Bad Cops

by Nick Oldham

  She crabbed backwards in terror but he came at her relentlessly and determinedly, spitting blood, his hands reaching towards her.

  Henry hurtled out of his room and spun down the corridor using the door frame for propulsion, tearing his shoulder as he did so, jolting pain searing through him. He ran down the stairs four at a time, using the rails to assist take-off and landing, crashed through the residents’ door and sprinted through the hotel lobby, much to the consternation of a cleaner holding a dustpan and brush. He was out through the front door and landed on the waterfront.

  For a moment, he was conflicted about what to do.

  The number plate of the Transit van was obscured by another parked car. He knew he needed the number but his first instinct was to go after the jogger, although he hoped he was very wrong in his assumption that Daniels was in danger.

  The protection of life had to be his priority, so he set off up the river, hoping he was on the right path. He had his phone in his hand, trying to find Daniels’ number as he ran, which he did.

  ‘Answer it, answer it,’ he insisted as he heard it connect, ring, then go on to voicemail.

  Daniels scrambled away, but he lurched for her and grabbed the back of her running vest, stopping her abruptly and dragging her towards the edge of the path and the river flowing just beyond, the tide sweeping out and high. While holding her with one hand, he punched the back of her head and neck with the other, but though his blows hurt they were mainly off target and ineffective because she wasn’t going quietly. Then she broke free and rolled sideways toward the bank. He followed, kicking out at her, catching her lower gut and driving air out of her with an agonizing, ‘Unph!’

  Once more, he hauled her to her feet, dragging her up by her T-shirt front, though she was raining blows to the side of his head. Suddenly he had full control as he spun her round then jammed his left forearm across her throat and used the palm of his hand on the back of her head, pushing forward with his palm, his grip ever tightening.

  She tried to dig her nails into his arm, but she was weakening.

  And now his cheek was close to the side of her head by her ear. She could hear his breathing, feel the heat of his breath, the reek of his sweating body, and began to realize these were the last things her senses would experience before she died.

  Then there was the impact.

  Like a steam train thundering into the pair of them.

  The grip came loose. Daniels staggered away, sucking fresh air into her lungs as she sagged to her knees, not understanding what had just happened.

  Henry knew he was witnessing a death embrace.

  The jogger was attacking Daniels, had her pinned against him, trying to strangle her and, in some sort of macabre waltz, force her towards the river.

  Up to this point, Henry had run almost three-quarters of a mile and was flagging, but the sight ahead spurred another rush of adrenaline into his system and he simply went for the frontal assault, sped up and barged into the pair of them, hitting the man hard in the ribs as he connected.

  The man released Daniels and rounded on Henry, who saw the blood spluttering out of the mouth of the balaclava mask.

  He came at Henry, his body language showing his intent. The man’s shoulders seemed to swell and his fists seemed as large as oranges.

  Henry knew this would hurt a lot.

  The man sped up and raced towards Henry, who braced himself, turned sideways-on and dropped his left shoulder in preparation for the clash while trying to protect his right shoulder as much as possible.

  At the very last moment, Henry ducked sideways. The man skittered past and, as he did, Henry swivelled, swung his left fist in a wide arc and planted it on the back of the man’s head at the point where the skull met the spine. Not the greatest punch in the world – Henry had never been a hitter – but it sent the man on his journey for a few steps before he stopped, turned and launched himself back at Henry.

  By which time Daniels was back on her feet.

  She was behind Henry, ready to engage, a snarl of rage on her face.

  Henry sensed she was there and that, hopefully, the pair of them made an impressive crime-fighting duo, not to be messed with, even though one was a pretty unfit bloke and the other had just been half-strangled.

  Henry raised a finger at the black-clad man.

  ‘I’m a cop, she’s a cop’ – he jerked his thumb at Daniels – ‘and you’re fucking under arrest. So c’mon,’ he went on bravely, wriggling his fingers to encourage the man on, ‘let’s continue this.’

