Judgement Call

by Nick Oldham

  Henry took the items reluctantly.

  ‘The PR has fresh batteries,’ FB said. ‘It’d make more sense for you to be in there and I’ll be back at the nick in my office. That way, if he reccies the place, there won’t be anything around to spook him. And you’re right, this car is just a bit too conspicuous in this neck of the woods. And you can be inside, waiting to grab him.’

  ‘I feel as though this was planned.’

  ‘No, honestly – spur of the moment,’ FB assured him.

  Henry was unenthusiastic. ‘One hour, and that’s it.’

  ‘Fair enough. If he doesn’t show, we’ll start looking for him again tomorrow.’

  Henry climbed out, and realized as the cool wind whipped off the moors that where he should be was in bed, not looking to spend an hour in a fire-gutted house waiting for someone to show up – or not. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he set off to the house, entering through the front door, having to fold himself through a crisscross of crime-scene tape pinned across the door frame.

  It was pitch black in the hallway and immediately Henry was hit by the overpowering stench of the fire. He turned on the torch and played it over the floor, walls and stairs, seeing how the fire had spread rapidly through the house, searching and destroying it. The repair bill, if it was ever so lucky as to be repaired, would be astronomical. And the damage was not assisted by the complete but absolutely necessary drenching handed out by the fire brigade.

  Stepping down the hallway was like treading through a Grimm’s fairy tale swamp.

  Henry swore.

  He glanced into the living room, the seat of one of the fires.

  It had been decimated, leaving only blackened springs and part of the metal frameworks of the settee and chairs.

  ‘Bastard,’ Henry muttered. It looked far worse in the dark, playing the torch beam over it, than it had done in the immediate aftermath of the fire itself, at which he had been present the evening before. Then he went rigid, thinking he had heard something. Like a dull, moaning sound. Possibly it was the wind. He relaxed, and continued to flick the torch beam around the room, wondering where best to lodge himself for the next hour on this wild-goose wait. There was nowhere in here.

  He remembered that the dining room had escaped most of the devastation because the door had been closed and the fire brigade had landed within minutes. It was in here he would stay.

  Stepping back into the hall, he heard that same noise again.

  A moan. Could have been the wind, but sounded almost human.

  A shiver of apprehension went down his spine. It was a bit ghostly. Maybe Sally was back already, haunting the place.

  He heard it again.

  Not the wind. It was coming from behind the dining-room door.

  He trod carefully on the burned, sodden carpet that squelched as his weight came down on each foot. His hand went to the door knob, which he gripped.

  Again, the moaning sound.

  His heart whammed and his mouth was dry as he turned the handle and opened the door. The room had suffered only superficial smoke damage, leaving its fixtures and fitting more or less in one piece.

  His torch beam picked up the source of the noise, two eyes glinting in the darkness.

  ‘PC Christie to DI Bayley,’ Henry said into his radio. ‘You need to return to the house as soon as possible.’

  It was an eight-inch carving knife and had been driven deep into the table top by a huge force, the point of the blade probably a whole inch into the wood.

  The only problem was that the knife had also been driven through the back of Jack Bowman’s right hand which, palm down, fingers splayed, had effectively pinned him like a butterfly, and sliced through the spread of delicate bones that radiated out from his wrist to his knuckles.

  Bowman was kneeling by the table and looked as though he had been caught reaching for something on the table and suffered a terrible consequence for it.

  He was still conscious as Henry entered the dining room and looked at him pleadingly through pain-ravaged eyes.

  An expression of relief crossed his face.

  ‘Help me,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Help me … I can’t … can’t … move,’ he tried to say.

  Henry crossed quickly to him and inspected the situation and gave a little whistle of appreciation. It looked as though a shaved, five-legged tarantula had been skewered by the knife. Bowman’s palm rested in a pool of bright red blood. His fingers and thumb twitched involuntarily.

  ‘I can’t … I daren’t …’ Bowman gasped.

