by Nick Oldham
He groaned, opened his eyes, but could see nothing. He was in complete darkness. Then he rolled again and bounced, tried to steady himself with his hands but found he could not move them. They were pinned behind him, his wrists cuffed with a pair of old-style police handcuffs, although he did not know this at the time. All he knew was that something metal was cutting into his skin and it hurt like hell.
He was disorientated, could not work out anything and fought for control of his mind.
He bounced again and there was the sensation of movement as he cracked his head against something again.
‘Ahh!’ he gasped.
His head started to clear and he tried to straighten out his legs, still not certain what was happening to him. The back of his skull was throbbing and, he guessed, bleeding. It felt as though there was an open wound there, gaping wide.
He was in so much pain. And he was in a grave.
His legs would only go so far, then they touched something hard.
As his senses returned, he identified the sound of a car engine and then it came to him. This was no grave, this was the boot of a car. He’d been jumped on, smacked to the floor and now here he was, trussed up and living the chicken dream. First the chicken in his childhood, then the prostitute in the back of the Panda, and now him for real. All pushed and folded into a space not big enough to accommodate them.
He retched with fear and panic, but was not sick, although there was a terrible taste in his mouth and he spat. At least his mouth hadn’t been taped up.
The car stopped suddenly and Henry rolled forwards, once again catching his head on something that felt like a piece of iron. Then they were on the move again, but it was no smooth journey.
He pulled his wrists apart, testing what he now knew to be handcuffs, linked by a chain. They were not as strong as rigid cuffs, but they were well capable of doing their job without a problem.
‘Not good, not good,’ he intoned, again that panic rising in him like bile.
The car swerved around a corner and Henry tried to brace himself and roll with the momentum in a controlled way, jamming his feet against the side, but he struggled and hit his head again on that hard thing.
‘Hell!’
There was something sticky and wet down his neck. He knew for certain it was his own blood, lots of it. His shoulders were saturated with it.
Then he felt himself going woozy and there was another bump in the road, followed by another swerve around a corner which made him crash his head again and he did see stars, but managed to fight against unconsciousness. He had to stay awake.
Suddenly the car slowed and stopped.
He could hear voices. Then the clatter of a shutter door opening, at least that’s what it sounded like. The car stopped again and there was the sound of the door again – closing? Had they arrived at their destination? The car moved slowly forwards, then reversed, then stopped. The engine was turned off.
Voices, footsteps, came closer. Two car doors slammed shut.
Then the boot lid rose, a dim light came into the boot, making Henry blink, even though it wasn’t a strong light, and he looked up at the two men standing above him.
‘Henry, you’re awake,’ the first one said.
‘At least we won’t have to carry you, which is something,’ the second one said. ‘How’s the head.’
‘Sore.’
‘Good.’ The man reached in and with two hands grabbed Henry’s lapels, hauling him up and over the lip of the boot, then allowing him to crash to the concrete floor, unable to protect himself. His forehead smashed down with a clunk and he rolled on to his back, moaning. The man booted Henry in the side and said, ‘Get up, fucker.’
Henry brought his knees up and rocked himself up into a sitting position and from there unsteadily managed to get to his feet, finding his true height and looking into the hateful eyes of Jack Carradine, DCI.
Carradine smiled cruelly and punched Henry hard in the lower stomach, doubling him over. He followed this with a double-handed smack on the side of his head that dropped Henry to his knees. It was a very good blow and as Henry hung there, as if he was looking over a balcony, he knew a couple of his teeth had been dislodged and he spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva.
Then Carradine pulled him back to his feet.
‘That felt good.’
Henry was breathing in short, painful gasps. He would have liked to have given a witty rejoinder coupled with a threat, but knew there would be no profit in it and it would only serve to encourage Carradine to hit him again, if in fact he needed an excuse to do so.
And he didn’t need an excuse.
Henry took the next punch to his liver by rolling back against the car, trying to remain upright, but the follow-up one, hard to the lower intestine again, sank him back down to his knees. He was then in a position which Carradine could not resist, as he took the opportunity to put both his hands on the back of Henry’s head and then ram it down on to his upcoming knees.
Something cracked in Henry’s face and he went sprawling across the floor. The knee jerk had missed his nose, but had connected with his right cheekbone and broken it easily. Henry had had this broken not so very long ago and it had taken a long time to heal, but now it was smashed again and this time he was sure it would not repair. Maybe it didn’t need to repair, though, he thought. I won’t need it better if I’m dead.
‘Get him up,’ the second man said to Carradine. The second man was Dave Anger.
Carradine heaved Henry up by the scruff of his neck, causing Henry’s head to loll uncontrollably.
On his feet, he staggered a few steps before regaining his balance. His cheek was throbbing madly and he could even now feel it swelling.
He managed to get a quick glance at his surroundings, before Anger pushed him in the back towards a short flight of concrete steps. He was able to climb them assisted by Carradine, who roughly dragged him up and into a short corridor and then through a thick metal-panelled door into what Henry knew was the basement custody office at Preston police station.
