by Nick Oldham
Henry rose slowly to his feet. He knew that bright redness had crept up from below his collar. He stepped across to Anger, who, he saw, cowered slightly.
‘Sounds shit, actually.’
It’s funny, Henry thought, how different people can have two completely different perspectives. I thought I was completely right for this job, yet my boss thinks I’m a liability. How does that get reconciled?
He slumped back at his desk and stared glumly out of the office window, through the trees towards the tennis courts.
Anger had got it in for him and there seemed no way in which Henry could change this attitude. He shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another coffee which he sipped thoughtfully, wondering how to play the situation.
The only thing he could think was to keep his head down, work hard and get results.
‘So, therefore, Detective Superintendent Anger,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘you’ll have to prise me out of here with a lever if you want to get rid of me.’ And with that he raised his mug and toasted his boss.
Whitlock was handed a cooked breakfast on a plastic plate with plastic cutlery and a plastic beaker containing hot, strong tea. The cell door remained open as the officer on suicide watch sat down on a chair in the corridor, keeping an eye on the prisoner he’d had to restrain from banging his head on the wall.
Whitlock sat on the bed, looked at his food. He was not hungry, had no desire to touch the breakfast, which was starting to gel obscenely as it cooled. It made him want to retch. He removed the plate from his lap and placed it on the cell floor, holding his tea in both hands, warming himself against the imaginary cold.
He began to shiver.
‘Thanks, Kate. I feel much better now.’ Karl Donaldson kissed her briefly on each cheek.
‘You’re not a good drunk.’
‘Not used to it.’
They gave each other a friendly hug. Donaldson picked up his belongings and turned to leave the Christie household, feeling much better after a few slices of warm toast, a cup of black coffee and, of course, two paracetamol tablets.
‘I need to get going.’
‘Take care and give my love to Karen.’
‘I will.’
Five minutes later the FBI legal attaché was on the M55 motorway, heading east away from Blackpool.
‘I need a shower, I need a shave, I need a shit in private and I need a solicitor,’ Whitlock told the constable in the cell corridor.
‘The first two I can sort. You can shit on the bog in the cell. I won’t close the cell door, but I promise I won’t peek. And I can sort out a brief, no probs.’
The cell complex at Rochdale police station was teeming, prisoners being led into and out of doors, corridors, interview rooms and, of course, cells. Whitlock was guided down towards the washing area, where he stripped off his paper suit and stepped into the curtainless shower cubicle. The water was hot and he stood soaping and shampooing himself for about five minutes, emerging clean and scrubbed. He was handed a clean, but grubby-looking towel to dry himself.
He jiggled back into the creased paper suit and tied it at his waist, his heavy gut hanging over the knot.
‘Shave,’ he said.
The bobby pointed to a washbasin on which stood a squeeze tube of shaving foam, soap and a disposable safety razor.
‘Thanks.’
He took his time over shaving his face, hesitating each time he looked at himself in the polished metal mirror attached to the wall with hidden screws. Finally he finished, wiped and dried his face, stood upright and eased the top half of the paper suit over his flabby shoulders. Turning to face the constable, he announced he had finished his ablutions.
Actually, he did not think he would get away with it.
But he did, assisted by the bored and distracted constable.
As he walked back to his cell, Whitlock had a small smile of triumph on his face.
* * *
Henry had the telephone to his ear. ‘He won’t stay out of sight for very long,’ he was saying. ‘People like him don’t . . . yeah, yeah . . . we do need to get him, though . . . I was thinking I’d come across, maybe this afternoon, and put some pressure on the relatives. I mean, after all, it’s one of them that’s dead . . . yep . . .’ Henry became aware of someone standing behind him. He glanced, saw it was Dave Anger holding a piece of paper, flapping it. ‘OK . . . probably see you later, Rik, bye.’ He hung up, swivelled round to his boss.
