Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I’m in the middle of Preston. I’m following hospital signs, but I keep looping back into the town centre.’

  Henry was aware she was not familiar with the newly crowned city of Preston. She had only been there a handful of times in her life, being very much a Blackpool girl. He calmed her down, ascertained exactly where she was and directed her from that point to the hospital, which was nowhere near the centre of the city.

  ‘See you in a few minutes.’

  ‘OK, love,’ she said, sounding more relieved.

  ‘And I’ll make sure I meet you outside the hospital.’

  He hung up.

  Since Donaldson had arrived, Henry had not spoken to anyone about what was going on. He watched with more interest now, but decided to stay away from the action in spite of his inner urges to do otherwise. Something told him that his involvement with this was not over yet, anyway, so he would wait and see what came his way.

  Having said that, he thought he should tell Jane that he was about to be picked up and driven home.

  He made his way back into the Casualty waiting room. There was no sign of anyone he needed to speak to. He made his way down to X-ray.

  It was still a mass of confusion. Henry hoped Jane had taken firm control of the scene. As he approached the police cordon tape stretched across the corridor, his progress was halted by a constable with a clipboard.

  ‘You can’t go any further. Sorry, mate.’

  ‘I could do with talking to DI Roscoe.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s very busy.’

  ‘Just a moment of her time, please.’

  The cop shook his head. ‘I’ll take your name and a number and get her to call you, if you like.’ Then he had a thought. ‘Unless you’re a witness.’

  ‘I was first at the scene with the DI, actually.’

  The officer shrugged, now not interested. ‘I’ve been told to let no one through.’

  ‘OK,’ said Henry. He fished out his phone and saw the battery was actually showing some charge now. He thought mobile-phone batteries were the strangest of things. Sometimes they go on forever with little or no charge showing, other times they just seemed to die on a whim. He keyed in Jane’s number. It rang, but was not answered. When the answer phone clicked in, Henry ended the call.

  With leaden feet he began walking out of the hospital to wait for Kate, who should not be too far away now. It hit him hard, like a kick in the testicles, that he was not wanted or needed. They could do very well without him and the realization hurt him. Hurt him hard.

  Once again he experienced great regret about ever turning out to help Tara Wickson. He had been a fool. If he had not got out of bed, none of this would have happened – but then something else struck him. If he had not got out of bed it was possible that John Wickson might be dead now. Or, worse still, Jane Roscoe. Yes. Actually he had done some good. He had saved lives. That realization gave him a speck of comfort.

  Kate arrived the moment Henry set foot outside.

  She jumped out of the car and ran to him.

  ‘Henry, I’ve been so worried.’

  He gave her a very cautious hug and kissed her forehead. He had never been so happy to see her and could not wait to get home.

  Six

  Henry Christie’s daily life had developed some kind of routine. These days he was always up and about before the rest of the family surfaced and no matter what the weather, he would don a T-shirt, shorts and trainers, and push himself out for a three-mile run.

  At the beginning of his suspension it had been run-walk, run-walk and had taken him in excess of thirty minutes to complete his route. Now, four months down the line, he had trimmed the time to twenty minutes, a pace which made him sweat, his heart beat and lungs expand. He had no great desire to go much faster, but he was tempted to increase the distance.

  The running had helped him to lose weight, as had his move on to a diet on which he ate just as much as ever, but ate the right things. Fruit and veg instead of chips and pies, the staple diet of many a detective.

  Towards the end of his run, the route took him past a newsagent’s, into which he popped each day to collect a paper.

  He usually got home about 7.15 a.m., slid into the shower, got dressed and then dragged everyone else out of their pits. As the three females who made up Henry’s household fought over bathrooms, showers and toiletries, Henry started getting breakfasts ready.

  Kate rarely ate more than one piece of toast. Often Henry had to force that down her. She was not a morning person. Leanne, the youngest daughter, started her day with cereal and several slices of banana on toast; Jenny, the eldest, varied from nothing to a fat-boy’s fry-up, so Henry left her to her own devices.

