going to the desk of the woman who’d been given the job of Murder Incident Room manager when the Special Projects team was turned into SPMS.

‘Where’s Delia?’ he asked Jenny.

‘Gone sick.’

‘What a surprise,’ he muttered, shaking his head. He picked up a sheaf of actions. The top one of the pile gave him what he was looking for. It was handwritten by Angela Cranlow and simply said, ‘From info received, arrest Mansur Rashid on sus of murder.’ There was nothing else. He took the sheet and went to Jenny’s desk. ‘Mansur Rashid,’ he said, placing it in front of her. ‘See if you can find out his address for me, somewhere in Blackburn. Interrogate all the intel systems if you have to … then call me on my mobile and let me know it. The dep and Graeme have found it somehow and they should’ve written it on here, but they haven’t.’ He leaned to her. ‘This is urgent.’

Henry hurried out to his car.

His radio was already tuned into Blackburn’s frequency. As he drove out of HQ he turned up the volume to listen.

Airwave traffic was busy, a lot going on, much of it generated by the visit later that day of Condoleezza Rice, even though the operation actually dedicated to it had its own specified channel and was running separately to the day-to-day policing of the town. It would have been impossible for such a large-scale operation not to have some overlap. Cops from all over the county had been drafted in for the day. Search teams and sniffer dogs were scouring the venues she was due to visit and the routes she would use were being constantly patrolled by armed officers. It seemed to Henry that a visit instigated at the whim of a politician was causing uproar — and not just within the police. The public, particularly the Asian community, were not exactly welcoming her to town and some demonstrations had been planned.

But that was not his problem.

He drove hard and fast through the country roads behind HQ before joining the motorway and heading towards Blackburn for what seemed the millionth time in just a few short days. Throughout the journey he continually called Angela’s mobile but got no answer, which increased his agitation and concern.

He hated it when officers went to a job and then you didn’t hear from them.

Ninety-nine per cent of the time it was for a legitimate reason and sooner or later they came back on the radar.

It was that last percentage point that bothered him today. He wondered if Cranlow, in her eagerness to be hands-on, had been a bit reckless and not obeyed the golden rule of telling someone where you were, what you were doing and that you were OK when you’d done it.

Henry grimaced.

Even the most experienced made mistakes. The unfortunate thing was that sometimes those mistakes became banner headlines.

Or was he overreacting?

During the course of his journey he picked out the voice of Bill Robbins on the radio, his old friend he had faced the pit bull with. It seemed he was not working the Condoleezza Rice operation, but doing a general ARV patrol — much to his chagrin, Henry suspected.

Henry tapped Bill’s collar number into his PR and called him up, using the mobile phone facility.

‘Bill, Henry Christie … are you available to give me a chuck-up?’

‘Is there a dog involved?’

‘Hope not.’

‘In that case I’m free.’

Henry suggested an RV point at Blackburn police station in ten minutes. As his conversation with Bill ended, his own mobile rang.

‘Henry, it’s Jenny … got that address for you. Took a bit of doing, though. It’s only on the Special Branch system.’

Major relief flooded through Henry’s system.

Fifteen minutes later Bill Robbins and his partner for the day, the policewoman called Carly, were travelling behind Henry’s car towards Whalley Range, an area in Blackburn which is predominantly Asian. Henry had been there many times over the years, particularly in the late 1970s just after he had joined the force, when there had been a great deal of racial unrest caused by the activities of the extreme right-wing political party, the National Front.

As he turned on to Whalley Range, a long, narrow road, sided by terraced houses and various Asian shops just off Blackburn town centre, he noticed a lot of street activity, more than was usual. No doubt generated by the arrival in town later that day of the American Secretary of State. From the snippets he’d heard, Henry knew there was to be a protest at the town hall by the Muslim community later that day, and maybe the bustle on the street was connected to this. A visit to a local mosque had been called off because of fears that protesters would invade. There was a distinct buzz of tension and he saw many people stop and coldly watch the liveried ARV behind him.

Henry drove on, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. He wasn’t a cat amongst the pigeons any more; he was a cat tiptoeing through a dog pound.

The street he was searching for was just off Whalley Range, one of the myriad of tight terraces clinging to the steep hillside north of the town centre: Balaclava Street, a name to conjure with, one which gave a good idea of the time when it was built. They were all pretty standard, two-up, two-down, many now extended at the rear for a kitchen, and almost all the outside privvies demolished and the toilets now indoors, although some outside loos still did exist. The street reminded Henry of the one in Accrington into which he had led a PSU on a dawn raid that seemed an eon ago. A stroke of luck had saved him that day. He hoped he wouldn’t need such fortune again.

Still the questions lingered. Where was the dep? Where was Graeme? Henry had asked Blackburn comms to try and contact them, but there had been no reply. And still no reply from the dep’s mobile phone.

Henry pulled in on Randal Street, just before the junction with Balaclava Street, the ARV Ford Galaxy drawing up behind. He jumped out with the intention of speaking to Bill and Carly. Before he could open his mouth, all their personal radios interrupted.

‘Chief Constable to DCI Christie, receiving?’ FB’s gruff tones demanded over the airwaves.

Henry rolled his eyes. He knew that FB was at the helm of Condoleezza Rice’s visit today, that he was to be found at Blackburn nick, kicking everyone’s arses. ‘Go ahead, sir.’

‘I’ve been made aware of the situation, Henry … any developments?’

‘I’m just about to knock on a door.’ Henry gave FB the address.

‘Is there any reason why we should be concerned?’

‘Only in as much as communication has broken down and we can’t contact two officers.’

‘OK — do what you have to do … oh, have you got back-up?’

‘Yes — an ARV crew have joined me.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘Roger.’ He regarded the two firearms officers. ‘I’m just going to go and knock on the door, just like I’m a cop knocking on a door. Can’t see any reason to do it any other way, except if you’ve got a spare ballistic vest in the back, I’d appreciate it.’