by Nick Oldham
Henry’s worst fears were confirmed as he propelled Tommy down the side of the house, stopped abruptly by the front corner and looked down the garden path.
The car that Henry had borrowed had been torched and was now burning fiercely.
‘Oh, shit,’ Henry said in a very understated manner.
Looking up the avenue, he saw that the gang had made its way through the gardens of other houses, had regrouped and was now trudging down towards Henry, their ‘Uh! Uh! Uh!’ seeming to gather volume and momentum.
‘Officer!’
Henry turned. Trish Benemy was standing at her side door, beckoning urgently. ‘Get in here if you want to live.’
They circled the house like a pack of hyenas around an injured lion, too scared to go in for the kill just in case the lion got lucky. However, their presence was frightening and intimidating up to the point where Trish Benemy stated, ‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ and went to her front door, stepped out and stalked boldly down the path to her broken gate. So far, none of the pack had dared to set foot on her property, and as she approached them and the now smouldering shell of the police car, they backed off even further when she hurled a tirade of abuse at them.
Henry watched with awe from her front window, particularly when one of the youths – wearing a scarf to keep his identity hidden – strutted up to her, gesticulating and screaming abuse into her face. She simply stood her ground, hands on hips, and responded in kind.
‘Crikey,’ Henry said to Tommy who was still cuffed, although his hands were now in front of him, and sitting sullenly on the settee. ‘Your mum’s a brave woman.’
Tommy looked at Henry, said nothing. Henry shrugged and looked outside again as suddenly, as one entity, the gang stormed down the cul-de-sac towards the turning circle, split up and disappeared through the house gardens. Two police vans and a patrol car screeched into the avenue.
Henry’s assistance had arrived, but he winced when his eyes took in the remains of his inspector’s car. He was going to have to do a lot of explaining and grovelling, even if his trump card was a good arrest.
THREE
It wasn’t the first time Henry Christie had been paraded in front of Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, and even then he somehow doubted it would be the last.
The first time had been when FB was Henry’s DI in Rawtenstall and Henry had made a complete hash of transporting a prisoner from Dover back up to the valley; such a hash that the prisoner, a very well-known and prolific burglar, had escaped en route.
So things were not boding well for the young cop, who already knew that FB did not suffer anyone gladly, fool or otherwise.
He stood in front of FB’s desk in the DCI’s office at Blackpool nick, not exactly to attention but certainly not at ease, and awaited the very loud dressing-down that Henry suspected the rotund detective was about to unleash.
FB was seated, hadn’t even glanced up when Henry entered the office, but had sort of gestured for him to stand on the opposite side of the desk and wait while he appeared to sign off some paperwork, which he finally placed in the out-tray. He then laid his bulbous fountain pen down with exaggerated care and raised his face to look at Henry.
Who swallowed.
‘Is this scenario becoming a bit of a habit?’ FB asked quietly.
‘Which scenario, sir?’ Henry asked cautiously.
‘The one where I have you parading in front of me to explain your … let me see’ – FB pretended to gather his thoughts, though Henry knew the DCI had already gathered them – ‘reckless actions, your shitshow.’
‘B–b–b …’ Henry stuttered.
‘No b–b–b’s,’ FB snorted mockingly.
Henry’s mouth snapped shut.
‘Is this going to be a feature of your police career? Acting without thought or consideration? Putting investigations and people – your colleagues – in danger? As well as valuable police property? Going on unauthorized jaunts? Completely disregarding the chain of command?’
Henry once again tried to say something in his own defence, but his protestation was cut short by a karate-like slice of FB’s hand through the air, brooking no further discussion.
‘I seem to recall you want to be a detective?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘No, no, no … you don’t have the right to call me “boss”. At this juncture and for the foreseeable future, it remains “sir” – OK?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Henry said mutedly.
‘You don’t really like authority, do you, PC … PC …?’
‘Christie, sir,’ Henry added helpfully, even though he knew that FB had a habit of pretending to forget names in order to belittle officers of lower rank, or any civilians.
