Nick Oldham - Backlash

‘Fanshaw-Bayley, the ignorant, arrogant twat,’ Dave bleated. It was another remark Henry should have challenged. He didn’t this time because he agreed with the sentiment expressed.

The constable’s personal radio blared loudly, operating on a channel dedicated exclusively for the conference, separate from the normal radio channel used by Blackpool section patrols, the one to which Henry’s set was tuned. The officer listened then acknowledged the message. He stepped back to Henry and pointed up to a CCTV camera high on a lamp post nearby. It was trained directly on them. ‘That message was for you. They say that even though this is a police car, you’re not allowed to stop here and I’m not supposed to be chatting to you, so I’ve had a rollocking too. If you don’t move, they’ll get the bomb squad in to blow you up.’

‘Fair enough,’ Henry said, understanding. Any unauthorised vehicle parking near to the hotel would be seen as a potential bomb this week. ‘See you, Dave.’ He gave his old mate a quick wave. To Byrne he said, ‘Let’s follow Fanshaw-Bayley and see if he’s on his way into the nick. I recognised one of his passengers and I’d like to have a word.’ He wound his window up gratefully — his arm and leg had got quite wet.

As the car drew away, their personal radios screamed to life.

‘All patrols, please be making to Shoreside Estate. Officers requesting assistance. Repeat, officers requesting assistance, Shoreside Estate. Large disturbance in progress, officers under fire. Repeat large disturbance officers under fire. Patrols to acknowledge.’

Following her conversation with Henry Christie about Mo Khan’s death, DI Jane Roscoe had not been looking forward to her next encounter with Henry with any degree of anticipation. In fact she was dreading it. She was sharply aware that their embryonic relationship had got off to a very rocky start right from the moment she had first seen him when the garage door had opened, and her driver, DS Mark Evans, had said through the side of his mouth, ‘That’s Henry Christie, boss,’ and she had not even dared look at him as she was driven past. Then there had been the frosty, wordless encounter in the CID office when Henry’s gaze had settled on her oh so fleetingly with an expression that seemed to scream at her, ‘I’d like to tear your heart out with my fingernails.’ And lastly, the blatantly unethical request she had made to him, which Henry, much to her surprise and shock, had agreed to. Because of all these things and more, Roscoe knew that their association would be edgy at best, most probably doomed.

Although she was certain Henry would not have believed it she had not gone out deliberately to poach his job. It had been offered to her out of the blue by ACC (Operations) Fanshaw-Bayley. Apparently he had decided on a whim that she was the right person for the job, though it was never explicitly articulated to her why she was that person, but such was the way the Constabulary worked: mysteriously.

As anyone else would, she had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Not knowing Henry Christie personally, though having heard of him by reputation, and being unaware of any of the background to the situation, how could she have refused the offer?

At the time she had been a uniformed inspector at Chorley, to the south of the county, living in Fulwood, near Preston. Travelling to Blackpool, in the opposite direction, therefore, presented her with no real problems. In fact it was an easier journey — motorway all the way. She had been working long, tiring shifts which were causing serious ructions within her married life, and saw little of her solicitor husband. She knew the DI’s job would also mean long hours and would not solve any problems at home, but at least she would be happier at work because having spent much of her time in the CID, both as a DC and a DS, she had always wanted to progress to detective inspector.

Her feelings for the job itself did not change when she got to Blackpool, but she soon discovered that her appointment was not a popular one, particularly within the CID office. And it was all down to one man: Henry Christie, even though he wasn’t even there in the flesh. Everyone regarded him as some sort of icon. But to Roscoe, his reputation hung around like a bad smell.

He was worshipped by the DCs and could do no wrong in their eyes. Within hours of starting the job Roscoe knew she was on a hiding to nothing and that everything she said and did would be judged by the benchmark of Henry Christie. The man whose job, she overheard one detective remark, Roscoe had ‘fucking nicked’.

She had rehearsed numerous times for the inevitable meeting with Henry. She had practised nonchalant facial expressions and devil-may-care body language and one or two sharp-tongued phrases which would put him slap-bang in his place. But all her good intentions had deserted her when the moment finally came. She’d become like an overawed dithering schoolgirl unable to think of the words to finish her little speech about the Khans. Then she had been so completely taken aback by Henry’s unexpected reaction she had made that stupid, inane closing comment. Where the hell had that come from? ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’ Jesus. She might as well have rolled over on her back like a submissive puppy and given in there and then. She had been furious with herself, mentally kicking her own arse down the corridor after the meeting and gritting her teeth to stop snarling, because, without trying, Henry had firmly taken the psychological upper hand. And, whether it was true or not, she perceived herself to be in his debt. She owed him one. It was a hole she had unthinkingly dug for herself, fallen into and didn’t know how to climb out of.

As she waited for Henry to come to her office to give her the result of the ID parade, she fidgeted, wondering how to play it to get back on top, how she should manipulate Henry, what the strategy should be.

She reached for the Khan/Costain file which contained all the statements taken so far and opened it, plugged in her little travel kettle and made a mug of tea, no sugar, skimmed milk. She switched on her laptop on the desk and slotted an audio CD into the drive, volume low.

This was how it would be when Christie showed his face: she would be concentrating deeply, reading the evidence, brew in hand, Handel’s ‘Water Music’ just audible, drifting softly out of the tiny speakers. She would be halfway down a page, glance up at him as he entered, show slight annoyance and say, in a friendly way, ‘Just give me a second, will you?’ She would point to a chair and pretend to continue to get to the end of whatever it was she was reading. Then she would close the file, look up at him, having kept him waiting — albeit for a very short time — and allow him to speak. It was a good plan, she thought wickedly.

But it never came to fruition. Firstly because the waiting was intolerable. She began clock-watching. And a watched clock never damn well moves, does it?

She finished her tea and re-read the file twice. Then she needed to pee. The urgency to do so increased slowly but inexorably.

Forty-five minutes. Just what the fuck was going on down there? Her bladder seemed to be bloating to the size and weight of a medicine ball.

Almost an hour. No sign. Shit.

She tossed the file back into her in-tray with an angry flick of the wrist. It missed, skittered across the desk, and fell on the floor fanning the contents out across the carpet. She surveyed her handiwork, her right leg shaking rhythmically.

‘He’s getting to you again,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t let him. . don’t. .’

There was just a cold dribble of tea remaining in her cup. She sucked it out with a vulgar slurp, banged the mug back down and stood up abruptly. Suddenly there was an incredible itch on her rib cage underneath her left boob. It screamed out to be scratched. She went for it. Flipped open a button on her blouse and inserted a hand, her fingernails easing the irritation, only to experience another itch, this time at the top of her right leg below the cheek of her backside. Sod’s law, Roscoe thought. No doubt Henry Christie would walk in through the door to find me scratching away like mad, contorted like a bloody baboon.