  Henry reached for the knife, his initial instinct being to release a fellow human being from suffering. But just as his fingers were about to wrap around the handle, he stopped and shone his torch into Bowman’s face, then took his hand away and slowly squatted down on his haunches so his face was level with Bowman’s.

  ‘Looks like it’s stuck.’

  ‘I tried to … I couldn’t …’ Bowman cringed. ‘Oh God, please get it out. I … every time I move … Christ, it hurts.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Henry asked, making no effort to release him, staying exactly where he was.

  ‘Get it out, get it out,’ he begged. ‘Please, please.’

  ‘You need to tell me who did this,’ Henry said reasonably.

  ‘Please, man …’

  ‘You won’t be running away this time, will you?’

  The implication of Henry’s words and lack of action sunk in and Bowman’s grey face turned to horror.

  ‘Does it really hurt?’ Henry asked cruelly.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, oh God, please.’

  ‘How much does it hurt?’ Henry said – cruelly again – but the tone of his voice sounded soft and caring, as though he was concerned.

  ‘A lot. I daren’t move. Each time I move it cuts me even more.’

  ‘Yeah, a lot of nerve endings in the hand,’ Henry said knowledgeably.

  ‘Please help me.’

  ‘I will, course I will.’ Somehow Henry knew that if he hadn’t had a drink, he would have instantly released Bowman and called for an ambulance. But those few drinks had made him reckless and cruel, made him realize he could get something out of this situation. ‘But first you need to talk to me, Jack, boy.’

  Henry’s head tilted slightly. Outside he heard a car pull up, a door slam, footsteps approaching. Then FB appeared at the dining-room door, a big torch in his hand, flashing it onto the tableau in front of him. An evil smile of opportunity creased his face. He had realized instantly what had taken a minute or two to dawn on Henry.

  ‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’ He strode across, Henry and Bowman watching him.

  He peered at the knife and the hand and the blood-covered table. He inhaled a sharp whistle of breath. ‘Now that must hurt.’

  ‘Apparently it does,’ Henry confirmed.

  ‘You bastards, you utter bastards,’ Bowman hissed, gripping his right wrist with his left hand and starting to tremble. His skin was drawn tight across his features.

  ‘He was just going to tell me something,’ Henry said.

  ‘Was he now?’ FB reached out and touched the top of the knife handle with the tip of his forefinger. ‘Looks like it’s in deep. I’m not certain we could actually remove this without destroying evidence. Fingerprints, y’know?’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

  ‘But we could, I suppose, wiggle it a bit to see if we could get it free. But I reckon that would hurt a hell of a lot.’

  FB tugged up his trousers by the front crease and squatted down on the other side of Bowman to Henry. ‘Now then,’ he cooed softly, ‘we are normally decent, sympathetic people, Jack, but at this moment in time, we’re not.’ He shone his torch beam directly into Bowman’s face.

  Sweat dribbled from Bowman’s hairline. His nostrils dilated constantly as he tried to deal with the pain and the situation.

  ‘Y’see, I’m investigating your stepsister’s brutal murder and the equally brutal murder of a young
policewoman and several armed robberies.’ FB’s bushy, untrimmed eyebrows arched, and then dropped back into position. ‘And your part in them,’ he added.

  ‘I had no part.’

  ‘Listen to me, Jack … you did play a part in Sally’s murder, didn’t you?’

  If Bowman’s skin could have tightened any more, he would have looked like a skull. He shook his head.

  ‘I’m going to stand up now and see if I can loosen this knife, Jack,’ FB said. He put his left fist in front of Bowman’s face and made a waggling gesture. ‘I would guess that me riving it backwards and forwards and side to side in an effort to free you would certainly make the wound more serious than it already is and would cause you a great deal more pain. And it still might not come out. In fact, the point might accidentally go even deeper into the table.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. That’s torture.’

  ‘Merely me trying to release a man whose hand is pinned to a table by a carving knife and who was begging me to do just that.’ FB stood up, his knees cracking.

