Nick Oldham - Backlash

‘Let’s go then and see what the streets of Blackpool have to offer.’

Feeling very self-conscious in all his gear, Henry walked alongside Byrne through the police station. They passed the report-writing room on the way in which a lone PC sat scribbling away at a statement.

‘Just a second, boss,’ Byrne said. He swung into the room and the PC looked up. Henry continued to shuffle himself inside his uniform, taking little heed of the conversation. ‘John,’ said Byrne, ‘sorry I didn’t get a chance to welcome you back properly at parade.’

‘That’s OK,’ the PC said.

‘Good to have you back, anyway.’

‘Good to be back — a month of searching the Garden has sent me scatty,’ he said.

‘At least you’ll know the place well,’ Byrne said.

‘Like the back of my hand.’

‘Anyway — see you later,’ Byrne waved. He and Henry continued on their journey. ‘He’s just done a month of pre-conference searching at the Winter Gardens,’ Byrne felt the need to explain to his inspector.

‘Oh, right,’ said Henry.

The conference security operation was very obvious and very high profile because this year it was the party in government holding its annual bash in town.

As Byrne drove north along the promenade, through what had become an extremely blustery, cold, wet night, Henry’s sympathies were with the numerous uniformed officers drafted in from all over the county who were very much in evidence along the route. When they reached the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, the police presence was even more high profile, the hotel virtually surrounded by sodden, miserable-looking cops, all wearing high-visibility jackets.

The planning for the policing operation had actually been underway since the beginning of the year, but it was only since the previous Friday night that a ring of steel had been wrapped round the Imperial — the main hotel where government ministers, including the prime minister, were staying during the conference (which took place from Tuesday to Friday). The routes likely to be taken by VIPs from the hotel to the conference venue, and the venue itself — the massive Winter Gardens complex in the centre of Blackpool — had also been subject to the most rigorous security checks and searches.

‘It’s a big one this year,’ Henry commented. Over the last few years security had actually been scaled down, but this year had been one of those controversial ones which seemed to come to every government, when they seemed to upset everybody. The consequent threat level from many sources had therefore risen dramatically.

‘Yeah, tense on a lot of fronts this year,’ Byrne said. ‘Irish peace talks fucked up as usual and the IRA have already hit a couple of targets on the mainland; the animal liberationists are up in arms about testing chemicals on hamsters, or something ridiculous. . er. .’ Byrne was thinking ‘. . the right wing has had a big resurgence recently — could be a big demo from them later in the week — the anti-capitalists have threatened some sort of action, too — all sorts of things happening. Could be an interesting week.’

Henry sat hunched, listening to his sergeant bringing him up to date with topics he should have really known more about. Although the policing of Blackpool was his main responsibility, as Burt Norman had made plain, he decided to make himself au fait with the strategic and tactical written orders issued for the conference. He was not naive enough to believe that the conference had nothing whatsoever to do with him. If something did happen it was more than likely that he and his shift would be called in to assist.

Byrne drove past the Imperial and up to the Gynn Square roundabout where they passed an armed response vehicle or ARV, whose occupants had stopped a suspect van. The firearms the officers were carrying were overt and very frightening.

‘Serious stuff,’ Henry commented.

‘Yeah — four ARVs on the road twenty-four hours a day from now until Friday afternoon, instructed to be high profile and very proactive.’

Byrne negotiated the roundabout and doubled back along Dickson Road which ran directly behind the Imperial.

‘How many have we got out on nights this week?’ Henry asked.

‘Four double-crewed cars and two pairs on foot in the town — which is pretty good going. Usually lucky to get five out, but all leave has been cancelled this week. It’s Scale D, by the way,’ he added, referring to the shift which was on duty.

Henry’s eyebrows shot up. Scale D, hm? They had a reputation, well deserved, as a team of hard nuts who went in tough and asked questions later. They generated complaints by the bucket load. ‘Lucky me,’ Henry mumbled. ‘Scale D. D for Death.’

‘The very ones. . they’re my shift now, for my sins.’

Henry peered at Byrne in the half-light, aware he and his sergeant hadn’t been properly introduced to each other yet. Henry knew very little about Byrne’s background, other than that he had transferred into Blackpool while Henry had been off sick. He was about to ask what Byrne’s sins were when he looked out of the car and spotted someone he knew. ‘Hey — pull in next to that guy, will you?’

It was a constable, standing on a street corner, looking ultra-wretched, obviously glued to the point to which he had been assigned. Byrne slewed in and stopped alongside him. Henry wound down his window.

‘Dave — all right?’ he called.

The officer peered suspiciously through the sheets of rain, seeing only the pips on Henry’s shoulder and wondering what he was going to get a bollocking for this time. As he approached the police car his look of wariness turned to one of pleasure when he recognised Henry.

‘Bloody hell! What the fuck are you wearing?’

‘Pantomime gear. How the hell are you, mate?’ Henry had joined the police at the same time as this guy back in the seventies when times had seemed so much simpler and more clear cut, when cops could get away with most things unpunished and juries believed them. They had been good mates for a short while back then, but had since maintained only irregular contact because their respective postings, shift patterns, job progressions and private lives had made anything more substantial an impossibility.

In reply to Henry’s question, Dave lifted the palms of his leather-gloved hands to the downpour, ‘Other than this shite, I’m OK. . but I’ll tell you one thing — ’ He sidled up to Henry’s window, leaned in and spoke with a conspiratorial air. ‘This must be the most important fucking point in the whole shagging operation.’ He pointed down to the concrete pavement underneath his size eleven Doc Marten boots.

‘Why’s that?’ Henry had a smile on his lips, ready for the punchline.

‘Why the hell else would they put their best fuckin’ officer on it and tell him to stay there, get wet through and not move on pain of death and discipline — and stay positive?’

Henry’s smile became a chuckle. ‘You’re obviously happy with your work.’

‘Normally — yes. But this? Fuckin’ politicians! Why can’t we just let the bastards get blown up? And it’s all right for those twats, too — just look at ’em.’ He nodded towards the rear gate of the Imperial Hotel car park where a sleek BMW saloon was pulling out onto Dickson Road. Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘They never get fucking wet, do they?’

As the BMW drove off towards Blackpool centre, Henry made out the figure of Assistant Chief Constable Robert Fanshaw-Bayley at the wheel. He was the Gold Commander of the whole operation for policing the conference — which meant he had overall responsibility and accountability. He had a front-seat passenger and there was a dark figure in the back of the car. Henry caught a profile of the front passenger and, with a jolt of surprise, recognised him.