  The man turned and fled.

  Daniels stood in the shower room, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She’d cleaned herself up, dabbed Savlon on the grazes on her cheek and chin, but the pounding swelling on the side of her face could not be treated by anything other than time, though she had downed a couple of Henry’s strong painkillers.

  She rubbed her neck gently, raising her chin to inspect the red welt across her throat.

  Then she glanced at the reflection of Henry Christie.

  He was leaning on the door frame, just outside the bathroom, watching her do the repairs, slightly uncomfortable that she’d shed her outer clothing and was now just clad in her running bra and – it had to be said – fairly generous knickers, which he assumed were used when exercising only.

  He had offered to leave, but she’d asked him to stay. Now he was very, very conscious of her lovely smooth back. He swallowed.

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Henry?’

  He had just told her about the phone call he’d received from a very angry Alison. Daniels had listened with a cold look on her face but, when he finished, she smiled and said, ‘You know I’d never sleep with you, don’t you?’

  He accepted that information with a shrug.

  ‘So she has nothing to worry about on that score.’

  ‘I get it – no need to rub it in.’

  ‘I mean … look at the age gap, for one thing.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d never sleep with a younger woman,’ he said.

  ‘So what is going on?’

  ‘They’re watching us. They’re on the run and they’re dangerous.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that the guy who went for me – that wasn’t just opportunism?’

  ‘He was in the van outside. It’s gone now and I didn’t get the number. He got out and followed you, attacked you.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I should’ve had my suspicions after Alison called, but I didn’t tell you then because I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Some hope. Anyway, like I said …’ She turned and faced him. ‘What are we into?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’

  ‘He was a black man, this guy.’

  ‘I know … and in the last, what, twenty-four hours, I’ve encountered a black man at The Tawny Owl and you’ve been attacked by one. Same one?’

  When both had showered and medicated, they met in the dining room for breakfast, at which point Henry brought her up to speed with the post-mortem he’d attended in the early hours. Daniels listened but said nothing, and because they were ravenous, they both had a full English. They knew they would need as much stoking up as possible for the day ahead.

  ‘I know we haven’t had much sleep and it’s going to be a long one. I think the best course of action will be to carry on as though nothing’s happened, collect information – and evidence if it presents itself – see where we are at the end of the day and take it from there.’ Henry dipped toast into his fried egg. ‘Let’s go and do what detectives do, eh?’

  ‘Detect things?’

  ‘Talk to people. That’s always the bottom line for a good jack – the interaction with people and the ability to drag stuff out of them.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the post-mortem results? You won’t be able to hide that for long.’

  ‘Not quite sure yet. I’ll speak to the coroner first thing and ask him if he’ll put a hold on any movement of the body
– or move it somewhere it won’t be interfered with … you never know. Then I’ll wait for Baines to email me, speak to FB – with you – and discuss how to move on. FB’ll want quick answers. But again, it could simply be a case of incompetence on the part of the local pathologist and moving forward on that will be very delicate and maybe not for us … But if there’s collusion between him and DCI Runcie …’ Henry screwed up his face.

  Daniels kept listening, liking what she was hearing, and the bit about including her in his plans. ‘What about the assault on me?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, let’s just keep a little lid on it. We’ve got photos on your phone of your injuries and of the scene, plus – big plus – we’ve got some splats of the offender’s blood and saliva on your clothing.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go with that.’

  Henry’s phone rang. Jerry Tope.

  ‘You do know that accessing bank records is dead easy? It’s covering your tracks that’s the hard bit,’ Tope said.

  ‘Fortunately you’re a past master.’

  ‘I am, I am,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Get on with it Jerry. I’ll pat your back when I get home.’

  ‘Professor David Wrackham, Home Office pathologist? Jeez, d’you know how much these guys are on? No? I’ll tell you – a lot. That said, an extra few quid is always welcome, I suppose, especially when most of your debit card payments are to online bookies. He’s a bit of a gambler.’