  Henry was still at Bowman’s eye level. ‘Speak,’ he urged quietly.

  FB’s right hand, fingers outstretched, reached for the hilt.

  Bowman watched in disbelief as FB curled his hand around it. ‘What about the evidence?’ he gasped.

  FB pulled his face. ‘To be honest, I don’t think we’ll get prints off the surface of the knife handle.’

  ‘Speak,’ Henry urged again, his lips not far from Bowman’s ear.

  ‘OK, OK, I broke into the women’s refuge place,’ Bowman gabbled quickly before FB could start to move the knife.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For Vlad. He said he wanted to speak to Sal, said he wanted to chat things out with her.’

  ‘Mm, interesting,’ FB said. His hand hovered close to the knife. ‘That makes you a murderer.’

  Bowman blinked, the words penetrating through the haze of pain. ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘No, but you’re part of the murder plot. An accessory. A co-conspirator. A co-accused … all those things … Looks like a life sentence for you, my lad … No more running away from cops. Screws, maybe. Other inmates, definitely, sex offenders and the like … Lad like you would be catnip in prison.’

  ‘He said he wanted to talk to her, needed me to let him in, that’s all,’ Bowman blabbered quickly.

  FB frowned. ‘A court would convict you like that!’ He clicked his fingers with a snap. ‘Which means you need to talk – now.’

  ‘I let him in. I swear I didn’t know he was going to kill her. I wouldn’t have let him in if I’d known what was going to happen, would I?’

  ‘I don’t know, would you?’ FB asked.

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘So you broke in, then let him in – is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, YES! Now call an ambulance, please.’

  ‘In a minute,’ FB said tantalizingly.

  ‘Shit.’

  FB stepped back thoughtfully. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  Henry looked at FB sharply, frowning. He thought this had gone on long enough now. He thought they had enough.

  ‘Convinced by what?’

  ‘By you, Jack … How come Vladimir grassed on you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About all the burglaries you committed.’

  ‘What? He grassed on me?’

  ‘How the hell do you think I knew about you? He told me everything you’d done.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘He’s shagging your sister and, basically, butt-fucking you, too,’ FB said. ‘So what’s this about – the knife through the hand?’

  ‘Like I said,’ he breathed dully. ‘I didn’t let him in with the intention of killing Sally, I didn’t know he’d do it – honest! I sneaked back in here to get my head down after you lot’d gone, but he must have followed me, OK? He knew I wasn’t remotely happy with him. I’d argued with him, said I’d go to the cops … yeah, like I meant it. Not. You don’t cross a crazy psycho like him. You don’t even threaten to cross him, even if you don’t mean it. But I did and he stuck me to the fuckin’ table. Now, please will you call an ambulance? It really, really, really hurts and every time I move just a bit, it creases me and I’m bleeding and I want to faint, but I daren’t just in case I fall over and my hand gets sliced in two. And pull it out – quick.’

  FB didn’t move. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, Christ I don’t.’

  ‘I said, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know … but I do know one thing …’

  ‘And that would be?’ FB said.

  ‘There’s a big job being pulled tomorrow and Vlad’s in on it and when it’s done he’s outta the country, going back to Poland with his equally freakin’ psycho brother.’

  FB gripped the knife.

  Bowman froze, watched terrified.

  Henry’s breath stopped.

  FB counted: ‘One … two … THREE!’

  SEVENTEEN

  By the time the two compassionate cops had accompanied their wounded prisoner to Bury General Hospital – the nearest casualty department to Rossendale – and stayed close to him during treatment (Henry hovering even during the stitching process because there was no way he was going to let him run a third time) and then taken him back to Rawtenstall nick under arrest in the section van, it was almost 4am.

  FB took the honour of claiming the arrest – suspicion of murder – ensuring that his name was emblazoned on the back of the charge sheet in big, bold capitals, whilst Henry watched on with mild amusement. It wasn’t said in so many words, but FB was clearly going to shove all this firmly up the force’s backside for the sin of dislodging him from the helm of the murder investigation, which had so infuriated him.

