by Nick Oldham
It was very tiresome viewing, even though it was pleasant for Henry to sit on a large settee with Kate snuggled up close and his arm around her shoulders. Something he could get accustomed to.
‘What’re you looking for?’
‘Don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Just a hunch.’
‘From the master detective,’ Kate laughed.
‘One day,’ he promised.
He worked through a couple of tapes from one shop and saw nothing, skimming through six hours’ worth in about one hour using the fast-forward facility.
He was beginning to think it was a waste of time and he would be better watching TV instead.
It was only on the fifth tape that he saw something of interest.
This was a tape from the second shop that had been robbed, a convenience store near Rawtenstall town centre, run by an Asian man.
Henry had inserted the tape into the player without checking how far forward it was, thinking he was at the start and, of course, the tape counter reset itself to zero as he started to watch. His legs were outstretched over an upholstered pouf and Kate, similarly stretched, was tucked in beside him, becoming sleepy. Henry was now completely bored by the task, a state of mind not assisted by the location of Kate’s left hand which lay on his jeans, just slightly above the danger/injury zone and despite his injury, he was responding to the proximity of her hand and warm body.
He groaned as she squeezed him delicately through his jeans.
He hurried the tape on, not really paying as much attention to it as he should have done. He moved it on even faster, but was then slightly puzzled when he heard the VCR click and whirr, the noise it made when a tape ended – and the tape started to rewind automatically.
‘That was a short one,’ he observed.
‘Good. Can we go to bed? Early night?’
‘It’d be rude not to,’ Henry assented. He was eagerly looking forward to a full night with Kate, something that had happened only occasionally and only ever at his house which wasn’t the most comfortable of places, because it was usually quite chilly and had little in the way of creature comforts. His only disappointment was the state of his balls. ‘You sure Mummy and Daddy won’t be back tonight?’
‘I assure you.’
The tape finished rewinding and stopped with a click.
‘Let’s go for it then. I’ll just put the tape back into its box.’
Kate rolled away. Henry sat up, gasping as a pulse of pain shot up through him. He paused a moment then dropped forward onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the TV, peering at the controls of the VCR for the tape eject button but then noticing that the tape counter was showing a minus figure of forty-four minutes, not the zero, or thereabouts, he would have expected to see.
He hummed.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘This tape didn’t go in at the beginning. I’d best just skim through it.’
‘OK, love.’
‘I’ll be up in a moment or two if you want to go,’ he said, thinking he sounded just like a married man.
‘OK, I will.’ She rolled up onto her feet and left the room.
Henry zeroed the tape counter then pressed play on the VCR itself then went backwards onto the settee and settled back to use the remote control to skim through the images of what, he realized, was a bloody boring shop.
The camera was positioned behind the counter, high up and to one side, giving a great view of what was going on behind the counter and a half-decent shot of customers actually at the counter. It was quite limited in its scope, but it served its purpose, he thought.
He fast-forwarded the tape. A few customers came, bought goods, chatted to the owner, and left.
Then one in particular caught his eye. Henry thumbed the stop button and rewound the tape slightly. He stopped it and pressed play.
A customer at the counter, speaking to the shop owner. Points to cigarettes stacked on the shelves on the back wall. The owner turns and selects what the customer has asked for, and his back is turned to the customer. Who leans across the counter.
Henry could see that if the customer is quick enough, there are some items on the counter – chocolate bars and sweets – that could easily be stolen and pocketed before the store owner turns back. Henry expected this to happen. But it doesn’t.
The customer simply leans over and looks both ways behind the counter and for a second or two his eyes focus on the till. Then, as the shopkeeper turns back from the shelves, the customer acts all innocent and leans on the counter with his elbows as he is handed a packet of cigarettes which he pays for and stays as his money is put into the till. He says a few more words to the shop owner and just before he actually leaves the store he does the thing that makes Henry’s heart leap and makes him forget the pain in his head and balls.
The customer glances up at the lens of the security camera.
And Henry’s hand curls into a fist of triumph.
He rewound the tape, found the point where the customer steps into view, and then watched the transaction twice more, once at normal speed, once slowed right down. Frame by frame. He paused it when the man looked up at the lens.
The picture wavered, lines skittered across it.
But Henry smiled – and then he frowned as something else about this man struck him and his pleasure turned back to searing pain.
TWELVE
Henry was up at six the following morning after a night of cuddling only, then a big, long sleep. He took his time in ‘Dad’s’ shower, used ‘Dad’s’ shampoo and soap liberally, but washed his private parts carefully as they were still extremely tender. He nipped home first to get a change of clothing, and was in work for about seven.
The station was quiet and the early shift had all come in for the 7am brew in the parade room – an unofficial policing tradition practised, pretty much, across the force.
Henry nodded to them but didn’t stay to take their questions. This was Jo’s scale, as shifts were called, and he could sense their overwhelming sadness. He didn’t want to get drawn into it today because he needed to get moving with all the stuff that was flipping around in his battered head.
