Nick Oldham - Backlash

Lucy let him wait in her office and covertly Henry watched her working. She was pretty and seemed very efficient.

A few people whom Henry knew either by sight or personally trailed in and out of FB’s inner sanctum, often referred to as the burial chamber. A couple of times he caught the dulcet tones of FB’s raised voice coming through the panelled door. Each time the person who had gone in to see FB had come out shortly after, tail between legs, very pale-looking, eyes fixed firmly downwards. FB was known as the constabulary hatchet man with good reason. Today seemed to be one of his ‘people days’.

Lucy had looked up from her work and smiled reassuringly. ‘He’s running a little late, I’m afraid,’ she said pointlessly. It was 3.30 p.m.

At four o’clock FB stuck his chubby face round his office door, nodded at Henry and apologised for his lateness.

Like a black widow spider to her unsuspecting husband, FB beckoned him in with a crooked finger and directed him through the office to a chair by means of digital gestures.

The ACC sat down slowly behind his expansive and very neat desk which had a large clean blotter on it — no spilled blood, Henry noticed — and an in-tray and an out-tray, both empty. This seating arrangement retained the psychological advantage for FB, who was physically much smaller than Henry. The ACC sat back, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the spire, critically appraising the lower-ranking officer.

‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ Henry said, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

‘Yess,’ FB said, drawing out the word. ‘How are you feeling? You’ve really been through the ringer, haven’t you?’

Henry acknowledged this with a slight tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow.

‘And now you’re coming back.’

Henry was not sure whether this was a question or not. To compromise he nodded. He found himself increasingly puzzled: FB didn’t seem quite sure where to begin or what to say. Even so, Henry didn’t liked being here: something bad was going to happen.

‘On Monday,’ FB said.

‘Yes, sir. Back Monday. Can’t wait to get stuck in again.’ He almost punched the air with forced enthusiasm. ‘Too much idle time, too much doing nothing — my head’s cabbaged.’

FB’s fingertips were still supporting his chin, his lips pursed. He took in a huge deep breath through flared nostrils and laid his hands flat on the desk, announcing via body language that things were about to be declared. Henry prepared himself.

‘Right,’ he said with the finality of decision, ‘I’ve pussyfooted around too long already. Can’t stand all this touchy-feely stuff. You know and I know I’m a man who likes to come to the point and I think we’ve known each other long enough to be able to say things straight to each other. You wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?’ Giving Henry no chance to respond he steamrollered on. ‘I’ve looked very closely at what’s happened to you over the last few months, then even further back over the last four or five years. You’ve had to deal with some very high-profile stuff, some dangerous and messy stuff too. And this came to a head for you after Danny Furness died — and the result was that you had a nervous breakdown — a good and proper one.’

Henry stiffened. His mouth dried up and his poor heart began to pound. This felt like the overture to an ill-health pension. The bastard was going to get rid of him. Henry tried to speak but nothing came out.

‘Between Danny getting killed and you going off sick, your work suffered dramatically, I’m sure you’d agree. To be honest, Henry, your performance was a shambles. The whole of Blackpool CID suffered because of you.’

Henry rolled back in his chair, stunned. This was the first time anyone had ever said that to him — that he could recall. So, FB, just say what you mean, don’t mince your words.

‘Detections plummeted, discipline was non-existent, there was no management to speak of-’

‘I was going through a bit of a rough patch,’ Henry interrupted. He emphasised the word ‘bit’ and hoped he sounded reasonable, but was aware of a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.

FB instantly held up a hand to shut him up. ‘Let me finish, and let me be brutally honest, Henry, something this force has been a little short of recently, honesty. The good running of the CID is my responsibility, as you know. The shit stops here, in other words.’ He placed a hand on the left-hand side of his chest where he believed his heart to be. ‘And I’m not afraid to make hard decisions to keep the department running smoothly. I believe very firmly that, at the present time, you do not have the capability or the capacity within yourself to go straight back into your former role and operate a hundred per cent effectively, which is what I need — especially in Blackpool. Fourteen murders this year. Fourteen of the fuckers! I need people who are with it.’ He clicked his fingers a few times while speaking. ‘On the ball.’ Click. ‘Operating slick and fast.’ Click. ‘And at the moment you don’t fit the bill. So I’ve had to make a tough decision — even tougher because I know you and like you.’

Henry kept his mouth closed.

‘I’ve decided to transfer you to another job and maybe in a few months’ time we’ll review the situation. Your replacement has already been in post for a few weeks.’

‘Transfer to what?’ For a moment Henry thought he might get something decent out of this. Major Crime Unit would be nice. The look on FB’s face informed him otherwise.

‘Uniform Inspector, Blackpool Central. As of Monday. 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. Reactive cover.’

The words sank slowly into Henry’s skull.

‘It’ll give you time to settle in, find your feet again,’ FB smarmed management bull.

Henry could not find a response. He almost went for the cliche, the line so beloved of the second-rate movie where the hero gets busted (usually for gung-ho antics as opposed to a stress-related sickness), the line, which in an army flick, might be something like, ‘It’s the SAS or nothing, sah!’

However, Henry’s reality was that he was a real person, a cop, a small cog in a big, lumbering organisation which rumbled on from day to day, decade to decade, oblivious to the movement of its staff. Even if it was ‘CID or nothing’, the police force would not bat an eyelid if he chose the ‘nothing’ option. It would get along just fine and dandy without him, as it had done for the last couple of months. He was, he realised, very dispensable.

‘I haven’t got any uniform that fits me any more,’ he whined weakly.

‘I thought of that,’ FB said paternally. ‘Clothing stores will be expecting you.’

FB glanced at his wall clock and gave Henry a look which said, meeting over. And that was it. Dirty deed done.

Henry had left the office immediately.

Henry could have delegated one of the PCs to present the woman prisoner to the custody officer. Just to be awkward and keep FB waiting, he chose to do the job himself.

The girl walked meekly from the carrier into custody reception, standing with head bowed in front of the desk, not looking directly at anyone, but muttering under her breath. Henry outlined the circumstances of the arrest and the amount of force he had used in effecting it. The custody sergeant dutifully recorded everything. When it came to the girl’s name, she refused to give it.

A female PC was brought in to search her and found nothing. Henry suggested that a strip search should be carried out because she could well have articles concealed on her which might be used to injure herself or others. After all, the stick she had whacked him with had been hidden somewhere, so there could be more secreted inside her clothing.