  Himself, he had black filtered coffee, the All Day roast from Booths, the local supermarket, and wholemeal toast spread with Tiptree Shredless marmalade. He then retreated to the conservatory with that and his newspaper.

  He usually ran the girls to school and college before returning home and mapping out his day. This involved a mixture of gardening, decorating, shopping, studying for an OU degree (something he had always promised himself), preparing the evening meal and, three times a week, a trip to the YMCA for a workout on the rowing machines.

  Suspension, he often said, had made him a new man. He was only sorry that suspension had been the catalyst. He was doing things now he should have been doing for years.

  He had become content with the way things were going, though he was increasingly missing work, hence his decision to fill time by acceding to Tara Wickson’s request.

  His discipline hearing, the inquests he was involved in, and the court cases, were very much on his mind all the time. He was desperate to clear his name, but he knew that would come when it came. He was determined not to let bleak thoughts destroy him, like when he had been talking to Donaldson in the pub. That state of mind was a rarity and he intended to keep it that way, hard though it was.

  Now his routine had been disrupted.

  He had become involved in something which had taken him artificially back to police work and it had opened up a trapdoor in his mind he had been trying to keep closed.

  The Wickson thing had set his mind churning. It made him realize just how much he missed being a cop.

  On returning home with Kate that Monday morning, he had spent the rest of the day recovering by chilling out, dozing and generally doing nothing. Kate took the day off work and pandered to his every need whilst also taking every opportunity to get digs into him about how foolhardy he had been. She did not let it rest, was relentless.

  When he heard nothing more from the police or Karl Donaldson that day, Henry decided his life should return to the ‘normality’ it had assumed during his suspension.

  So the next day, Tuesday, even though he was stiff, sore, and patched up, he dragged himself out of bed and went for his morning constitutional, a run that was a limp as much as anything. He did not push himself hard, just took it easy and arrived at the newsagent’s five minutes later than usual, buying a copy of the Mail. He leafed through the pages as he walked out of the shop, trying to find some coverage of yesterday’s incidents.

  Page 6. Two cops and a nurse dead. Page bloody 6, he thought. It only made page 6. It had been all over the early evening TV news the night before, but by the time the later bulletins came on, it had been superseded by more pressing matters concerning the adoption or not debate surrounding the euro.

  He stood outside the shop, holding the newspaper up whilst he glanced quickly through the item which told him little more than he already knew. A massive manhunt was under way and that was about it. He closed the paper, his thoughts with the families of the two dead cops, and folded it tight. He was about to resume jogging when a car drew in alongside him.

  It was a big Lexus with smoked windows and a personalized number plate.

  Henry had seen the car at the hospital yesterday and knew who it belongd to.

  The driver’s window opened smoothly.
>
  ‘Henry – get in – need to talk.’ It was FB.

  He stopped running, the car slowed with him and halted.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Get the fuck in,’ FB insisted.

  The rear door opened, revealing the presence of Donaldson in the back seat, a big smile on his wide-jawed face. Henry bent down and looked past FB. In the front passenger seat was Jane Roscoe. In contrast to Donaldson’s face, hers was stern and glacial. ‘Hello, Henry,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, pal,’ Donaldson said, shuffling across the grey leather seat to make room.

  Henry’s resistance crumbled. His shoulders fell and a sigh went out of him. He climbed in, a sense of foreboding surrounding him, but nevertheless he climbed in.

  Because he was excited.

  It was impossible for Henry to avoid Kate’s razor cut of a stare as he rushed round the house to get ready – shower, shave and dress – whilst Donaldson, Jane and FB sat outside in the Lexus waiting patiently for him.

  ‘You mean you haven’t actually asked them what it’s all about?’ she demanded of him while he hopped around the bedroom, trying to get his underpants on and over-balancing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They said they’d tell me over breakfast.’