  He did, however, allow Henry to put the heavily bandaged and drugged-up Bowman into a cell. Some compensation, perhaps, for something he should have done a couple of days earlier.

  When Henry walked back into the charge office, FB crooked a finger at him and led him upstairs to his office where the heavy detective slumped into his office chair and Henry took a seat opposite.

  Both men exhaled heavily.

  ‘Where do we take this?’ Henry asked.

  FB spun on his chair, thinking. Then he said, ‘We don’t have much to go on, really. Bowman needs to be wrung dry of everything he knows in the morning, which will implicate Vladimir to the hilt, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ He chuckled at his own humour.

  ‘But we still have to find him,’ Henry said. ‘If he’s gone to ground in Manchester, it won’t be easy.’

  FB pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Henry felt a throbbing headache coming on from a combination of tiredness, a bit of excitement and the alcohol wearing off. ‘And on top of that, if Bowman is to be believed, then there’s a big job coming off,’ he checked his watch, ‘sometime today.’

  ‘The questions being, what, where, when and how?’ FB said. ‘And if we don’t know these things, or can’t find them out, should we just try to disrupt it?’ He paused, counting off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Flood the place with uniforms, lots of them. High-visibility patrols, checkpoints, pulling everything coming into the valley from that direction’ – FB jerked his thumb towards Manchester – ‘and just put the buggers off.’ His eyes narrowed conspiratorially. ‘Or do we let it run, keep our resources hidden and hope we catch ’em?’

  ‘We could compromise,’ Henry suggested.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Y’know – meet in the middle.’

  ‘I know what compromise means, you jack-ass.’

  Henry grinned. ‘How about we get all the unmarked divisional crime cars in and get them patrolling and stop-checking with a bit of subtlety, maybe with some help from the traffic department.’ He saw FB’s face scrunch up tight at the mention of traffic, referred to by the CID as ‘gutter rats’. Like most detectives he had an unhealthy dislike of the traffic section, but for no real reason. ‘It’s
just, if we let it run,’ Henry said thoughtfully, ‘and someone gets hurt and it’s discovered we knew about it but didn’t do anything, then you could be in big bother.’

  FB’s face reacted to the change from the royal ‘we’ to a finger-pointing ‘you’.

  ‘You are the senior officer, after all,’ Henry said. ‘You might have Teflon shoulders, but maybe not in this case.’

  FB made a ‘harrumph’ noise.

  ‘And while that’s happening, the search can still be going on for Kaminski and Longridge and some enquiries could be made to try to pinpoint the potential target for the robbery … and we could have a firearms team on standby.’

  ‘You’ve thought this through,’ FB said.

  ‘Just winging it,’ Henry admitted, ‘but at least we cover most things with that approach … I think,’ he concluded unsurely. A flood of tiredness swept through him and he stifled a yawn and the urge to fall asleep with his forehead on FB’s desk.

  FB tilted back in his chair, blinking like a fat frog, staring at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘It’s a plan,’ he said.

  ‘I need some sleep,’ Henry said.

  ‘Ditto – but before that, let’s go down and visit our prisoner, shall we?’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Just to make certain he’s really telling us everything he knows. I’d hate to think he was holding stuff back.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Don’t know … but I have an urge to shake his hand – tight.’

  The station sergeant handed the cell keys over to FB without a murmur. Henry followed the DI down the corridor, noting that two more cells were occupied, one by a singing drunk, the other by a sleeping thief. Bowman was in the cell furthest away from the charge office. FB put his eye to the peephole before inserting the key and pulling open the heavy door.

  He stepped inside.

  Henry hung back a couple of feet.

  Bowman was flat on his back on the concrete bench/bed, a coarse blanket tugged up to his chin, his heavily bandaged right hand outside and resting on his chest. He was sleeping and dribbling.

  But not for long.