Nick Oldham - Backlash

FB had been pacing the office as Henry spoke. He stopped right in front of him and rocked on the balls of his feet while considering his response. He clicked his tongue. ‘I’ll let it go this once, but that’s it. I’m bearing in mind your little “problems” — ’ he tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to parenthesise the word — ‘and that this is your first day back and you’re struggling a bit. But that’s it. Now there’s no quarter. I’ve let you blow off steam and have a go and if you speak to me like that again in any forum, I’ll cut you off at the knees. Understand?’

Henry said nothing.

‘Good — what you’ve also got to realise is that I want everyone on the ball and responding because I’m under severe pressure this week — pressure that would just pop you — and I don’t need anything else on top of it, like insubordinate subordinates. Get me? This is where it starts.’

This time Henry gave a curt nod.

‘Good.’ FB inhaled, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Now come with me. I didn’t ask you to come in to see me on a whim. There’s people I need you to meet.’

He led Henry wordlessly through the corridors and into the lift. On the seventh floor Henry followed him into what had once been the officers’ mess and was now a lounge for everyone to use, even the riff-raff. Except this week it had been commandeered by FB for use as his gold command post.

There were two men and a woman inside the room, sitting, talking quietly, drinking coffee. They looked up when FB and Henry came in.

‘You already know Karl Donaldson,’ FB said, waving dismissively towards the nearest and biggest of the three.

Donaldson got to his feet, smiling his big, toothy, Yank smile. His big paw of a hand shot out towards Henry, who was also beaming with surprise. They shook hands warmly. Henry felt a surge of pleasure as his eyes took in the vision of his buddy.

‘Karl — good to see you.’

‘And great t’see you, H.’

Donaldson was assigned to the FBI office in London where he was a legal attache. He was no longer a field agent as such; his job was to act as liaison between US law enforcement and British and European police forces. Most of his work was taken up with the Metropolitan Police. He and Henry had met several years earlier when they had been investigating links with American mob activity in the north of England. Since then their working relationship had continued sporadically, but their friendship had blossomed. Donaldson had even married a Lancashire policewoman now working in the Met. Henry and Donaldson had not actually seen or spoken to each other for some time due to the former retreating into a hermit-like shell during his bout of sickness.

It was Donaldson Henry had seen earlier that evening in FB’s car as it had pulled away from the Imperial Hotel. He had intended to catch up with him then but the riot had slightly diverted him.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Henry asked him. Their warm handshake continued as the question was posed.

‘That’s what we’re coming to,’ FB interrupted brusquely, bringing the friendly greeting to a stony close. FB did not have a great deal of time for Donaldson who, for several reasons, tended to rub him up the wrong way. Henry and Donaldson completed their handshake. The American gave a sly wink. The feeling between the American and FB was mutual — he couldn’t stand the prick.

The other man and woman in the room got to their feet.

FB indicated the woman with a pleasant, open-handed gesture, totally opposite to the crooked finger he had pointed at Donaldson. In fact his whole manner had changed as he introduced her. He became slick and smooth, almost reptilian and very attentive. It was screamingly obvious he would have liked the opportunity to get into her panties.

‘This,’ he said sweetly, ‘is Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin, Met Special Branch. Andrea, this is Henry Christie, the night inspector.’ As FB’s eyes left her, they changed from languid pools of passion back to hard chunks of ice.

Makin smiled and proffered her hand, which Henry shook. He nodded pleasantly and gave her the once over — discreetly — but did not feel too sexist by his actions because she did exactly the same to him. Henry had only the most fleeting chance to take her in before returning to business, but he liked what he saw. A tall, rangy woman, with a lovely face — wide nose, full lips — and a body which he knew instinctively would be in tip-top shape under the practical, well-tailored suit she wore. He put her in her late thirties — the minimum she would have to be, realistically, to have achieved her rank, unless she was a high flier.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Same here ma’am,’ he responded formally, almost clicking his heels and kissing the back of her hand.

‘And this,’ FB said — a slight trace of annoyance in his voice because he had picked up the exchanged glances between Henry and Makin, ‘is Basil Kramer, MP, who I’m sure you’ll have heard of.’

Henry turned his attention to Kramer: early thirties, cool, suave, plausible and impeccably dressed. Henry had heard of him, as had most of the population of England and Wales. At least those who possessed a TV set.

Kramer was extremely rich, having inherited the family business in his late teens following the death of his father and then doubling its already massive profits within five years, making it a leading global clothing manufacturer. Then, bored with business, he turned with equally spectacular success to the murkier world of politics. He was a bachelor, reputed to have dated and bedded several high-profile, but legally available females. Even in Henry Christie’s self-woven cocoon, he had heard of Basil Kramer. The man with the potential to go all the way. The young flier who, having been given the chance to fight a by-election three years earlier in a constituency which was blatantly anti-government had, by dint of his charm and endeavour, turned round a massive loss into a tiny majority and become an MP at the first attempt and in so doing he had become the prime minister’s blue-eyed boy and chief spin-doctor into the bargain.

He had all the necessary attributes to go far: boyish good looks, charisma, credibility, a fine brain and, unusual in a politician, the ability to actually answer direct questions with apparently direct answers. If the press wanted a soundbite on any subject, Basil Kramer obliged. If the government needed spin, he provided it. And if Jeremy Paxman wanted a TV lashing, Kramer was the man to crack the whip.

He had become the PM’s right-hand man. It was rumoured in hushed tones that it was Kramer, not the PM, who ran the country.

They shook hands. Kramer flashed Henry a winning, professional smile. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Inspector. I know you’ve been extremely busy for the last few hours. . even just arrested someone, I hear?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good to know the streets of Blackpool are in such capable hands — at least this week, anyway.’

‘Thanks.’ Little did Kramer know that Henry’s hands felt about as safe as a sieve.

‘Very unfortunate about your colleague, Mr Seymour,’ Kramer said, adopting the correctly sympathetic tone of voice.

Henry’s heart crashed to his stomach. He spun to FB, his face betraying his anxiety.

FB held up two hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. ‘No need to worry — he’s still alive,’ the ACC said quickly. ‘Grab a coffee, Henry. Then take a seat.’

He did as bid, then sat in one of the low, comfortable leather chairs — remnants of the good life of the officers’ mess — and sniffed the aroma of the coffee. It was real, filtered, very strong. He took a sip. The caffeine hit the spot immediately.