  ‘Is it something to do with this Wickson business?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I assume so.’

  ‘Don’t let them railroad you into doing something stupid.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he lied.

  ‘Surely,’ she said, opening her arms, ‘surely they can’t want you to get involved? You’ve made a statement, you’ve done your duty and now you’re back to being suspended. They can’t want you to get involved, can they?’

  ‘Love, I just don’t know.’ He fastened his jeans and slipped a T-shirt over his head. ‘Let me go and find out, eh?’

  ‘I don’t trust them,’ she said, her pretty mouth turning down at the corners. ‘Especially that FB. He’s used you before. Don’t let him do it again. And Karl! I thought he was trustworthy, now I’m not so sure. And Jane Roscoe . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Look, love,’ Henry said, this time more soothingly. He sat next to her on the bed and draped an arm across her shoulders. ‘It’ll be OK. I’ll watch my back. They probably just want to pick my brain, that’s all.’

  ‘Henry, all I want is for you to clear your name and get back to work.’ She looked really sad, very close to tears. ‘I don’t want things to get complicated . . . and that Jane Roscoe’s there too.’ She looked at Henry. His guts catapulted, even though he was certain Kate knew nothing about his brief affair with Roscoe . . . but he also knew that wives just know things.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked innocently.

  Kate shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  FB hooted impatiently on his horn, a sound which seemed to reflect the affluence of the Lexus.

  ‘Better get going.’ Henry gave Kate a quick hug and kissed her cheek, then set off downstairs, already questioning his own reasons for accepting the invitation. Was it because he saw the chance to get back into doing some detective work? Did he see it as a chance to get back into the firm’s good books? Or was it because Jane Roscoe was involved? Or a combination of all those factors?

  Kate was close behind him on the stairs and at the front door. She made a point of embracing and kissing him goodbye, then glaring into Jane Roscoe’s eyes as Henry walked to FB’s car. When Henry turned to wave, Kate’s expression morphed from dagger into flower and she gave him a loving smile.

  Roscoe turned away from her and folded her arms defensively.

  Henry slid into the back seat next to Donaldson, behind Jane.

  ‘A very touching display,’ FB said sarcastically, knocking the gear stick into ‘D’ and smoothly moving away.

  Jane muttered something under her breath. Henry leaned forwards. ‘What did you say?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, deliberately not looking round.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ he persisted.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said.

  Henry was about to say something he would clearly have regretted, but a hand on his shoulder – a big, American hand – gently eased him back into the seat. Henry bit his lip.

  ‘I know where we’ll go for brekkie,’ FB announced.

  Known as the White Café, it was situated on south promenade, amongst the sand dunes, on the seafront at St Anne’s. It was in a fabulous position and even had free parking for patrons. Business was always brisk.

  Henry had been many times over the years, but had never taken anyone there other than Kate and the girls and, though this was a working breakfast, it felt peculiar to be sitting opposite Jane Roscoe, bearing in mind their recent history.

  ‘I’ll buy,’ FB announced grandly, stunning Henry. FB was legendary for his tightness, but it all slotted into place when he boasted, ‘seeing as I now earn more that a hundred grand a year and get a huge car allowance. I reckon it’s my treat.’ Henry’s stun turned to repugnance, reminding him why he disliked the small man’s character so much.

  ‘I never got a chance to congratulate you on your new job,’ Henry said, picking up a menu. Against his better judgement and present diet, and because FB was paying, he decided that he was going to order the most expensive, greasy breakfast there was. He was going to get his money’s worth out of the new Chief Constable whilst he could.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Henry.’

  They all fell silent and chose their food. None of the freeloaders chose cheap options. When FB came back from the counter after ordering, he was as white as the bill in his hand.

  ‘Bloody nearly cleaned me out,’ he moaned, sliding a tray of drinks and cutlery on to the table. Henry wondered how long FB would keep to-ing and fro-ing for other people. Not long, he suspected.

