Big City Jacks

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Nope,’ Henry said without hesitation.

  ‘Then what? They have public phones in Spain, don’t they? It’s not like a third-world country.’ She was gradually losing it, becoming hysterical.

  ‘I’m sure everything’s fine . . . now, come on, Karen’ – he didn’t dare call her ‘love’ because she was a superintendent – ‘he’ll be fine.’

  ‘But what if he’s got into trouble? No one knows where he is,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Henry said firmly. ‘This is Karl Donaldson you’re talking about.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she cried. ‘It’s just that . . . I’m at my wits’ end, OK?’

  ‘Karen, look, I’m in Manchester at the moment on a job. Just keep annoying the embassy and get them to talk to you. You know what they’re like . . . secret squirrels and all that. If you need someone to talk to, Kate’s at home today, give her a ring. I’ll get back to you when I can. I’m sure he’ll be fine . . . no one gets the better of Karl, the good-looking bastard.’ That ending brought a little laugh from Karen.

  ‘Right, right,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up, leaving Henry with a dead phone in his mitt. He slowly folded it over and dropped it back into his pocket, thinking that if there was one thing Donaldson did, it was keep in contact with Karen – unlike Henry, who was poor at calling in to Kate. Donaldson was smitten with Karen and, because of this, the lack of contact made Henry suspicious.

  Turning away from the window, Henry saw FB and two detectives he did not know enter the office. The three of them made their way towards him.

  Henry – the cop from the sticks – took this brief chance to size up the two Manchester detectives.

  To say they were spick ’n’ span was an understatement. Both were impeccably dressed, class suits, matching ties and hankies folded into breast pockets. Their creases were as sharp as knife blades, their brogues shiny and creaking as they walked confidently and cockily, rolling their shoulders. Both put the rather shabbily dressed FB to shame – FB the hick cop from a hick force with his hick running mate, Henry.

  These two Manchester City detectives were the epitome of the big city jack. Sharp, sassy, cocksure and very arrogant.

  For a moment Henry felt a shade underdressed in his Burton’s off-the-rack.

  ‘I’d like you to meet DCI Henry Christie,’ FB was saying. The older of the two jacks reached forward and gave Henry’s right paw a quick tug. ‘This is Superintendent Easton.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Henry said. The skin of Easton’s hand was smooth and dry. Henry could smell aftershave on him.

  ‘Henry’s here for two reasons,’ said FB. ‘He’s investigating the murder of a guy called . . .?’ FB’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s he called, Henry?’

  ‘Keith Snell.’

  ‘That’s it . . . one of your local denizens. His body was found just over the border in Lancs a few days ago . . . you probably heard about it. The one who was shot and burned? Just got the ID through.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Easton. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell, though.’ Easton scratched his head. Henry caught the nervous gesture and instinctively knew Easton was lying. ‘OK.’ Easton turned to the other detective, a younger man, standing on the balls of his feet, rocking. He tossed a thumb in his direction. ‘Phil here will give you a hand with that. He can be your SPOC.’

  Henry squinted. ‘SPOC?’

  The younger detective guffawed. He reached out a hand and shook with Henry, giving Henry’s hand a squeeze too much. ‘Single Point of Contact,’ he said patronizingly.

  Only a minor thing, but one-up for the big city jacks.

  ‘Phil’s a DS in the office,’ Easton said. ‘He knows most of the local crims.’

  ‘Yeah, not a bright bunch, I have to say,’ said Phil. ‘The gene pool around these parts isn’t very deep.’

  ‘You know Keith Snell then?’

  ‘Yeah – a little.’

  ‘Good, that’ll be helpful. We really need to fill in his background.’

  Easton turned to FB. ‘You said Henry was here for two reasons.’

  FB nodded. ‘He’ll be helping me with the Sweetman inquiry.’

  ‘Right.’ The faces of both detectives darkened considerably. As expected, this would be a very touchy area and Henry had a bit of sympathy for them. It’s not nice being investigated.

