Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

He did not even bother to knock on the door which led into the office housing the chief constable’s and the deputy chief constable’s bag carriers, as the staff officers were mockingly known, and admin support. He just opened it, breezed in, and without acknowledging anyone else in the room, focused on his target and strode across to Chief Inspector Andy Laker. New to both job and rank he looked a little shocked into Henry’s glaring eyes as though he was just a probationer faced with one of the many dinosaurs in the force.

‘Henry,’ Laker said with a shaky swallow and a rise and fall of the Adam’s apple. He quickly pulled himself together. ‘I thought you were in-’

‘Blackpool? Nah.’ Henry smiled falsely. He handed his hastily concocted report to Laker, suddenly aware that two lines of text — one and a half lines to be exact — seemed woefully inadequate.

Laker glanced at it with an expression of resignation, then looked wickedly up at Henry. ‘I didn’t know your surname was Christ.’ There was a degree of malicious pleasure in his tone.

‘What?’ Henry heard a muffled guffaw from the staff behind him. He snatched the report back. He had indeed written ‘Christ’ instead of ‘Christie’ in his angry eagerness to get it done. Typing was not one of his strong points at the best of times, being a two-fingered thumper. He stole a quick glance at the others in the office — two secretaries and an inspector who was the deputy chief’s staff officer. They had been watching Henry’s antics, but their eyes dropped with alacrity as he looked round at them with madman eyes. They were all suddenly glued to the work on their desks, not a sign of a snigger on any of their faces.

Henry’s attention returned to his report. ‘Typo,’ he said, sniffing, found a pen on Laker’s desk and added the missing letters of his name as neatly as possible.

‘Thought you might be getting ideas above your station,’ Laker commented as he took the amended report back between his finger and thumb and dropped it into his in-tray. ‘See what I can do.’

‘Sooner rather than later.’

‘It’ll be processed,’ Laker said with a shrug and Henry knew he had to back off. Pursuing the pen-pushing idiot too far would result in the request finding its way to the bottom of the pile — again and again.

‘Thanks.’ Henry swallowed and turned to leave just as the door to the chief constable’s office opened and the man himself appeared with one of the divisional commanders, the chief superintendent in charge of Blackburn division, their meeting having ended. They were having a bit of a chuckle at something, then shook hands. The divisional commander bade the office a grand goodbye, then left.

‘Right, good,’ said the chief. He turned, saw Henry — but looked right through him — and without saying a further word retreated into his cosy office, closing the door.

Henry’s nostrils flared. It was almost as though the guy didn’t know him. Twisting to Laker, he said, ‘Can I see him now?’

Laker shook his head, his supercilious eyes half shut, a slight grin on his lips. ‘Appointments.’

Suddenly the chief’s door reopened and the tubby incumbent poked his head out, bellowing across at Laker, who winced, ‘What’s next? Completely forgotten.’

‘Erm …’ Laker consulted his computer, tapping on the keyboard to bring up the chief’s electronic diary. Henry’s eyes zoomed in on the screen and even before Laker had seen it, Henry said, ‘It says “office”, sir,’ over his shoulder. ‘Next appointment half an hour.’

‘Right, ta.’

‘Henry,’ Laker growled warningly under his breath, sensing the next move.

‘So could I possibly bob in and have a quick word? Sir? If that’s not too presumptuous?’

He was unimpressed.

‘Downright bloody cheeky, not presumptuous,’ the chief constable corrected Henry, pointing him to the low leather sofa in his office with a flick of the finger. ‘This’d better be quick. I don’t do unannounced visits. Sit.’

The sofa was just comfortable enough. Not too soft so as to let someone sink into it, but just enough to lull them into a false sense of security. Henry sat, but didn’t lean back. Instead, his elbows were dug into his knees, his fingers loosely interlocked in front of him.

The chief sat on the arm of the leather chair opposite: management body language for ‘You’re not staying long, mate.’ A large, beech-framed, glass-topped coffee table divided the two men.

‘Well?’

There was a slight hesitation as Henry gathered together his thoughts, staring at the carpet. He hadn’t actually expected to be sitting across from the chief constable so PDQ and he didn’t want to blow it through lack of preparation. He pursed his lips and looked up.

Robert Fanshaw-Bayley — known as FB — was the chief constable of Lancashire Constabulary. FB was an affectionate term used by the people he hadn’t yet wronged. ‘That ’effin’ bastard’ was a phrase often bandied about by those leaving his company less than pleased with the result, ensuring that FB also stood for something not very nice. He had been a career detective who had risen surely through the ranks within Lancashire, clinching the helm of the organization following a short stint out of force.

He and Henry went back a long way and they had always maintained a less than healthy relationship, biased in favour of FB, who used Henry’s skills, often ruthlessly, to achieve results, then discarded him when it suited. Henry had once believed that FB quite liked him and he definitely had some good things to thank him for, but that belief had just been another example of Henry’s naivety. Since the incident with Dave Anger, when Henry had expected FB to be ruthless, the chief constable had actually dropped Henry like a handful of hot cat shit.

FB waited.

‘I just want to know what’s happening, that’s all.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘With me and Anger, of course,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m still holed up as a temp DCI in FMIT and he’s still the department head. He’s still running the show like nothing’s happened and I’m sat there with my thumb up my ring piece. My life is a bloody misery and I’ve done nowt to deserve it, except stand up to a bully. The only thing that’s kept me sane is the Trent trial.’

‘Well, you know’ — the chief twisted his head as though his neck was hurting, but Henry recognized it as a monstrous nervous tic — ‘these things move slowly.’

‘Boss — I’m the victim in all this and I’m the one on the ropes here. The guy who harassed me, damaged my car, is still my boss and now I’m starting to pick up the vibes that I’m the baddie in all this and that no one wants to know me.’

‘Henry — I feel like flicking your fat, blubbering bottom lip and making you go, blub, blub, blub like a babykins.’ FB’s face hardened. ‘You’ve got a whiney voice and you feel sorry for yourself — snap out of it!’

Henry bridled. Heat ran up his spine. He sat bolt upright. ‘I have the right to know what’s happening. No one has been in contact with me, no one at all. You and me go back one hell of a long way and I deserve something from you at least.’ Henry’s mouth tightened. ‘Have the divvy commanders rallied round him, the other chief supers? Am I screwed career-wise?’

FB shuffled uncomfortably, pulling at his collar, which was tight fitting around his plump neck. ‘The divisional commanders are a pretty influential lobby.’

Henry shook his head in disgust. He sat back, unable to conceal his cynicism. ‘And is it true about the footage I got of him trashing my car?’

FB’s body language began to leak like a drain, reinforcing Henry’s position even more. ‘Is what true?’ he croaked.