‘Here.’ Anger handed him the paper. ‘Body turned up in the east of the county . . . bit of a boundary dispute with it. Could be ours, could be GMP’s. Go and have a look . . . and Henry,’ he concluded warningly, ‘do your best to make sure it’s on them.’
Whitlock was informed that the duty solicitor would be with him in about an hour and that detectives would be interviewing him within a couple.
‘I’d like to phone my wife.’
The constable nodded. ‘Sure.’ He unlocked a cupboard in the cell corridor and took out a telephone which he plugged into a socket on the wall. He held out the phone to the prisoner. ‘Nine for a line.’
‘Thanks.’ Whitlock dialled. ‘Glenda? Honey? It’s me . . . I know, I know . . . I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know sooner . . . but I’m in big trouble . . . locked up . . . yeah, c’mon, love, it’s OK . . . eh? Rochdale. Hm? What have I done? Got involved in something very, very stupid . . . you seen the news? I’ll bet it’s all over the news . . . bodies, yeah, twenty bodies . . . me . . . yeah, Jesus!’ Whitlock had to hold the phone away from his ear as, after he had explained his predicament, his wife screamed and wailed. ‘Look, calm down . . . no, I don’t want you to come here . . . just sit tight, wait . . . and whatever happens, remember I love you . . . bye,’ he finished weakly and hung up.
‘OK?’ the constable asked.
Whitlock nodded. His eyes were moist, he was close to tears. The PC led him back to his cell and he lay down miserably on the bed, staring up at the graffiti-ridden ceiling, calculating how he was going to make best use of the item he had managed to secrete in his sleeve. He needed the right time and the right place for the best effect.
Henry pointed the remote at the car door, looked over his shoulder and saw the all too familiar figure of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him. He groaned, his shoulders drooping. What did she want?
Roscoe was the detective inspector tasked with investigating the incident in which Henry had become embroiled which had led to the death of Tara Wickson’s husband and others. Henry had spent many hours being skilfully interviewed by her and he knew she was not convinced by his recollection of events and was determined to get to the truth. Unfortunately for Henry, part of the truth was that he had gone to the wire for Tara by covering up for her and now he was beginning to regret his rather hasty, if knightly, decision. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but maybe his judgement was suspect – again. He knew that if the cops got to the real truth, and could prove it, he could easily be prosecuted for perverting the course of justice. And that could mean up to seven years behind bars.
He leaned on the car and waited.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she panted, slowing up as she reached him. He nodded, now heartily sick of his interactions with her over the last few weeks. It was like having a Jack Russell terrier attached to his trouser leg. Nor did it help the situation that she and Henry had been lovers in the past and both had a bitter aftertaste of the affair in their mouths. ‘I’ve just spoken to Dave Anger.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘He said you were going on a job down in the Valley.’ By ‘Valley’ she was referring to the Rossendale Valley, but everyone in the Constabulary knew it as the ‘Valley’. A posting that often struck fear into most bobbies’ hearts.
‘He was right.’ Henry braced himself, knowing what was coming.
‘Said I should tag along with you.’
‘That’s nice. As a chaperone?’
‘No, your assistant.’
Henry’s mouth distorted
and morphed into a sneer. He shook his head and opened the driver’s door. ‘You’d better get in,’ he said with resignation, knowing he would be powerless to fight the decision. Under his breath he mouthed the word, ‘Fuck’ and his lips twisted grotesquely as his face took on the expression which, in Lancashire, would have been described as ‘like a bulldog licking the piss off a nettle.’
They drove in silence for the first part of the journey, Henry at the wheel of his Mondeo, acutely aware of Jane Roscoe’s presence, trying to concentrate fully on the road, yet desperate to glance at her. He was certain she was eyeing him surreptitiously. The tension between them was almost like a living, breathing thing, could be felt, could be touched. Like a pair of lungs being pumped up, it was almost ready to explode.
In the end it was Henry who broke. He could stand it no longer.
As the car accelerated on to the M65, he blurted, ‘OK, so what’s the bottom line here?’