  ‘But I’m sure there’ll be nothing to worry about,’ FB said brightly. ‘I intend to be in and out.’ He tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘And everything we do will be transparent . . . so could you and me have a little sit down now,’ he said to Easton, ‘and I’ll tell you what I need to know.’

  ‘Sure,’ Easton said magnanimously. He and FB left the office. Henry and his SPOC – as Henry had now and forever christened the man in his mind – regarded each other.

  ‘Come down to my office. Let’s have a brew and a chat, see what I can do for you.’ He led Henry out of the main CID room, down a short corridor and into his cubbyhole of an office, just about big enough for a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. ‘It’s not much, but I call it hovel,’ laughed SPOC. ‘Grab a seat.’ They sat on opposite sides of the desk. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Christie?’

  ‘I want to know about Keith Snell.’

  ‘Bloody murdered, eh? Fancy that . . . one less for our books, I suppose.’ SPOC paused, ruminating. ‘Can’t say I know too much about Snell, actually. A fairly regular customer, but no one I came across often. One of the run-of-the-mill volume offenders and addicts who cause havoc with our crime figures. His antics were getting more and more violent, though, the more addicted he became.’

  ‘Gravitated to armed robbery, I believe?’

  ‘Singularly unsuccessfully.’ SPOC shook his head sadly.

  ‘Family?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘The state was Snell’s family. Care home after care home, followed by the Benefits Agency and various prisons.’

  ‘Associates? Girlfriends?’

  ‘Knocked around with the group of people you’d expect him to knock around with. Not sure he had a girl.’

  ‘I’d like to see everything you have on him, all the intel please.’

  ‘OK,’ SPOC said brightly. ‘Can you give me an hour?’

  Henry blinked, refraining from saying, A fucking hour? Instead he nodded and thought, The one-upmanship of the SPOC who also happens to be a BCJ – Big City Jack.

  Terminal 2, Manchester Airport. Heaving with holiday traffic, so much so that the figures of Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer did not fit in. Chalk and cheese. But even so, nobody really paid them much heed, all being busy with disorderly families, suitcases and flight delays.

  They had parked on the short-stay multi-storey and moseyed as casually as possible down to the arrivals hall. Being early, they split up for a while. Jackman strolled to a café and ordered a cappuccino, baulking at the expense of it at the till. Cromer browsed through WH Smith’s, looking through the true-crime section in the books. He liked to read fact as opposed to fiction, but though he leafed through a couple of enticing books, he did not buy. Instead he joined his partner with a pot of tea.

  ‘The prices here are criminal,’ Jackman moaned.

  Cromer nodded. ‘Think there’s much surveillance here?’

  ‘Shitloads.’

  ‘Not a good place for us, really.’

  ‘Naah – but a plane’s got to land somewhere, so we’re stuck with it.’

  ‘Not keen on spending too much time here.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Both were slightly spooked being in an environment where they could get caught on camera. Their natural instinct was to hide their faces, pull up their collars and look mean, but to do that here, to act furtively in any way, would be to draw attention to themselves. And the police round here were armed with big guns. Something to bear in mind, especially in this day and age when, because of the threat of terrorism, they were not averse to using their weapons
.

  ‘What does all this mean?’ Jackman asked.

  ‘That . . . er . . . lots of people are going on holiday or coming back from holiday,’ Cromer ventured.

  ‘No, y’prat. Why we’re here. Who we’re picking up.’

  Cromer shrugged. ‘It’s obviously time for the big players to get involved. I think some major shit is about to happen. Someone, somewhere, has deeply upset Rufus, and I honestly don’t think it’s one of the big Manchester bosses. If it was, he’d have had a name by now. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘Poz.’ He leaned nearer to Jackman. ‘Wanna know what I think?’

  ‘Your mind always intrigues me.’

  ‘I think me and you are wasting our time doing what we’re doing. I don’t think any one of them we’ll be visiting knows anything. I think that somewhere out there’ – he made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm – ‘is someone muscling in on us and who is lookin’ to make a very big name for himself, or herself. You never know in this day and age. And know what? I don’t think anyone knows who it is.’ He grinned. ‘Those are my thoughts.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing them with me. I must say, you do an awful lot of thinking.’