They had brought him to a police station. How rich was that, he thought as he was bundled past the unoccupied sergeant’s desk, then left down the cell corridor and kicked into a cell, where he went down on both knees. A fucking police station. They were in the old cells at Preston police station, which were unused since the advent of the new operating centre. Henry could not help but smile at their cockiness as he pulled himself round and sat up against the bench. He knew no one ever came down to the cells any more, as they were basically out of bounds to anyone working in the station. And who was working here now, he wondered. At this time of night, just the staff in the divisional comms room and the CCTV room – and that was it. No one would have any reason to come down here anyway.
The cell door reopened and Carradine stood there.
‘Get up.’
‘What if I don’t want to?’
‘I’ll kick you to death here and now.’
Henry eased himself up from the floor on to the bench bed, then up to his feet. Carradine jerked his head and stood back to allow Henry to walk past.
‘Interview room one,’ he was ordered.
He shuffled slowly down the corridor, turned left and then went through the open door of the said room.
The table was gone, but there were three plastic chairs in a triangle.
Carradine pushed him down on to one of them, then sat down himself. Henry looped his cuffed hands around the back of the chair, the only way in which he could sit, letting them hang behind him as he leaned forward.
Anger came in and sat on the third chair.
‘Henry, you are a right royal pain in the arse.’
‘Fine by me. But you must be into something so fucking deep …’ he started. ‘And for how long? You bastards have been at it for years …’
Carradine shot forwards and smashed his open hand across the side of Henry’s face, whipping his head around dislodging a tooth. Running his tongue around
the inside of his mouth he collected more blood and saliva into a spitball.
‘Gob it out on the floor,’ Carradine ordered him.
Henry leaned forward and let it drizzle out. He had decided he wanted to leave as much of his DNA around the place as possible. Then he looked up at the two men.
Anger stood back and considered him. ‘I know we’ve never got on, Henry, and I suppose this is going to be the end of things for us, but I’ll do you a favour. You tell me what you know, who knows what, and your end will be swift. I won’t say it’ll be painless, but it’ll be swift.’
‘You’re gonna kill me?’
‘You’re the man who knows too much.’
‘I know fuck all – that’s the irony – but I suppose this somehow pulls some of it together. Tell you what, you tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘Doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid, and it’s all far too complicated to explain to you now.’
‘It’s gotta be something to do with prostitutes and people-trafficking,’ Henry persisted.
‘Good stab,’ Anger conceded.
‘You’ve got something going with your mates in Merseyside, haven’t you?’
Anger shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s not up for discussion, Henry.’ He shifted on his chair and fished his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was flashing. He put it to his ear as he stood up and answered it. After a short conversation, he said, ‘He’s here and wants to see him.’ He nodded at Henry. ‘I’ll let him in.’
‘OK.’
Anger left the interview room, so that Carradine and Henry were alone.
‘So why didn’t you want to put Jonny Motta in the frame for that double murder?’ Henry asked him.
Carradine thought for a few seconds. ‘He had to be taught a lesson, a lesson about turf, a lesson about respect, a lesson about consideration for others. The only way he’d get that was through a bullet in the head.’
‘Or in the chest, as it happens.’
‘Or the chest. Same difference.’
‘So a police raid was set up, knowing that the end result would be Motta’s death?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You couldn’t rely on that to happen, surely?’
He sniggered. ‘If you happen to know where Motta was and the lead firearms officer was on your side, you could.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said. Even the firearms team was involved in it. ‘So he was murdered in cold blood? Did he even have a gun – or was it planted on him?’
Carradine shrugged as if he didn’t care. ‘Eventually the IPCC report will say self-defence and this’ll all go away.’
‘What’s going on, Jack? What the hell are you involved in?’
‘Long, long-standing stuff, but as Dave said, you’re the one here answering questions, not asking them. You’ll just have to work it all out.’
‘And then you’ll kill me?’
‘Prob’ly kill you before you have a chance to work it out, actually.’
‘People are expecting me. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘We’ll make sure you don’t turn up, then. We’re good at covering our tracks.’
‘I’ll bet you are, I’ll just fucking bet you are!’
The door of the interview room opened and Dave Anger entered, followed by two others – Detective Superintendent Paul Shafer and a man Henry did not recognize, but guessed was Walter Corrigan.
Henry glared up at them, his head rolling, spittle and blood oozing out of his mouth, the cut at the back of his head still dripping blood down his back. His cheekbone was continuing to swell and turning a nasty shade of purple as it did.
‘This is him?’ Corrigan asked. Anger nodded. ‘Do we know what he knows?’
‘Not yet – haven’t got to work on him properly.’
‘Is this a suitable place?’
‘It’s fine – this floor is sealed from all the floors above it. No one can get access.’
‘OK – but get it done quickly.’
Shafer pushed forward between Anger and Corrigan. ‘Hello, Henry, not looking too sprite, are you?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Shafer glanced at Corrigan. ‘Want some help with him?’
‘Please.’
Both men removed their jackets, flexed their fingers and Henry’s eyes flipped from one to the other and he started struggling against the handcuffs.
