Big City Jacks

by Nick Oldham

‘Don’t know, but I don’t like it,’ Easton said through the corner of his mouth. His eyes twitched. He looked across at Rufus Sweetman in the dock, who deliberately remained firmly focused ahead, although there was a wicked glint in his eyes and the glimmer of a grin on his face.

  The prosecuting counsel sat, grim, unhappy. Defence remained on his feet, rearranging and straightening his papers on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat in preparation for an address to the court. Easton thought, Bombshell coming.

  ‘If it may please your honour,’ he began formally, ‘I would like to recall a witness to the box.’ The judge nodded her assent. The lawyer turned slightly in Easton’s direction. ‘Detective Superintendent Easton please.’

  An usher repeated the summons.

  ‘Fuck!’ Easton muttered under his breath as he stood up and crossed the courtroom. His legs felt as though lead weights were attached to them as he stepped into the witness box, all eyes on him, all curious and excited by this new development. The press box seemed particularly energized.

  ‘Officer,’ the defence QC smiled. He was a fantastically experienced defence QC, the one the wealthy villains always chose to represent them, his fees running into thousands even for short trials. But he was worth it. His track record was phenomenal. He went on, ‘May I remind you that you are still under oath?’

  Easton spoke to the judge. ‘Yes, Your Honour, I understand that.’

  Then it began and the gates of hell opened for Easton.

  Henry Christie was almost home when he received the call. With a groan he u-turned the car and drove to the garage premises to which the stolen and very mangled Ford Escort had been towed for safe keeping. He knew the firm well, respectable and reliable, and through twenty-four-hour call-outs and the rota garage system, the police had put a lot of business their way over the years. This garage in particular was one which would always turn out, any time of day, and had never yet let the cops down.

  Henry pulled up outside and strolled into the office, staffed by a single female – Joyce – the wife of the proprietor. Henry had known her for a long time, had lost count of the number of cars he had sent her way.

  ‘Oh my God, Henry Christie!’ Joyce rose from the swivel chair behind her desk and Henry tried to disguise the fact that his male antennae had registered the voluptuous and curvaceous lines of her well-stacked body. She was approaching fifty – not necessarily a bad thing, Henry thought, as he too wasn’t that far away from that landmark – and was built like a racing yacht, all the curves in all the right places. She pulled down her tight figure-hugging woollen sweater, accentuating everything even more perfectly. It was no secret that she had been trying to bed Henry for a long time now. For himself, he was terrified of being devoured.

  ‘Hi, Joyce.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for quite a while.’

  ‘I’m too important now,’ he laughed.

  She literally batted her heavily mascara’d eyelashes. ‘I’ll bet you are.’

  ‘I’ve come to see the car involved in last night’s accident.’

  ‘Out back, darling. One of your crime scene guys is with it.’

  ‘Thanks, Joyce.’ Henry paused, unable to prevent his eyes giving her a critical once-over. ‘You’re looking well, by the way.’

  ‘You do know I’m ripe for an affair right now, don’t you?’ She looked demurely at him. ‘Particularly one based purely on sex . . . very dirty sex.’ Her voice had the timbre of a gravel driveway.

  ‘Joyce!’ a man’s voice called from the office behind. ‘Leave him alone, you’ll scare the poor bugger to death.’

  Her lipsticked mouth turned down with disappointment as her husband, Lee, emerged from the office.

  ‘Morning, Lee,’ Henry nodded.

  ‘Henry . . . keep your hands off her, she’s mine, all mine,’ Lee said dramatically and grabbed her from behind, his arms encircling her. She melted her ass into him and Henry beat a hasty retreat. He moved quickly through the reception area into a yard at the back of the premises. Beyond this was a security-fenced area, inside of which was a variety of vehicles. Henry went through the open gate and found the smashed-up Escort, next to which stood an individual Henry recognized as one of the crime scene investigators based at Blackpool. Dressed in a white paper suit pulled up over his clothes, he was bespectacled, rather short and a bit ugly, the complete antithesis of his American counterparts portrayed in the slick TV series, CSI.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Tom. You got something of interest?’ Henry stifled a yawn.

  ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘Just been on the go a long time.’

  The CSI reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a clear plastic bag, about four by four inches, with a strip-seal across the top. Resting in the bottom corner of it was a misshapen blob of metal, not much bigger than a thumbnail.

  ‘Bullet,’ the CSI announced. Henry had already recognized it as such. ‘Found embedded in the back seat of the car, having entered same through the front windscreen.’

  Henry peered at it. ‘Any idea of calibre?’

  The CSI shrugged. ‘Maybe a thirty-eight.’

  ‘Well found,’ Henry congratulated him. ‘Do what you have to do with it, will you?’

  ‘Yes, I know my job.’

  ‘And for that we’re all thankful.’ He bade farewell and headed back to the main garage building, entering reception as Joyce emerged from her husband’s office looking rather flushed and ruffled. She gave Henry a wry smile as she straightened her jumper. Despite himself, Henry could not prevent his investigatory instincts from noting that when he had first seen her she was definitely wearing a bra; this had now disappeared.

  She sat down at her desk and said, ‘Could’ve been you, Henry.’