  Cromer tapped his head. ‘I think, therefore I fucking am.’

  They looked up at the nearby arrivals screen and stood up simultaneously as they saw that the flight they were due to meet had landed.

  It was a very thin file. Not that he expected it to be as fat as a Bible, but he had thought there would be more.

  ‘Thanks.’ Henry looked at his watch. An hour and fifteen.

  ‘Not much, but that’s all we have on Snell.’

  ‘It’s a great start.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I need to get out and about, but here’s my mobile number if you need it.’ He handed a business card to Henry, then left him with the file. Picking it up between finger and thumb, he weighed it. There wasn’t much at all, but having said that, whilst Snell may have been a regular offender, he was nothing more than cannon fodder. He was easy to arrest and no doubt the young, keen officers tested their wings on him. He was not important, just an irritant, just a loser . . . and yet something gnawed at Henry.

  He leafed through the few pages of the intelligence file, scratching his head as he did so, feeling more uncomfortable as he read it. For someone who was so prolific an offender, there was a dearth of Intel on him. Henry sat back and thought about the many criminals he knew who were similar to Snell.

  Always being locked up.

  Always in the eyes of the law.

  Always visible on the streets and in the dives.

  Always knocking around with other crims and low lifes.

  Always generating some sort of Intel.

  And then graduating up to more serious offences – rather like a flasher moving up to be a rapist – they were always of interest to the day-to-day cops who policed the front line.

  There was very little about Snell’s promotion to armed robber.

  Henry now scratched his chin thoughtfully. The information he had so far been able to get on Snell was factual stuff from PNC. The crimes he had committed, where and when he had received convictions. There had been a lot of stuff recorded. Henry would have expected the local Intel to match it in some way. It didn’t.

  ‘Mm,’ he said, thinking he had only said it in his brain, but realized he had actually spoken out loud. He thought about asking his SPOC about this imbalance, but only for a moment. He pushed himself up and went to the office door, peering down the corridor.

  Henry loved field intelligence officers. In the old days they were called collators, but things had moved on in the ’90s and the twenty-first century as the whole of the police service moved into intelligence-led policing. The old-style collator disappeared to be replaced by full-blooded intelligence units. The beauty was, though, that people who would have been collators in the old days had become FIOs and they were a wonderful source of information. They knew everything about everybody, made it their business to poke their noses into criminals’ businesses.

  Henry found the Intel unit on the third floor of the building and collared the detective sergeant, a grizzled old lag by the name of Ball, who reminded Henry of Shrek.

  ‘Glad to help,’ he said when Henry introduced himself and told him the nature of his enquiry. ‘An inevitable death, I suppose,’ Ball said, referring to Snell.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Marked for it. You know . . . the circle of a low life . . . eventually I think he would have overdosed and killed himself anyway . . . but two bullets in the back and being set on fire . . . musta really upset someone.’

  ‘Any idea who?’ Henry asked hopefully.

  ‘Take your pick. Low-level drug barons are ten-a-penny in this neck of the woods.’

  ‘What do you know about him, then?’

  ‘Into heroin and anything else he could lay his hands on. Petty thieving to pay for his habit . . . God knows how he got into guns. Probably thought it would make stealing easier.’

  ‘Never does.’

  ‘No.’ Ball looked thoughtful, then down at the file Henry had in his hand. ‘You’ve got his file, I see. I copied it a few days before for Phil, the DS upstairs.’

  ‘My SPOC? Did you now?’ Henry waved the file. ‘Seems a bit thin on the ground.’ The corners of Ball’s mouth turned down and so did his large ears. To Henry, Ball looked as though he had seen too many scrum-downs in his time. Ball took the file and flicked through it, his face perplexed and not a little fearful.

  ‘Strange . . . looks like the edited version,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t given you everything here.’