There was a beat of silence as Roscoe considered the question, then came back, ‘Why Henry, whatever do you mean?’
‘I mean – what are you doing here? Why are you here? Why are you accompanying me to this job? Are you harassing me, or what?’
‘Henry! Questions, questions, questions,’ she tutted, then sniffed. ‘Superintendent Anger thought this would be an interesting case for me. He wants me on the SIO team, so he thought I should go and “sit by Nellie” as they say, and watch a master detective at work.’
Henry grunted. ‘It might not even be on our patch.’
‘But if it is . . .’
‘I think we’ve worked closely enough together in the past, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, well, this is on a professional basis, not clouded by any personal agenda. As we are no longer “seeing” each other’ – here Roscoe tweaked the first and second fingers of each hand to indicate speech marks – ‘I’m just happy to learn.’ She smiled.
‘Mm,’ Henry murmured doubtfully. ‘How is the investigation going?’ he asked, referring to the Tara Wickson debacle. ‘You still not happy with my version of events?’
‘Not remotely . . . something just doesn’t sit right with me.’ She and Henry then did look at each other, eye to eye. Henry felt a cold chill ripple through his heart and guts as he thought, Shit, she might get me here if I’m not careful . . . tenacious bitch.
‘Still,’ Roscoe continued, ‘I’ll keep digging.’
Henry looked back at the road again, grim-faced. At least the only living witness to the murder he had covered up was Tara Wickson. The other people present were now dead and gone. Henry took a crumb of comfort from that, but not a big one: Tara was still a wild card and he was not sure which way she would fall, especially now that the full inquest was looming.
‘You’re woofing up the wrong tree,’ Henry said, trying to sound confident. ‘You’re looking for something that isn’t there.’
‘Am I?’ Roscoe said. ‘Did you know Tara Wickson’s back in the country?’
‘Yes . . . no,’ Henry said quickly. Fuck, he thought again.
Roscoe sniggered. ‘Seen her, have you?’
And it was on that question that Henry closed his mouth and said no more on that subject because he wondered whether Roscoe was wired up to record the conversation. His mind, however, returned to the early hours of the morning, when he had, indeed, seen Tara Wickson.
‘He’s in with the duty solicitor,’ the detective superintendent said to Karl Donaldson. They were seated in the canteen at Rochdale police station facing each other over a coffee. Donaldson was feeling a little better, but not much. His head still felt hollow and achy. The superintendent’s name was Brooks. He was a member of GMP’s SIO team and had been drafted in to run the inquiry into the deaths of the illegal immigrants. He was looking very stressed about the whole thing. He shook his head. ‘As you can appreciate, this is a mega-job. The press are all over it, the immigration service – God love ’em, the useless bastards – Customs and Excise, the Home Office, the local MP, you and every bugger else and his dog and I’ve got to keep them all sweet. The hospital mortuary is full to bursting with dead bodies, none of which have any ID on them . . . we think they could be from Albania, but who knows? It’s a mess,’ he admitted. ‘Our chief constable is very twitchy about it, as you would expect. He wants to know everything. Our ACC Ops is running the show, but I’m the one doing the donkey work.’ He gave an imitation of a silent scream, shook his head and blew out his cheeks. ‘And you, where do you come into all this, Mr Donaldson? Other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . which I’m having trouble buying, by the way.’
Donaldson filled him in with as much as he felt he needed to know, which wasn’t much, but when he had finished, Brooks said, ‘What’s your view on how we progress this?’
The American glanced briefly at the townscape of Rochdale, gathering his thoughts. ‘Depends on how deep, long or complicated you want it all to be. The easy thing is to charge the driver with the appropriate offences, try to ID the bodies and pretty much leave it at that. Just another sad tale of illegal immigrants.’
‘Or?’
‘Or do your job. Go deeper. Spend time and resources on ensuring the bodies get identified – and that will cost a lot of money in man hours – interview relatives, friends, trace their journeys back to source and start identifying the people behind this whole sorry mess . . . whilst at the same time trying to track down the guys who robbed the driver. My guess is that both lines of inquiry will intermesh somewhere along the way.’