‘Yes, PC Christie.’
‘It’s not a matter of not liking it, sir. I wholeheartedly accept it because that’s how the police operate … more or less,’ Henry said unconvincingly.
FB’s chubby lips puckered, then twisted. ‘So let me get this straight. You decide to nick your boss’s car and then, knowing that a full-scale investigation was underway to identify the persons who assaulted you, you went, without authority, or telling anyone, or running it past me, to try to make an arrest off your own bat!’ The last four words came out in a staccato burst, like a machine gun. Henry tried to say something, but FB raised a finger to halt any protest and said, ‘Uh-uh!’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘And in so doing went on to an estate where relations between the police and public are fragile to say the least and, single-handedly, caused a fucking riot and managed to burn your inspector’s car to nothing more than a shell.’
FB waited.
Henry said, ‘I did make a good arrest.’
‘You should have told me. I mean, when exactly did your memory miraculously return?’
Henry’s lips tightened on his teeth as he struggled to think of a realistic answer.
FB ventured, ‘You never lost it, did you?’
‘No, sir,’ Henry said meekly.
‘You were going to have that arrest all along, weren’t you?’
Henry nodded: busted.
‘Jesus!’ FB gasped. ‘Not exactly a team player, are you?’
Henry didn’t want to get into a debate about that – mainly because he knew he’d been wrong and found out when it all went pear-shaped. Instead, he said, ‘I apologize, sir. I did want to make that arrest and I can see my lack of judgement in this respect.’ The words were very hard to spout, but he knew he’d been cornered and only a grovelling apology would suffice.
‘I should put you on paper,’ FB told him.
Henry gulped. If he was formally disciplined, this misdemeanour would go all the way to the top and it would be a toss-up which way it went. It was unlikely that he would be asked to resign or be sacked, but a formal disciplinary appearance before the chief constable might happen, and that would entail an entry on his personal record which would hamper a transfer on to CID for years to come.
He waited for the axe to fall.
But FB’s expression changed as he said, ‘However, I’m not a total git.’
Henry’s mouth went dry and his heart began to pound. ‘I didn’t think you were, sir,’ he said. ‘Not a total one.’
Shit! Why did I have to say that? he demanded silently of himself as he saw, like dark clouds scudding across a sky, FB’s face change back to anger for a moment, then back to not being a git.
‘Thing is this, PC … er … Christie … I kinda like something about you. Can’t put my finger on it. It’s not as though you’re a likeable sort of bloke at all, because clearly you’re not. You don’t necessarily have to be, in this game, but it does help and you need to know how to play it, and at the moment you don’t seem to be good at the game. So I’ll tell you what …’
Henry braced himself.
‘Even though we’ve wasted well over a full month of manpower on this investigation, I’m prepared to pretend you only just got your memory back and were just being a bit gung-ho – y’know, th
e enthusiasm of youth and all that palaver – if, and only if, you get an admission of guilt from the lad, plus the names of the others involved, obviously.’
‘Thank you … er … sir. I’ll do my best with him.’
FB nodded the nod of a dictator. ‘I will smooth it out with the patrol inspector who, because of your incursion on to Shoreside, had to bring in reinforcements to quell a riot – he may well wish to have a word in your lughole; however, I’m not sure I can placate your own inspector whose cherished vehicle you managed to destroy. He may wish to skin your bollocks.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Henry said smartly.
‘Right – fuck off out of my sight.’
The patrol inspector was waiting to ambush Henry as soon as he stepped out of FB’s office. He was a chubby, balding guy, baby-faced but with a hint of steel about him, and Henry knew he was in for a severe roasting, the scale of which he had never before experienced in spite of what FB had promised.
The inspector pointed to an office and ushered Henry into it.
Ten minutes later, perspiring heavily and suitably reprimanded, Henry emerged.