But he did help himself to a mug of tea from the stainless-steel teapot, brewed from loose tea and poured out through a sieve into a mug. It tasted wonderful at that time in the morning. Something energizing about an early morning cuppa in a cop shop. Henry loved it.
He took the brew through to the sergeant’s office and collected Jack Bowman’s wanted file, then walked up to the Collator’s office on the first floor. Charlie Martin wasn’t in yet so Henry had the office to himself for a while. As a matter of course the office was accessible twenty-four hours a day because most Intel was collected by hand and stored in files and there wasn’t a great deal on the Police National Computer and it was often needed in the middle of the night when the station duty officer might find himself searching for something to help out a bobby on the beat who had stop/checked someone and needed more detail. Henry spent a lot of his time sifting through stuff in the Collator’s office, building up his knowledge of local crims, their families and associates.
He placed his brew down, rifled through a cabinet and hauled out Vladimir Kaminski’s file. It was actually fairly thin, but it gave Henry some pointers. Kaminski had only ever been prosecuted in Lancashire twice and only for a public order offence and a minor assault, even though the Intel suggested he was suspected of some more serious assaults for which he was never charged. Even impaling some poor lad’s hand to a spear-like railing didn’t get him into court.
These were referred to in the file and Henry now knew why he had never faced a bench of magistrates. He was FB’s informant and as such got preferential treatment and freedom he didn’t really deserve. FB probably thought he was playing Kaminski, but Henry now half-suspected it was actually the other way around. It was just that FB didn’t know he was the one being duped.
When offenders were arrested for certain offences that were cla
ssified as crimes, the arresting officer was obliged to record certain details relating to the offender. Fingerprints were taken, descriptive and antecedent forms were completed and it was usual that copies of these forms were kept on local files for intelligence purposes. The originals were submitted to LANCRO – the Lancashire Criminal Record Office – at headquarters.
Which was the case for Kaminski.
It was a slim file – and again, Henry suspected that FB edited it regularly – but because he had been convicted of assault, it contained copies of his mug shot, descriptives and antecedents.
Henry sat down at the Collator’s desk, tea in hand. He began to read and sip.
The descriptive forms recorded the height, weight and, obviously, a detailed description of the subject, including any distinguishing marks or features, such as tattoos or scars. Henry’s lips quivered whilst reading about Kaminski’s tattoos. If the officer recording the details was professional and patient enough, he or she sometimes included an additional sheet of paper on which the tattoos that were sometimes difficult to describe would be sketched out. ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ on the knuckles was easy enough to comprehend, as was ‘ACAB’ on a forearm – ‘All Coppers Are Bastards’ – or the name of a loved one on a bicep. Henry himself had drawn many a complicated tattoo and submitted the drawings with the forms. And the officer who had completed the descriptive forms for Kaminski had drawn several of his tattoos, one of which interested Henry greatly.
He sketched his own copy of it.
Next Henry read Kaminski’s antecedent history. This basically skimmed through his upbringing, jobs he’d had (none) and his family details, parents and siblings.
Once again the officer completing them had been very detailed and Henry noted Kaminski’s family origin (actually Polish/Russian) and where they now lived. He wrote out the name of one family member in particular.
After this he replaced the file and picked up the telephone and dialled an internal number for the PNC bureau at HQ and spoke to one of the operators, who happened to be someone he knew well. Then he sat back and pondered for a few moments – and suddenly remembered what had been nagging away at his brain.
‘Shit!’ he said and slapped his forehead.
By this time it was eight o’clock.
Henry knew the murder squad was due in for an 8.30am briefing and the station had started to get busy, detectives drifting in, a lot of milling about going on, kettles being boiled, the aroma of bought-in bacon sandwiches and toast wafting through the corridors. He also knew that he and FB were scheduled to interview John Longridge at nine, so he was a bit torn.
There were things he wanted to do but he also did not want to miss the chance of getting up-close to a villain as big as Longridge, a rare treat for any cop. He wanted to know what the guy had to say, but doubted he was directly involved in any of the robberies as such, or Jo’s murder. But Henry wasn’t going to be fooled into taking that as read. He would keep an open mind.
The lecture room was full of bodies and Henry took up a position right at the back, behind everyone, and waited for the briefing which was going to be conducted by a detective superintendent from headquarters who Henry had only vaguely heard of. This puzzled him slightly, as he was expecting FB to be running the show.
The superintendent came in. FB, trailing behind, looked annoyed and grim-faced. Not happy.
The superintendent stepped up to the lectern, which he rapped sharply with his knuckles, bringing everyone to attention. He then proceeded to reveal to Henry just why FB looked like a gorilla had just crapped in his car.
FB had been replaced as head of the investigation.
It was now being run by the detective super from HQ.
Henry watched FB’s face as the interloper announced he was now in charge of things. FB was standing just behind the man’s left shoulder, scuffing his toe caps miserably on the floor, looking very, very miffed, twirling a pen continuously. Mostly he looked at the floor, but at one point he glanced up and locked eyes briefly with Henry, then broke visual contact, a moment that said a lot to Henry.