  ‘Not a crime.’

  ‘No … I’ve found a few of his accounts, actually, but nothing I’d say was untoward, other than the overdraft figures, which are high … anyway, I flagged them and got a “ping” this morning, meaning a deposit has gone in.’

  Henry looked at Daniels and pursed his lips.

  Tope continued: ‘The “ping” was a deposit from an unknown source – which I’m working on. Two thousand pounds dropped into his current account this morning, maybe five minutes ago.’

  ‘But you don’t know where the “ping” came from?’

  ‘Not yet … I’m working on it. Could take some time.’

  ‘Well done. Look, let’s back off for the time being … we don’t want to get caught out ourselves.’

  Here he heard Tope say, ‘As if.’

  ‘Come out, cover your tracks and I’ll put in a request for a warrant later today, then we can access his accounts above board.’

  ‘OK, whatev.’

  Henry hung up and shrugged at Daniels, who had managed to earwig most of the conversation. ‘Could be nothing.’

  He poured two coffees from the cafetière, then sat back feeling weary again, but the strong coffee did hit the energy button, which was good because as he drank it his phone rang again: DCI Runcie.

  ‘How hard could it have been?’

  Runcie held Hawkswood’s face between her forefinger and thumb and squeezed.

  ‘I said how hard can it be?’

  Hawkswood jerked his head out of her grip and spat out a gob of blood on to a tissue from his still-bleeding tongue that he’d bit into like it was a chunk of rump steak when Daniels had driven her uppercut into his jaw.

  ‘How hard can it be to dump a prissy little bitch into the river, dead? You are a fucking big bloke and you’re not stupid,’ she said scathingly.

  ‘She fought back.’ He defended himself.

  ‘Of course she fought back, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise.’

  ‘And then he turned up.’ He had more blood accumulating in his mouth, warm and salty, from a wound that was struggling to heal. He swallowed it and gagged a little.

  ‘You should’ve chucked both of them in.’ Runcie gripped the top of her head with her hand and stalked around the office. ‘They didn’t ID you, did they?’

  ‘No, I’m sure.’

  Now she rubbed her eyes, so tired they squelched, and shook her head, completely at a loss for words.

  ‘Look, just piss off and make yourself scarce. You’re neither use nor ornament at the moment.’

  He left, only to be replaced by Saul. ‘Ready to roll, boss.’

  ‘Good. I’d better call our guest and see if he wants a ride-along.’

  Runcie arrived ten minutes later in a battered, plain car and pulled up outside the hotel. She didn’t get out but stayed on the double yellows and waited for Henry to come out, which he did, and got in alongside her.

  Runcie looked puzzled. Henry read her confusion. ‘Just me.’ He said, ‘DC Daniels is busy. Doesn’t take two to watch what you’re up to, does it?’

  ‘No … what’s she doing?’

  ‘Just some enquiries for me,’ Henry said vaguely. ‘So what’ve you got planned for me?’

  Henry let her tell him as she drove away, and he wondered if he should broach the subjects of his phone call from Alison last night and this morning’s assault on Daniels. He certainly wasn’t going to reveal the early-hours post-mortem – even though he was aware word could get easily back to her through other channels – so he decided to see how the day would reveal itself. He didn’t want to make any move that would come back and bite him on the backside, or, as he looked sideways at Runcie, unleash a tiger he might not be able to control. He knew he was out on a limb here on the other side of the country, and would be surprised if there was anyone around here willing to back him up.

  Daniels watched them drive off from the cover of the dining-room window, then she drank the rest of her coffee before returning to her room and spending more time going through the murder files again.

  For the first time, she began to wonder if there was any connection between the killings, even if they seemed dissimilar as regards the MO. But both were extremely brutal in their nature. Both victims were essentially one-man-band businesses, though the two businesses did not seem to have any connection.