It had been one of the best tellings-off he had ever been subjected to, so good that partway through he almost offered to smash himself about the head with a tea-tray.
But he was basically unscathed.
However, his own inspector was waiting for him when he stepped out.
This, probably, was the one he felt worst about because Inspector Jameson was truly one of the nicest guys he had ever met – a true gent, mild yet firm – and Henry could see the man’s bottom lip trembling as he spoke about the loss of his beloved car.
‘I cleaned it inside and outside, lovingly, at least once a week; vacuumed it, polished it … my pride and joy. Every other car I’ve had access to in my career has been a rattling shithole on wheels.’
‘I know, sir, and I’m sorry.’ Normally, Henry would have called him ‘boss’, but decided that formality might be the best move in this case.
Jameson’s lips clung together and his chin wobbled as he considered Henry.
‘Sir, if – when – you get a replacement, I’ll look after it, clean, polish everything, and I won’t ever take it without permission,’ Henry offered.
Jameson shook his head sadly, lost for words, then waved Henry away, unable to speak.
Henry went down to the custody complex on the lower ground floor and took his place in a short line of other arresting officers waiting to be given access to their prisoners. The new Police and Criminal Evidence Act (PACE) had come into force the previous year and custody offices across England and Wales were still getting familiar with its vagaries, the main one being that detainees could only be held for a minimum of twenty-four hours without charge (though there were exceptions) and their detention had to be reviewed every six hours by an officer of the rank of inspector or above, not connected with the case. That meant prisoners could no longer be left to stew in cells for hours or days on end and were given the chance to have legal representation and, for juveniles, to be accompanied by appropriate adults.
It also meant that Thomas James Benemy was in a juvenile cell, which had a wooden door and a toughened glass viewing panel instead of the adult steel and sliding metal hatch.
Henry finally made it to the custody sergeant who had a gaoler bring out the lad and take him to an interview room where Henry sat opposite him and waited for Tommy’s mother to be brought in.
Henry decided to say nothing, although he had to bite his tongue. The lad kept his eyes from meeting Henry’s.
Henry knew not to judge people from their appearance, but he couldn’t help but think that Tommy looked like a decent kid. Good looking in an inoffensive way, maybe a bit soft in his manner now that he wasn’t armed with an air rifle.
Finally, Tommy’s mother, Trish, was shown into the interview room by WPC Clarke, Henry’s alleyway angel (as he called her, though only to himself), who gave him a nice smile. Henry caught the briefest look between Trish and Tommy, almost nothing, but one Henry did not quite understand … but then it was gone and Mrs Benemy was sitting across from him, next to her son. Clarke withdrew from the room, giving Henry another nice smile, then she was gone.
Henry regarded mother and son.
‘Before we start,’ he said to Trish, ‘I want to say thanks again for what you did back up there on the estate. Pretty sure I’d’ve been hung, drawn and quartered without your intervention.’
She shrugged as if it was nothing. ‘Just a bunch of little shits.’
‘But thanks.’
‘OK … doesn’t mean I like you, or any other cop for that matter.’
‘Totally get that.’ Henry straightened out his paperwork, then looked at young Tommy, reminded him he was still under caution and could have legal representation if desired.
Trish spoke. ‘We’re fine.’
‘OK, in that case, let me summarize. I was on duty in Marston’s Department Store when I saw you’ – he pointed at Tommy – ‘come into the store, steal a large amount of perfume and leg it from the shop, and I gave chase.’
Henry saw Trish give her son a quizzical look. She asked Henry, ‘How much perfume?’
‘About two grand’s worth.’
Trish blinked and her head rotated slowly to her son whose mouth popped open as he cowered. She said, ‘Where was mine?’
Tommy gulped audibly but said nothing.
Trish’s jaw rotated angrily.
‘It was good stuff, too,’ Henry added helpfully, hoping to fan a few flames. ‘Chanel, I think.’
She looked back at him, and Henry could see she was simmering, maybe about to blow like a pressure cooker.