  He was out of the door real sharpish.

  ‘Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I be so bold as to refresh your memories?’ Sharp smiled at Easton. ‘You were the senior investigating officer in charge of the inquiry into the murder of Jackson Hazell. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Easton responded guardedly.

  ‘So,’ the QC said, his brow furrowed, ‘you were the person who was responsible for the policy log . . . the log, that is, which decides the route and key decisions made in the investigation?’

  ‘With others,’ Easton said, a little too hurriedly, ‘but yes.’

  Sharp screwed up his face, looked pained – all for effect, obviously. ‘But you made the final decision?’

  Easton sniffed and shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, but all decisions are outlined and backed up with sound arguments based on facts, information, intelligence and good practice. As you know, the policy log has been scrutinized on several occasions during this trial.’

  Sharp nodded sagely. The policy log had stood up well to the rigours of the scrutiny.

  ‘So, basically, though, as SIO, you decide the direction of the investigation?’

  ‘I think we have ascertained that,’ the judge interceded, a slightly impatient note in her voice.

  ‘Quite, Your Honour,’ he conceded. He faced Easton again and smiled humourlessly. ‘As investigations proceed, numerous calls are received from members of the public. Is that correct?’

  ‘Thousands, sometimes,’ Easton agreed, then closed his mouth. The rule was that you should never offer an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked.

  ‘How many phone calls were received from members of the public in this investigation, Superintendent?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact number.’

  ‘Ballpark figure.’

  ‘Nine hundred, a thousand.’

  ‘Every call logged?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Every one passed to the major incident room – that is, say, those calls received at other police stations?’

  ‘Procedure says that should happen.’

  ‘So if someone made a call to a police station other than to the one where your
major incident room was situated, that call, or the details of it, would be passed to your murder team?’

  ‘That should be the case.’ A bead of sweat rolled down Easton’s spine, between his shoulder blades. He was trying to remain calm, resisting the burgeoning urge to shout, ‘What the fuck are you getting at here, you bastard?’ Only thing was, he had a feeling he knew what was coming. Sharp was smiling again.

  ‘Are all the messages received acted upon?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Superintendent?’

  ‘They are all scrutinized and assessed by experienced detectives and a decision is then made as to the value of the message. Sometimes no action is taken and messages are simply filed. Sometimes immediate action is taken . . . basically the response to them is graded.’

  ‘I see,’ Sharp said thoughtfully.

  ‘It would be impractical to deploy an officer for every message received, so therefore decisions have to be made.’

  ‘But every call received is assessed in some way? Is that correct?’

  Easton nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, for example, if you received a telephone call from a member of the public saying that such-and-such had committed the murder you were investigating, and that named person was different from the one you suspected, or had arrested, how much credence would you give that call, Superintendent? How would you assess that call?’

  Easton swallowed something which felt like a huge, rough stone, and reached for the glass of water next to him.

  The hold-up seemed to go on forever. Whitlock, sitting high in the cab of his vehicle, perched on the lip of the ramp off the ferry, with a view of the line of cars and trucks ahead of him, had moved on internally from mere heart attack and breathlessness. He was shaking uncontrollably now, his whole body dithering and weak. His left foot quivered visibly whilst resting on the clutch and he wondered how the hell he was going to press the bloody thing in.

  The delay had been almost half an hour.

  Nightmare.

  Then the line started to edge slowly forwards.

  With great will-power, Whitlock pushed the clutch in and engaged the gears, started to move down the ramp, just as something deep in Whitlock’s mind clicked and he felt something was very wrong. Other than the fact he was carrying twenty illegal immigrants and three holdalls containing something he didn’t even want to think about. There was a difference in the feel of the truck, just a subtle one, and he could not decipher what it was. Something was missing and his brain could not quite pin it down.

  On the quayside, Karl Donaldson and his mix ’n’ match team were overjoyed to see the vehicles start to roll again off the ferry. There had been a three-vehicle shunt which had stopped everything in its tracks. Soon their target would be in their grasp and they would all be able to go home – when the paperwork was done.

  In fact they could see it now, rolling slowly down the ramp.

  Sharp paused patiently as Easton replaced the glass on the ledge in front of him, then ran a set of shaking fingers through his thick hair. Then he embarked on a slightly different tack. ‘How many suspects did you have in this case, Superintendent?’

  ‘Only the one,’ he croaked.

  ‘And that is my client?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No more suspects at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not true, is it?’

  ‘It is absolutely true.’

  The QC consulted a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘No, it is not true, because there were at least two other suspects, weren’t there?’

  ‘No.’ It was almost a whisper.

  ‘In fact, you received several telephone calls from the public naming two other people who could have committed this horrible crime.’

  ‘Not so.’

  ‘In fact the man who was murdered – a man who lived in the criminal underworld – was someone who had many enemies, wasn’t he? He owed a lot of money to a lot of people. He had upset many people in many ways and I find it very odd that there was only one suspect in this case.’

  ‘Rufus Sweetman was the only suspect,’ Easton insisted.

  ‘I’m afraid not, and I have the documentary proof in front of me showing that at least two other men were strong suspects.’