Henry allowed himself a flicker of a smirk, but at the same time wondered why FB had been dumped. Henry thought he had been doing a decent enough job. At least there was a prisoner in the cells and even if it was a speculative arrest, there was something to work with.
This was the first time in his police service that Henry had come face to face with such a supposedly high-ranking criminal. His usual prisoners were juveniles, because that demographic – young males between the ages of twelve and seventeen – were responsible for the bulk of crime committed. He had purposely targeted them and over the past year had arrested over one hundred kids and cleared up about four hundred burglaries and other thefts. It was a considered choice because he had seen that although kids committed most of the crime, they were often avoided because they were a pain to deal with, but he believed that his approach was also a good apprenticeship for a detective.
Most detectives dealt with older offenders and when he became a jack that’s what he would do. Eventually he wanted to be engaging with the likes of John Longridge, and get onto the Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, he hoped, he would become a detective who dealt exclusively with murders. At the moment Lancashire did not have such specialists, but Henry knew it was the way forward and would happen one day.
Anyway … that was his vague career plan. But for the moment he would concentrate on kids and take whatever else came his way and try to get over the first hurdle, which was to actually get on CID, an aspiration that seemed to have taken a nosedive for the moment.
So, having become embroiled in Jo Wade’s murder and the linked armed robberies and been given the chance to take part in the interview with Longridge, Henry was not going to miss the opportunity.
He would look upon it as a learning process, see how a seasoned detective like FB approached the interview and even though Henry was no psychologist, he was fascinated by what made people like Longridge tick.
Longridge was brought out of his cell by the station duty PC, who also doubled as a gaoler, and taken to the interview room just off the charge office.
Henry and FB followed.
Henry was carrying the paperwork and FB told him he wanted him to take contemporaneous notes of the interview, which FB would later edit – but not to record, FB chuckled as he said it, when the prisoner gets beaten up.
The interview room was cramped and not entirely fit for purpose because it also doubled as the police surgeon’s room, with an examination table in one corner that took up far too much space.
Longridge sat alone on one side of the interview table, Henry and FB on the other. He had his arms folded. He was unshaven, reeked of body odour. He looked strong and broad and fit, obviously worked out regularly. His eyes drifted contemptuously from one officer to the other, showing no fear, just hate. He was still dressed in the clothes he had been arrested in.
Prior to going into the interview, FB confided to Henry that nothing of evidential value had been found in Longridge’s flat in Manchester but he was working on other possible addresses and premises for him.
‘Sleep OK?’ FB asked as he settled his bulk into the plastic chair.
Longridge sniffed up and ignored the question.
‘I’m DI Bayley,’ FB said, opting for the abbreviated version of his name to keep things easy. ‘This is PC Christie.’
Longridge glanced at him. Henry gave him a nod which the prisoner also ignored. He wasn’t going to be the most affable of people, Henry sussed.
‘You’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but what you say may be written down and given in evidence,’ FB cautioned him as per the Judges’ Rules, the guidelines to which the police operated in 1982 concerning the detention and questioning of suspects. Longridge simply looked bored. Henry scribbled away.
‘I’m investigating the brutal murder of a policewoman by a gang of armed robbers, Mr Longridge,’ FB declared quite dramatic
ally, then paused for a reaction. Longridge stared all the way though FB, his eyelids half-closed. Nothing came back from him. FB went on, ‘We believe you are either part of this gang or are responsible for planning the robberies or you take a cut from them.’
Longridge’s mouth twitched. But he did not speak, which was good from Henry’s point of view because he was writing like mad and wished he had shorthand.
‘The policewoman was shot to death by one of the gang, which makes every single one of them responsible for her murder, not just the one who pulled the trigger of the sawn-off shotgun.’
Longridge remained impassive, unimpressed.
FB placed a hand on Henry’s right wrist, the gesture meaning, do not write anything at this point. He leaned forward.
‘Let me make this clear, John,’ FB said, just above a whisper. ‘I know you are one of the most prolific armed robbers in the north of England. I also know you plan armed robberies … and one thing I do not like is bad guys coming across the border from Manchester into my peaceful little patch, causing mayhem, killing cops and sticking two fingers up at us. I don’t like it, which is why I’m going to prove that you are a member of that gang and might even be the one who pulled the trigger and killed an innocent girl. I’m going to do it dirty, yeah? I’m going to fabricate evidence and I’m going to stitch you up. If I have to.’
Henry was transfixed by the pulse on the side of Longridge’s neck, which quickened. He also felt his own heart rate increase at FB’s threats.
‘You’ll have a fuckin’ job,’ the prisoner said.
‘I know. But I’m good at it,’ FB assured him.
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
FB leaned further forward. ‘I don’t fucking care.’ Then he leaned back and he and Longridge had a staring competition. Longridge lost and Henry knew FB had the balance of power.
‘What was your part in it?’ FB asked, and tapped Henry’s wrist: start again.
Longridge remained silent, which didn’t surprise Henry. Most prisoners did, even the kids he dealt with. It was like prising open oysters sometimes. No one talked or confessed willingly.