‘You have half an hour,’ Anger said, ‘so make it good.’ Both men rolled up their shirtsleeves, violence building up in them. ‘I’ll be up in comms when you’ve finished, if you’d like a look at how Lancashire Constabulary operates, Walter.’
‘Sure thing.’
It was as if Anger, cool and confident, was showing a town councillor around the police station. They left Carradine and Shafer ready to perform.
Henry’s whole body was sagging on the chair, his face a mass of throbbing pain, blood dripping from his mouth. He spat on the floor again – more DNA – and looked up through his one good eye at the two men standing over him. He knew of a few people who’d been killed – not just tragically died – in police cells and their deaths had resulted in media frenzies. He had never expected that his own end would come in a cell and that, because of the way these men would cover it up, no one would ever know where, when or how he had died. The last place anyone would look would be an unused police cell. And not only that, it would be more than likely that Anger and Carradine would be the investigating officers – if his body ever turned up, that is. He doubted it would.
‘I don’t want you to willingly tell us anything,’ Carradine said. ‘I want to kick it out of you.’
‘I’m not going to tell you anything, other than you’re well and truly fucked … so go ahead, do what you have to do.’
Carradine stepped forward, swung back his right hand. Henry braced himself but knew he would be sent flying off the chair, nothing he could do but go with it, curl up into a ball and hope he went into unconsciousness quickly.
The blow came, hard and powerful, and Henry did tip off the chair and roll up to the wall, bringing his knees up. Carradine came in after him and tried to stomp on his head, but Henry jerked away, seeing the foot descending on him, but he could not get away from the next flatfoot stomp which caught him squarely on the temple, sending shockwaves through his cranium. He realized he was probably going to be kicked to death – and he knew how bad that could be after having investigated a couple of murders committed that way. It was nasty and brutal.
But then something happened he did not immediately comprehend.
It was as though a Tasmanian devil had entered the interview room, a whirling blur of fists and feet, and Carradine suddenly fell to his knees and then to his stomach, whilst behind him Shafer too was splayed on the floor, a burly figure kneeling on his spine.
Karl Donaldson had burst in, followed by Georgia Papakostas and Bill Robbins.
Donaldson had instantly seen what was happening and had floored Shafer before the man had even turned to see who was behind him – one chopping blow to the neck, another power fist-drive at the back of the skull and he had dropped like a sack of spuds. Bill had jumped on him then, as Donaldson turned his attention to Carradine. The DCI had spun round, and that was a problem for him, because the punch delivered by Donaldson into the side of his head felled him to his knees and broke his jaw at the same time. The second punch dropped him into fairyland.
Hardly breathing at all, Donaldson swooped down to the beaten Henry Christie and lifted him into a sitting position. Henry swooned a little, but still managed to insult Donaldson. ‘Fuckin’ last-minute Yanks again.’
‘Yeah, pal, we always save the world.’
Georgia was behind Donaldson. She knelt down next to Henry and touched his face. He winced away.
‘Can you get these things off me?’ He jiggled his hands tied behind his back. ‘One of them must have a key.’
A few seconds later he was on his feet, his hands free, rubbing his wrists, which were red-raw. He
staggered slightly and Georgia grabbed him to stop him falling.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
Donaldson rose from the task of putting the handcuffs on Carradine and looked at Henry.
‘You OK, pal?’ He was rubbing his knuckles.
‘As could be expected … Look, Anger and, I think, Corrigan are in the building. Anger’s showing him the comms room, would you fucking believe?’
‘Hey, when you think you’re untouchable you’re at your most vulnerable,’ Donaldson said.
‘I want Anger,’ Henry said, brushing past Donaldson, stepping over the still unconscious Carradine and then over the prostrate form of Shafer with Bill Robbins still sitting on him. ‘You think you two could keep these two bastards down for a few minutes?’ It was a rhetorical question, aimed at Bill and Georgia. ‘Karl, c’mon, let me show you the comms room. You can have Corrigan.’
Henry limped quickly away, his head still reeling, his body hurting, but a gritty determination seething within him as he made his way out of the deserted custody office to the stairs, which he took two at a time, Donaldson close behind him.
‘We went looking for Corrigan when we knew we wouldn’t be allowed back into the cop shop,’ Donaldson explained as they went upwards. ‘Picked him up in Southport and, to cut a long story short, we followed him here with Shafer – a three-car tail, my hire car, Georgia’s hire car and Bill’s pool car. We were brilliant.’
‘You could have got here a mite sooner,’ Henry whined painfully as they reached the third floor, on which the comms room was situated. He led Donaldson through the double doors at the top of the stairwell, turned left and pushed open the door of the comms room.
The room was set out rather like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise but on a smaller scale and not as shiny. There were four operators sitting at their consoles, two receiving the incoming calls and two radio dispatchers, with the comms sergeant sitting at a separate desk, a pair of earphones on as she monitored everything the operators were doing.
And at the far end of the room, Dave Anger and Walter Corrigan were standing and chatting, Anger showing his honoured guest something on a notice board.
Henry stood at the door.