‘You mean he didn’t bring any home?’ Henry asked innocuously, seeing the possibility of stirring up the situation to his advantage. It always made interviewing surly juveniles so much easier when the adult was furious with the kid for whatever reason. Usually, it was just because of the inconvenience of being dragged from home into a cold interview room, sometimes because they were genuinely shocked and distressed by the behaviour of the fruits of their loins, or, as in this case, because they did not benefit from the crime.
‘No! Only thing he brought home was this …’ She grabbed his arm, shoved his sleeve up and twisted his forearm so Henry could see a recently etched tattoo which looked like a small house – just a square with a triangle on top to represent the roof, and with a diagonal slash through the square. ‘A friggin’ tatt! And not a good one at that!’ She threw his arm away in disgust.
Averting his eyes from the string of tattoos around Trish’s neck and the double standard applied here, Henry said, ‘So what happened to the perfumes, Tommy?’
‘I didn’t steal anything. It wasn’t me,’ he protested.
Henry said, ‘Let’s not go down that road of drivel, eh? I saw you, I chased you. I caught you, I got assaulted.’
Tommy looked down at the table. ‘No comment.’
Henry glanced at Trish who had folded her arms haughtily underneath her bosom; evidently, her son’s lack of generosity was gnawing at her. Two grand’s worth of expensive perfume and not a single bottle coming in her direction must have been painfully galling.
‘I will be going back to your house and seizing the clothing you had on that day – the red jacket and blue jeans and those grey trainers – which you’re wearing today, actually.’ Henry had seen that Tommy was wearing them when arrested. ‘I’m pretty sure they’ll have my blood on them from when you were kicking my head in.’
‘No comment.’
‘So, before we come to the assault properly, let’s just backtrack slightly to the perfume. I mean, a lad like you, stealing that amount of perfume? Were you stealing to order? Is that it?’
‘No comment.’
‘You went into the shop, stole a fortune in perfume – none of which ended up with your mum, although’ – Henry glanced at Trish – ‘I will have to have a look through your room, y’know?’
She nodded tightly. ‘Be my guest. He brought fuck all back.’
Henry turned back to Tommy. ‘So was that other lad the one who handled the stolen property and was he the one you were stealing for?’
‘No comment.’
‘And, of course, whoever snuck up behind me and smacked me on the head. Who was that and were you stealing for that person?’
‘No comment.’
That final ‘No comment’ must have been the one that sent Trish Benemy into a frenzy. Before Henry could stop her, the simmering rage within erupted into a volcanic fury. She spun where she sat and clobbered Tommy very, very hard across his head with such force he went tipping backwards, sprawling off the chair and rolling into a tight ball in the corner of the interview room, covering his head with his hands and forearms as Trish rose majestically and started to kick him.
Momentarily, Henry was stunned, then was up, dashing around the table, trying to pull her off without actually grappling her – and later being accused of indecently assaulting her, which was always the problem when wrestling a woman. However, he barged her sideways and managed to place himself between the two, making placating gestures while Tommy sobbed.
The interview room burst open and WPC Clarke rushed in.
‘Are you OK, Henry? I heard a commotion.’
Henry eyed Trish warily, and although she glared at him and said things like ‘Little cunt’ under her breath about Tommy, she nodded to indicate that hostilities were over.
To Clarke, Henry said, ‘Can you just take the lad back to the detention room? Me and Mrs Benemy need a little chat.’
The follow-up interview was much less fraught, but just as unproductive as far as Henry was concerned.
It remained ‘No comment’; even so, Henry persisted so that all the ground was covered and there could be no get-out when it came to court. If Tommy didn’t want to answer, that was his prerogative and so be it. Henry just had to make sure he asked the right questions anyway so as to negate any future defence that a certain question was not put to him. Even if he chose not to answer, Henry still had to ensure that all avenues of escape were closed. Tommy also refused to name the other people involved; Henry noticed that Tommy looked afraid when questioned about them, but that was all.
