Nick Oldham - Backlash

Henry let her ramble on, while he remained tight-lipped. His problem was the here and now: how to deal properly and sympathetically with the brother and sister. Yet he could appreciate where Roscoe was coming from, even though she had not expressed it in so many words. She was new to the job. This was her first big case here in Blackpool and there was a good chance Roscoe and her crew could bottom it without help from the headquarters SIO team. And if they did, her credibility rating would soar with her team of detectives, predominantly made up of white males lying in wait for women officers to trip up and show their fannies.

‘So what are you going to do? I know you probably don’t like me very much because I’ve got your job, even though we hardly know each other. I can understand if you don’t feel inclined to help me, but the end might justify the means in this case. . for the greater good.’ She obviously had more to say, but shut up there and let the words hang around, knowingly playing on Henry’s instincts as a jack. . former jack, that is.

He rubbed his face, jaded already. Not much more than an hour into the shift and he was having to look to his morals now. . morals he had often hung out to dry when he had been a detective, just to get that result.

‘Right, this is how it stands, Jane: we haven’t had this conversation; I don’t know that Mo Khan is dead; you haven’t told me a thing, OK? But the minute this ID parade is over, I want to know. Get me?’

‘Thanks, Henry.’ Roscoe sighed with relief. Henry was pleased to hear her words were not tinged with triumph. However, he was highly annoyed with himself for being swayed from what he knew was the right course of action.

‘By the way,’ Roscoe said. ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’

Henry spun quickly away without responding and headed towards the identification suite, hoping that his decision would not be one which would come back like a crocodile and bite his arse. It was 7.15 p.m.

‘How much longer are we going to give him?’ The question from Sergeant Dermot Byrne was directed at Henry Christie.

It was three minutes before eight and Joey Costain had not yet answered his bail. He was almost three-quarters of an hour late. Restlessness was beginning to creep in. The pool of ten stooges — the volunteers rounded up to make up the numbers on the parade and paid the paltry sum of?10 for all their hanging around — were becoming bored. The novelty value of the experience was wearing dangerously thin.

Saeed Khan was becoming increasingly obnoxious, muttering and ranting about ill treatment and racism.

Joey Costain’s solicitor, one of Blackpool’s best-known defenders of criminals, much despised by police officers, was also agitated. He had arrived at ten past seven, having arranged to meet his client in the public foyer of the police station.

Henry turned to the solicitor, a man by the name of Keith Dasher. He knew Dasher well and had developed a tolerably good working relationship with the guy over the years. Henry sighed. ‘He definitely said he was coming, yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’

‘Earlier this afternoon, by phone. He was going to come, definitely.’

Henry raised his eyebrows and wondered why solicitors believed their clients.

‘I could’ve told you he wouldn’t turn up,’ Dermot Byrne said. Henry’s eyes moved to him quizzically. ‘Because people like him don’t,’ Byrne said, responding to Henry’s expression. ‘I don’t know why we give people like him the chance,’ he added, looking challengingly at Dasher, anticipating a reaction but getting none.

Dasher looked extremely indignant about the whole situation. It was evident that Joey Costain’s non-appearance was irritating him immensely. Even Dasher had better things to do in the evening than wait around in a cop shop. His problem was that the Costain family paid him good money, well over and above the normal rate, to represent them, so keeping them sweet was a necessity.

‘Perhaps you could give him a ring now and see where he is,’ suggested Henry. ‘If he’s not here by 8.15, he’ll be circulated as wanted.’

Dasher opened his briefcase and pulled out his mobile phone. He left the ID suite, punching a number into it.

Byrne said, ‘I find it hard to be civil to people like him. Really annoys the life out of me.’

‘It’s just business, isn’t it? He’s got a job to do and so have we. The catalyst is our prisoners.’

‘Suppose you’re right,’ Byrne said grudgingly. He did not look terribly convinced by Henry’s liberal viewpoint. In his turn, Henry was not too surprised by Byrne’s attitude. A lot of cops thought in very clearly defined terms of right and wrong, them and us, and often lost sight of the overall picture — a tableau which Henry knew was very murky indeed with no fine lines and lots of ambiguity. He had long since stopped trying to make any sense of it.

Dasher came back into the room, a forlorn expression on his face. ‘No reply.’

Henry nodded. It was close enough to 8.15 to call it a day.

‘Give them their money and send them on their way with our thanks,’ he instructed Byrne cheerfully. More seriously he added, ‘And I’ll go and see Mrs Roscoe.’

As he put on each piece of equipment, his shoulders became a little more rounded, sagging a fraction more as the weight pulled them down.

First the heavy stab vest went on over his shirt, then the black Gore-tex blouson, followed by the Batman-like thick black leather belt round his waist onto which he hung his side-handled baton, personal radio, CS canister, rigid handcuffs and mobile phone. He felt like he was going to topple over. He put on his inspector’s flat cap — more comfortable and better padded than a mere sergeant’s or PC’s cap. More befitting such a high rank, Henry thought. It seemed the only perk going, a soft cap.

He had a look at himself in the mirror, aware that critical self-appraisal seemed to be the order of the day. He hoped he wasn’t getting to be vain. He thought he resembled a New York street cop rather than a Lancashire bobby and it hit him quite hard that the traditional days of policing were long gone.

There was a sharp knock on the office door. Henry pulled his cap off quickly and tried to move away from the mirror, but was not fast enough. The door opened and Dermot Byrne came in. He just knew what Henry had been doing.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ he reassured Henry. ‘By the end of the night you’ll hardly remember being a detective. . it’ll be a vague, distant memory.’

‘Won’t be if I have my way,’ Henry stated firmly. ‘Right,’ he announced, businesslike, unconsciously coming to attention, drawing his heels together with a click. ‘As there’s nothing of great importance for me in the custody office at the moment, I quite fancy a chauffeured ride out. . see what’s happening at the conference, then maybe we could have a look up on Shoreside and see what’s bubbling. After that we’ll nip up to casualty and see how things are panning out up there with our injured parties.’

‘Sounds good,’ Byrne said.

‘And you can fill me in as to who’s on duty, what’s been going on around here and what’s going to happen this week. I am so out of touch, it’s unbelievable. I’m going to be relying on you for a few days, Dermot — and I don’t mind admitting it.’

‘Yeah — no worries, boss.’

Henry was quickly getting to like Byrne. He seemed cool, capable and very much in control: the kind of sergeant who could be depended on. Byrne pointed to a black canvas duffel bag in the corner of the room. ‘Is that your public-order gear?’ Henry nodded. ‘Best put it in the boot with mine, just in case.’ Byrne picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.