  Yet neither had been solved, and both were investigated by the same team, so was it just one of those things? Bad luck.

  She did an internet trawl, looked at Central Yorkshire Police’s website and saw that the previous year’s murder clear-up rate was a cracking ninety-nine per cent, so despite a lack of funding and investment in the force, they still seemed pretty hot as regards solving murders. She also saw that there were two other murders in Portsea last year, solved by Jane Runcie’s team. So they could do it.

  But not these two.

  What were the ‘misgivings’ the now-deceased chief constable had? Did he give FB more information than FB subsequently shared with Henry?

  If nothing else, that was a connection.

  Two murders investigated by the same DCI. The two murders that senior officers had misgivings about.

  She scribbled notes as she thought through these things: Henry tripped and fell. Car tyres slashed. Me assaulted. CC Burnham murdered. Jack Culver dead – accident? Phone call from Alison!

  Then she wrote, Fuck!

  ‘OK,’ she said lightly, ‘first things first.’

  Her first call was to the man called Newsham, the head of security at the motorway service area where her tyres had been slashed. She had checked with Henry and the promised CCTV footage had not arrived, so this was an easy thing to tick off.

  She stood at her hotel-room window watching the quayside outside getting busier and a small container ship edge slowly up river towards the main docks. Her phone was to her ear.

  ‘Ronnie Newsham,’ the man answered, his voice harassed in just those two words.

  ‘Mr Newsham, this is DC Daniels—’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m busy,’ he said straight away.

  ‘I know. We all are, but you promised to forward some footage from your cameras to Detective Superintendent Christie. It’s not yet arrived.’

  ‘Er, no, I know.’

  ‘Could you do it, please?’

  ‘Well … well,’ he said, becoming flustered, ‘it’s just that the footage was corrupted for some reason … Happens occasionally … Hello? Hello? Can you hear …?’

  ‘I can hear you loud and clear, Mr Newsham.’ Dani
els’ voice was icy. ‘We need that footage.’

  ‘Hello … hello …’

  The connection failed and Daniels was left holding a dead phone.

  ‘Bastard,’ she snarled.

  She called him again and the phone rang but wasn’t answered; it went straight to voicemail. Daniels left a terse message and, as soon as she hung up, the phone rang. Expecting it to be Newsham, she said, ‘I’m so glad you called back Mr Newsham …’

  ‘It’s not Mr Newsham, whoever he is,’ a voice she knew well cut in.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bayley … what can I do for you?’

  ‘Sometimes even Crimestoppers comes good,’ Runcie said. She drove on to the edge of a large council estate of a type Henry knew well. Much of his career had been spent prowling such places on the other side of the Pennines. It was extensive, rundown, looked to be overwhelmed by despair and belied its happy name. ‘Welcome to Sea Vista estate,’ Runcie announced, ‘home to dead legs, dead ducks, deadbeats and dead-end streets.’

  Henry grimaced internally at the unflattering description, which was not good coming from a high-ranking cop.

  ‘All human shite is here,’ she said.

  Henry’s lips formed a tight line. One thing he did know from experience was that the majority of residents in such places were decent and law abiding, often cowed by the minority who weren’t. It was those few who gave estates like this their reputations, and sometimes cops came on to them expecting trouble from everyone.

  ‘Harsh,’ he said.

  She shot him a look. ‘But true.’ There was defiance in her voice.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Henry asked, moving the subject on, not wanting to provoke an argument just yet but knowing it would come at some stage.

  ‘To catch a killer.’

  Using her satnav, Daniels negotiated the streets of Portsea, heading for the outer edge of the town and finding a fairly recently built private housing estate with the usual modern range of properties, two bedrooms to five.

  She found the address she needed on a small cul-de-sac of about a dozen large houses, one of the newest sections of the estate. She parked in the turning circle and walked to the front door with her warrant card ready in the palm of her hand.