  FB sat down. ‘To business,’ he declared. His face turned granite. ‘I want to know exactly why you are involved with John Lloyd Wickson and his family and what you were doing up at his house and stables. No bull allowed.’

  Satisfying FB took a long time. He put Henry through the wringer. If it had not been for the fact that breakfast hadn’t arrived, Henry would have made his excuses and left. As it was, he was hungry.

  ‘It’s simply this, and this is my final word on the subject: I was bored shitless. I got asked to do something that sounded half-interesting to pass some time and I ended up getting involved in something I didn’t know existed.’ He looked at Donaldson. ‘And I suspect your presence here means there’s something big to this.’

  Donaldson’s face could not be read.

  FB glanced at the American. It was only the sliver of a look, but Henry caught it – just. FB had known Donaldson as long as Henry, all having met on the occasion when Donaldson was investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Donaldson had never shown much respect for FB, and their relationship was, to say the least, icy. From the look FB, just gave him, Henry guessed this was still the case.

  ‘I just want to know, Henry,’ FB said, ‘if you are involved in any way with the Wickson family. That’s what this is about.’

  ‘As I said, only in as much as my daughter knows their daughter from riding lessons and that is all.’ Henry held up his hands in defeat.

  ‘OK, I’ll accept that,’ said FB magnanimously.

  A waiter appeared from the kitchen bearing a tray with several meals on. ‘Order six,’ he called.

  ‘That’s us,’ FB hollered.

  The food was duly delivered. Once the waiter had gone, FB said to Donaldson, ‘Over to you, Yank.’

  All eyes alighted on him.

  Henry felt someone’s foot touch him under the table. He knew it was Jane’s, but he did not flinch.

  ‘It’s complex.’

  ‘Keep it simple, then,’ FB suggested.

  Donaldson took a ruminative seco
nd and Henry thought that his fried egg – sunny side up – might just have found its way on to FB’s lap, but his friend’s resilience was grade ‘A’.

  ‘As you know, the investigation into the death of Zeke, my undercover agent, and Marty Cragg is ongoing . . . both men killed by the same guy, the hits ordered by a Spanish criminal called Mendoza.’

  Henry knew this. Mendoza was a very big operator in Europe. He had a finger in many pies: drugs, prostitution, blackmail, illegal immigrants . . . just to highlight a few of his speciality areas. Mendoza had strong links with Italian Mafia families and also, by default, to American ones. It was for this reason that Zeke had infiltrated Mendoza’s organization. Unfortunately, like the previous u/c agent before him, his cover had been blown and then his head had been blown off. Both agents had been murdered by the same hit man, using the same weapon.

  Yes, Henry knew all this. Even so, he listened with interest, waiting for the Wickson connection.

  ‘Obviously I’ve been unwilling to put another undercover agent into Mendoza’s set-up. He’s been bitten twice already and I would only be putting a third guy into danger, so it’s a no-go. Instead we’ve spent time on intelligence, human sources and surveillance. It’s a slow process, as you know.’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Mendoza is surveillance-conscious, very, very careful and is not a man of habit.’

  Henry nodded again, slightly impatiently. Jane’s foot brushed against his again. He drew his legs underneath his chair, out of reach, he hoped. Or maybe it was touch by accident and his arrogance – believing that she was still in love with him – was once again surfacing.

  ‘John Lloyd Wickson is a multi-millionaire,’ said Donaldson. ‘Self-made, ruthless, always operating on the edge of what he does––’

  ‘And he’s not got a red cent,’ FB interrupted. Henry had seen that the head of Lancashire’s finest had been itching to butt in.

  ‘Exactly,’ Donaldson confirmed, ‘he’s completely broke.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said Henry. ‘Interesting. How do you explain the helicopter, farmhouse, cars and all the trappings?’