Nick Oldham - Backlash

There had been a series of skirmishes throughout the weekend between the two factions, Seymour explained to Henry. The culmination was a violent confrontation just after midnight on Sunday on a piece of waste ground near to a poorly run nightclub not far away from the main bus station in Blackpool centre.

More often than not such inter-gang conflicts do not involve the police. But things take on a very serious complexion when someone ends up in hospital with a fractured skull, broken cheekbones, a cracked jaw, a face mashed to a gory unrecognisable mush, broken arms, broken ribs, a collapsed lung and testicles the colour, size and consistency of peeled plum tomatoes, being kept barely alive by a machine and with brain scans that did not bode well. In cases like that, the law cannot help but become involved. At the very least it was attempted murder.

That was the basic scenario as sketched out by Seymour.

‘Who’s in hospital?’

‘Mo Khan.’

Henry raised his eyebrows and gave a short whistle. Khan was the head of a tightly knit Asian family and had a range of businesses operating in Lancashire, such as grocery shops, newsagents and taxi firms. Henry knew Khan well. He was a dangerous, violent individual who had a nefarious underbelly to his legitimacy: drugs, prostitution and importing illegal aliens from the Indian subcontinent, the latter line having become the most profitable of them all.

Khan was supported by four sons, their ages ranging from late teens to early thirties. Henry knew Khan had a daughter too but, like her mother, she rarely saw the light of day.

It was pretty unusual for Mo Khan to be caught out on the streets.

‘What was it all about?’ Henry asked.

‘Dunno.’ Seymour shrugged, a little agitated now because his kebab was starting to go cold. ‘Same old crap, I expect,’ he explained, and picked up his delicacy. ‘Drugs, turf. . love, even.’

Henry also knew the Costain family very well. Blackpool toe rags born and bred, though they proclaimed themselves — rightly — to be descended from Romany gypsies. Generations of them had lived on the same council estate for years, which they terrorised constantly. They made their living from drawing the maximum amount of state benefits, coupled with burglary, theft, deceptions, low-level drug dealing and protection by intimidation. The big problem they faced was that when the Khan family took over the general store on the estate, they had refused to be intimidated by the Costains. This resulted in numerous incidents over the last two years, usually between Khan’s sons and the younger end of the Costain tribe.

Though racism did play a part in the scheme of things, the main reason for their conflict was that in the eyes of the Costains, the Khan family were not showing them due respect. Often the Khans outmanoeuvred and belittled the Costains — who were not very large in the brain department — and these humiliations only served to fuel a bitter hatred.

It had been an escalating situation observed carefully by the police — and now, apparently, it had got out of hand.

Henry did not relish dealing with either family. They both despised the police.

‘Drugs, turf and love?’ Henry repeated. ‘What do you mean, love?’

‘There is some suggestion,’ Seymour said through his munchings, ‘that Khan’s daughter has been screwing around with Joey Costain and old man Khan had tried to put an end to the liaison.’ He emptied more cola into his mouth. ‘Real sorta Romeo and Juliet stuff.’ He snorted. ‘Anyway. . Joey Costain got locked up for the assault on Mo and then said bugger all in the interview. . it’s unlikely there’ll be any forensic, no weapon has been found, so he’s been bailed and it’s ID parade time and it’s over to you uniforms.’

Seymour smirked. Henry smirked back.

‘Who’s the witness?’

‘Ah well, that’s part of the problem. . it’s Mo Khan’s daughter, Naseema. . not a bad-looking bird for a Paki, actually.’

Henry flinched and stifled an uncomfortable cough. He looked round quickly to see if anyone had overheard Seymour’s offensive remark. The coast was clear. Henry’s unease was because the use of derogatory terms such as ‘Paki’ were a definite no-no in the police these days. It was considered to be an outright racist term and managers were expected to put staff right about such things at the very least. But Henry could not be bothered to tackle it at the moment. He had far too much on his plate and the thought of getting to grips with such a touchy subject on his first day back, his first hour back at that, and probably alienating Seymour at the same time, did not have any appeal. Maybe it was cowardice, but an ally like Seymour in the CID might prove useful — and just at that moment, Henry thought he needed all the friends he could get.

Seymour, unaware of his gaff and Henry’s inner dilemma, checked his watch. ‘She’s due in at seven.’

‘Right, thanks.’

‘And Joey Costain is due to answer his bail at quarter past. . no doubt with tame brief in tow.’

‘Shit — that was a bit of good planning,’ Henry said sarcastically. ‘Suppose they bump into each other on their way in? If they do, you can kiss the parade bye bye — and the job, too.’

‘Yeah, that’s true.’ Seymour did not seem overly concerned.

‘Who’s the officer in charge?’

‘DI Roscoe.’

Henry blew out a lungful of exasperated breath. ‘Better go and sort it out.’ He turned to leave the office but was stopped in his tracks as the new DI, accompanied by a DS called Mark Evans and two detective constables, bustled purposely in through the door. The DS and the DCs acknowledged Henry with muted embarrassment, their eyes running up and down his uniform. Henry caught Roscoe’s eye, gave a nod and edged quickly out of the office, feeling very uncomfortable.

As he trotted down the stairs, he realised why he felt like that. It was because of the eyes and expressions of those three jacks, all members of his team not long ago. They all seemed to be looking and sneering at him as though he’d been demoted and was no longer one of them. An outsider. A uniform. Even though he had expected this, it hurt him. Deeply. But what wounded his fragile ego even more was that his place on the branch had been taken by someone like DI Roscoe.

‘Everything’s sorted.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The witness and her brother are waiting in your office — accompanied by a policewoman — all the stooges are in the ID suite being looked after by a couple of lads and I’ll do the scribing for you. The video cameras have all been set up and everything else that you need to know is on this. . idiot’s guide, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ Sergeant Dermot Byrne handed Henry a laminated A4-size sheet of paper with a blow-by-blow explanation of how to run an identification parade.

‘No, you’re right, Dermot — idiot’s guide.’

The sergeant smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t think so really, but I did think you might need a chuck-up, this being your first tour of duty and all that.’

‘You are dead right. Thanks, I appreciate it.’ Henry genuinely meant it.

‘All we need now is for Joey Costain to answer his bail, but he’s got a few minutes yet.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Henry. He cast his eyes down the idiot’s guide. ‘I think I’ll have a quick word with the witness.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out at the front desk for Joey and let you know when he lands.’

Byrne walked away towards the front desk and Henry thanked God for watching over him and providing a sergeant the calibre of Byrne who was worth his weight in gold.

Saeed Khan, scowling sullenly and lounging indolently against a filing cabinet, did not move when Henry walked into the inspectors’ office. Henry gave him a quick once over, then ignored him and directed his attention to Naseema who was seated. Behind her, arms folded, looking very stern and intimidating, was a policewoman.