  There was an aura of triumph about Sharp as he stood facing Easton and steepled his fingers together in front of his chest while he surveyed the officer over the rim of his glasses. The unsaid word, Gotcha!, hung in the air.

  The team moved in, signalling for the driver of the heavy-goods vehicle to pull out of the line and into a specially erected marquee which would protect everyone from the elements as a search took place.

  Donaldson watched as the customs officer swung up to the cab and spoke to the extremely worried-looking driver. Some questions were asked and answered as both the officer and driver climbed down then approached Donaldson.

  ‘This is bollocks,’ the driver was saying. ‘Total bollocks.’

  Donaldson shrugged. ‘If that’s the case, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’

  ‘What’s a bloody Yank doing here?’ the driver demanded to know.

  Donaldson gave him a slit-eyed stare which shut him up. ‘Have you got anyone or anything in your vehicle you shouldn’t have?’

  The driver hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘Look-see time, I think,’ said Donaldson.

  Whitlock had been certain that he would be pulled. When he was waved almost regally through and the hi-viz-jacketed officials went to the lorry behind him instead, he almost died of relief.

  He had made it through.

  Five hundred pounds richer and with twenty illegals on board, plus a shag that was pretty hazy in his memory, but so what?

  And it had actually turned out to be painless. There had been no need to worry, as the man had said. There were probably a hundred other illegals secreted on the ferry anyway and maybe the authorities had caught some in the lorry behind him. But they hadn’t caught him.

  Jesus, he’d done it!

  He slammed his fist on the steering wheel and as he accelerated towards the motorway network, he gave his horn a blast for good measure.

  Whitlock was feeling good.

  The one, cowering, terrified, illegal immigrant in the back of the lorry was not what Karl Donaldson wanted to see. An old man, badly hidden between boxes of Spanish tomatoes, was not what should have been there.

  The team ripped the vehicle apart, found nothing else.

  ‘I didn’t know he was there, I swear on my daughter’s life,’ the driver insisted passionately, as both he and the stowaway were led away to be processed. ‘The bastard hid there.’

  ‘I know, I know . . . let’s just get the paperwork sorted,’ one of the immigration officials said, taking the driver’s arm and shooting a glance at Donaldson which said it all – and more.

  ‘And who’s gonna repack my lorry?’ the driver whined, his voice getting less audible the further he got out of earshot. Donaldson was glad to get shut of him because he was dangerously close to laying one on him.

  He strutted angrily to the quayside, hands thrust deep inside his pockets, kicking an imaginary stone into the murky water. Fuming did not come close to describing his mental state. He raised his face to the sky, nostrils flaring, wishing to scream.

  ‘Ah well,’ a voice said behind him. ‘It’s always hit and miss.’

  He turned and looked through a pair of very pissed-off eyes at the woman detective from the local force who had been assigned to the job. ‘It’s always a hit with me,’ he growled dangerously. ‘I don’t do misses.’

  She smiled coyly. ‘Does that apply to women too?’

  Donaldson blinked and the devil in him replied, ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘You going back to London now?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  She remained silent, brushed the windswept hair back from her face, raised a well-made-up profile to the grey sky and then dropped
her chin and looked up seductively at the American through two wide-spaced, elliptical eyes that shone with promise.

  ‘How about a coffee somewhere?’

  Eight

  By the time Henry Christie eventually arrived home, his brain was definitely the consistency of porridge oats. He felt jet-lagged and not a little weak. He needed to sleep and hoped that the night ahead would be lacking in dead bodies.

  It was three p.m. when he walked in through the door, which he knew gave him about an hour uninterrupted before his youngest daughter arrived home and a couple before Kate landed. He did a quick phone call to Burnley to see what stage the domestic-murder inquiry was at. He was told that the offender, the knife-wielding drunken wife, had been interviewed once she had sobered up, but that it was unlikely she would be put before court for the morning; she had admitted the offence, apparently, claiming she had been a victim of domestic violence for over four years. Henry could see her walking free at the end of proceedings. He also spoke to Rik Dean at Blackpool, but was told that Roy Costain had not yet been found.

  The work done, Henry did not hesitate further. He took the stairs two at a time and almost ran into the bedroom, divesting himself of his clothes as he went. The bed, a king-size, looked totally fantastic and it was all his! Within seconds he was naked and underneath the cool duvet, drawing it up over his head, which was resting on his soft, favourite pillow.

  Moments later he was flat out and snoring gently.

  Outside the Crown Court it was chaos as Rufus Sweetman emerged a free man, all charges against him having been dismissed. He nodded, waved, and smiled enigmatically at the banks of press cameramen, turning as his name was called and posing for photos.

  His girlfriend, the stunningly attractive Ginny Jensen, clung tightly to his arm, and she too responded professionally to the cameras, her radiant – but fixed – smile and catwalk looks and figure being captured for posterity.

  Flanking Sweetman on the other side was his solicitor, Bradley Grant, smooth and smart.

  ‘Mr Sweetman, do you have any comments to make?’ one journalist yelled, pushing a tiny microphone into his face.

  ‘What do you think of the police?’ screamed another.