Brooks eyed Donaldson. ‘What do you think was stolen from the driver?’ The two men stared knowingly at each other. ‘Drugs?’ Brooks ventured.
Donaldson shrugged slowly. ‘Who am I to say? But whatever you choose to do, I would like to speak to the driver, if that is possible.’
‘Why?’
‘Purely from an intelligence point of view,’ Donaldson parried.
Brooks nodded sagely. He was a very experienced detective and reading people was his game. ‘So you were at the scene purely by accident?’ Donaldson nodded. ‘An FBI legal attaché on the scene purely by accident – when twenty bodies turn up and a robbery takes place . . . mmm . . . let me think about that one.’ He put his chin on his thumb and gazed at the ceiling. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘There always seems to be a doctor or nurse on the scene on a road accident, doesn’t there? Same sort of thing.’
‘Run it by me again – why do you want to see the driver?’
‘Intelligence-gathering . . . the FBI are heavily involved in investigating human trafficking.’
‘I’ll let you speak to the driver just so long as the interview is fully recorded and a member of my team is present . . . how does that grab you?’
‘How about if you are present?’
‘OK . . . but remember, I’m only doing this because I’m one of those blokes – and call me old-fashioned if you like – who doesn’t believe in coincidence.’
‘Henry, hello,’ Tara had responded to Henry’s words of surprise in the waiting room at Blackpool police station. She stood up and crossed over to him. She looked as good as ever. Slim, blonde, highly attractive if a little too heavy around the jawline to make her stunning. Since Henry had last seen her, she had acquired a golden tan which set off her azure eyes and blonde hair brilliantly. She took hold of Henry’s hand, tiptoed into him and kissed him on the cheek. She was wearing a beret tilted at an angle on her head. Henry knew it was covering the injury she had received to her head, the blow from the handle of a gun administered ruthlessly by the man who had gone on to murder her husband. She’d had to have part of her head shaved for the wound to be treated, but six weeks on, it looked as though much of the hair had grown back, at least enough to provide some cover.
Henry recoiled slightly from her lips, even though they felt soft, warm and wonderful, sending a little twelve-volt jolt through him. She gazed with disappointment at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ he sh
rugged it off. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need to talk . . . talk things through.’ She looked awkwardly around the waiting room. ‘Can we go somewhere else? I don’t feel at ease here in the police station.’
‘Such as where? It’s very late.’
‘I have a suite down at the Imperial . . . maybe there?’ She saw his disinclination to say yes. ‘In the bar, I mean.’
He relented. Less than five minutes later he was driving northwards along the promenade, Tara’s Mercedes behind him, wondering what the hell he was doing.
The Imperial Hotel is on the sea front at North Shore, Blackpool, a five-star hotel used most famously by visiting politicians during the annual party conferences in the resort. All the great and good had stayed here, some not so good either. Henry knew the hotel well, inside and out, though he was glad to say on that night he did not recognize any of the staff as he sat in the bar being attended by a waiter who brought him a large cappuccino and Tara a black coffee and double brandy.
She took a big mouthful of the spirit and aahed as it sank down into her chest and stomach.
Henry waited, sipping his hot frothy coffee.
‘The full inquest is in a month,’ she said, opening her gambit.
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘I’m worried about things. About what to say, about being questioned by barristers, about slipping up and telling the truth.’ She spoke the last three words in a hush.
Henry rubbed his eyes, scratched his head. ‘Just stick to the script and it’ll be fine.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re used to being cross-examined, I’m not.’ She supped the rest of her brandy, gestured for the waiter to return with a refill.
‘It’s not like a court of law,’ Henry said patiently.
‘That’s not what I’ve heard. They’re just as hard on you, or they can be, and I feel like I might crack under pressure . . . this isn’t easy, you know.’