  ‘Can you give me everything?’ Henry asked, trying to make the question sound unimportant, though he had seen the look in Ball’s eyes which asked the question: why the trimmed-down file?

  ‘I don’t see why not . . .’ He breathed out through his nose, torn a little. ‘There was nothing contentious in the file, as far as I know.’

  ‘Phil said he knew Snell quite well,’ Henry said, fibbing, but wanting to test the water.

  ‘Yeah, he did. Always locking him up – on a whim usually. In fact Snell was in custody last week . . . we always get an “in custody” shot from the computer system. Locked up on suspicion of armed robbery, but not charged. Given police bail, I recall.’ Ball had walked across to a filing cabinet, was rifling through files, his hand emerging with one about half an inch thick. ‘Here we are . . . Keith Snell . . . no longer of this parish, nor this world. I’ll have to deal with it appropriately.’

  Henry took the file from him. ‘It’s essential I have this copied fully.’

  Ball nodded. ‘No probs. I’ll do it here and now.’ He pointed to the photocopier in the corner.

  Henry liked Ball more and more. He took the file back from Henry and placed it on the machine. Without looking at its contents, Henry could tell it was more like he had anticipated. Lots of bits of stuff which would provide useful leads for the inquiry team back in Rawtenstall. Nuggets of gold which, Henry was certain, would lead to the killer.

  As Ball handed the copied file back over, he said, ‘Between you and me, I think Phil used Snell as a source . . . unofficial, like.’ He shrugged as if to say, Do with that what you will.

  Henry thanked him and ten minutes later he was in the canteen, the file in front of him, skim-reading, picking up salient points, facts. The address of Snell’s current girlfriend, his best friend, his associates . . . including one which made Henry gasp.

  Closing the file, he knew he had two things to do urgently.

  First he had to see Snell’s girlfriend. She was vital, if not as a witness, then at least as someone who could point the murder team in the right direction regarding Snell’s family and friends.

  Second, he wanted to get back into Lancashire. Someone who lived there was someone he desperately needed to see.

  There were some delays with passengers disembarking from the Alicante flight, s
omething connected with a baggage-handler dispute. Jackman and Cromer waited patiently under the meeting point, discussing life, death and the universe as they so often did. They thought of themselves as philosophers and because of this, their favourite movie was Pulp Fiction, which they often revisited together.

  Eventually passengers emerged.

  Cromer edged his way to the barrier at the end of the customs run and unfolded an A4 piece of paper on which he had scrawled Sweetman, because he had never yet met or seen any of the two men he had been detailed to collect.

  The SPOC eyed the file with apprehension, which he tried to cover with a show of bravado. Henry watched his eyes, his reaction to the fact that it had quadrupled in size. SPOC’s Adam’s apple rose and fell a few times. Henry said nothing about wandering down to the Intel unit and chatting to the FIO, nor did he challenge SPOC on the obvious lies he had spun to Henry. That would come later, Henry was positive on that point, even though he was inclined to grab SPOC’s finely tailored lapels and bang him back against a wall. There had to be a good reason for the deception, but Henry knew this was not the time or place to go for it. At the moment Henry was still on the back foot, trying to get a handle on things, and he needed to be on an even keel before lurching forwards. He wanted it to be cold and sweet, like all good revenge should be.

  ‘You’ve been more than helpful, Phil.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ His voice sounded strained.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be hearing more from the murder team, and me, in the very near future. Your local knowledge will be crucial to this, I reckon.’

  SPOC nodded. ‘Happy to help.’

  ‘I’ll bet the trail leads back here,’ Henry said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It’ll be a Manchester crim who killed Snell,’ Henry speculated.

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah,’ said SPOC.

  Henry held out a hand. SPOC took it, they shook. This time there was a difference from the time when they had shaken earlier. SPOC’s hand had become damp and lettuce-like, a far cry from the cool skin he had felt before. Henry kept looking into SPOC’s eyes, but they did not waver from his scrutiny. They still had the same smugness and arrogance in them.