by Nick Oldham
It was 10 a.m. At eleven she had the first scheduled briefing for her murder team – if four detectives could be classed as a team. She needed something constructive to say to them. She unfolded a paper napkin and began to jot some ideas down.
Four Jacks. One DS, three DCs.
Roscoe smiled at her team. She knew the sergeant, Mark Evans, but not one of the DCs who had all been drafted in from other stations around the county. They all looked eager to get going. She unfolded the napkin and announced, ‘This is the plan of action.’ It raised a titter and a few smiles which died bit by bit as they all realised that Roscoe was telling them the truth: it really was the plan of action.
‘Bail refused.’
Kit Nevison did not bat an eyelid. He had been expecting this. The duty solicitor representing him did not even open his mouth to make any representation. To remain in custody had a certain inevitability about it.
Lugubriously the old sweat of a custody sergeant wrote the details of why bail had been refused on Nevison’s custody record, read them out and asked him if he understood.
‘Aye,’ said the big man.
‘Sign here.’ The custody sergeant pointed out the relevant spaces in the charge sheets where Nevison signed his name with a big black cross. The sergeant handed him a copy and the solicitor snatched it out of his client’s hands
‘I’ll have that, thanks.’ He folded it, slid it into his briefcase. ‘I presume Mr Nevison will be taken to the next available court – i.e. this afternoon?’
The sergeant turned to PC Standring, the lucky officer who had been given the job of dealing with Nevison, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Depends on how quickly I can get the file done,’ he said truthfully.
The solicitor peered at him haughtily. ‘Today would be nice.’
‘We’ll do us best,’ the custody sergeant said, coming to the young PC’s rescue. ‘Don’t make no promises, though.’
‘Fine,’ the solicitor conceded, adding again, ‘But today would be nice.’
Standring nodded. A remand file was actually quite a straightforward piece of paperwork. He knew he could have it done within an hour if pressed.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He smiled at the solicitor, who frowned back.
‘Take Mr Nevison down to the cells,’ the sergeant said to Standring. ‘I’ll order lunch for him.’
‘I still want the doctor,’ Nevison demanded weakly. ‘I’ll cold turkey if I don’t get a fix soon.’
‘I’ll give him a ring,’ the custody sergeant promised, ‘but don’t get your hopes up. The days of prescribing methadone willy-nilly have long gone.’
Nevison gave the sergeant a dagger of a look. ‘Just remember what I did last night,’ he warned.
‘That was under the influence of drink and drugs,’ the sergeant pointed out, unruffled by the veiled threat. He’d seen much worse than Nevison in his time. ‘I’ll ring the doctor, see what he says.’ He flicked his thumb in the direction of the cell corridor. ‘Trap number four.’
The ringing seemed distant at first. It came nearer, became louder, encroaching on the pitch blackness in which Henry Christie had been sleeping since his head hit the pillow. His eyes opened grittily. He was deep in the warm bed, the quilt drawn over his head, sleeping in the recovery position with one knee brought up. He slurped back the dribble from his cheek.
The ringing continued. Not the phone. The door bell. He closed his eyes, ignoring it. It persisted. Constantly. Continually.
Angrily he threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. 12.05 p.m. A grand three hours and three minutes of sleep.
He swallowed, almost choked and grabbed his dressing gown which he wrapped tightly around him. Scratching, yawning, rubbing his face and hair, he walked slothfully down the back steps to the flat door at the rear of the premises. The veterinary surgery was closed. Fiona was out making home visits.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Roscoe said as soon as he opened the door and before he could say anything. He dropped his hands to his side in a gesture of submission and edged back a step. ‘Come in.’ Already he had realised it would have been too much to hope that after such an eventful night he would be allowed to get an uninterrupted run of sleep. Roscoe stepped past him and went ahead up the narrow steps. He followed and showed her into the spacious and high-ceilinged lounge and offered her coffee.
‘If it’s no trouble. I’ll try not to keep you long.’
‘Not a problem,’ he lied. ‘I’ll put some clothes on.’
‘Not on my account,’ Roscoe was tempted to say, but held back. She had decided this needed to be a pretty focused, professional meeting and flirting was not on the agenda.
Henry shuffled into the bedroom, dragged on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, slid his feet into his granddad slippers and trotted into the kitchen to brew up.
‘Thanks,’ Roscoe said, taking the coffee. She was standing by the large bay window which had a view over one of Blackpool’s quieter, mainly residential side streets. She dropped down into an armchair, holding the mug tightly as though desperate for warmth. She glanced around the room.
‘Nice pad,’ she commented.
‘Rent’s cheap and it’s better than nothing.’ He sounded sad. ‘Anyway, if you don’t mind me saying, you look dead beat.’ It was not said unkindly.
‘Shattered. Three hours sleep is no good for anyone.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I need to speak to you about Joey Costain.’
Henry gave a light shrug. ‘Fire away.’
‘I’m heading the investigation into his murder.’
The news jolted Henry like a whip-crack. ‘Oh,’ he said coldly, shocked, then tried to cover up the way he was feeling with a bright, ‘Good luck.’
Fleetingly she was tempted to soften the blow to his fragile pride by going belly up, telling him how exposed and vulnerable she felt at being given the job, and pleading for any help and direction he could offer. No bloody chance. ‘With you having been first at the scene and knowing the background about the Costains and the Khans, it seemed appropriate for me to have a chat with you.’
‘Me? A mere uniformed inspector,’ he said bitterly. ‘How touching.’
‘Henry, you and I both know you shouldn’t be a uniformed inspector. You are a detective and this is merely a blip. You’ll soon be back in civvies because they can’t afford for you to be otherwise. Being a detective is what you’re good at – one of the best, according to Karl Donaldson.’
Henry guffawed. ‘What’s he been saying? I wouldn’t believe a word of it.’
‘To say he sang your praises is an understatement.’ Roscoe saw Henry actually blush. She wondered how far to take all this buttering up, but it was evident he needed it. He was in the pits professionally speaking and, looking round this flat, probably personally as well. Yet she did not want to go over the top and allow it to become patronising. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll make an admission, OK? I’m out of my depth here. I need someone to help me out, a mentor, whatever.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Henry maintained with frost, ‘it doesn’t make me feel better, so why don’t you just open your Murder Investigation Manual? That should tell you all you need to know.’
‘Whoa, hold on there, Henry. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Just because you’ve had a bad time of things, are you going to withdraw into your shell and waste all that knowledge and experience you have?’ Roscoe was getting impatient. ‘I’ve come here to ask for your help. OK, I didn’t want it to seem like I needed it, but I do and that’s a hard thing for me to say to you, Mr Perfect, the CID god who all the stupid, macho male detectives look up to like some sort of role model. Well, you might be a good detective, but that doesn’t stop you being an arsehole in the bargain.’ She banged her cup down on the coffee table, angered by the turn of the conversation. He had touched a raw nerve. ‘If you don’t want to help me, fine, I’ll handle it. W
allow in your self-pity. The only person who is going to suffer is you.’ On the last word she pointed accusingly at him.
‘I feel very resentful about the way in which I’ve been treated.’ His voice was like that of a spoiled child.
‘And I don’t blame you, but don’t blame me, either. We’re both in a situation neither of us made. Blame that ultra-tosser Fanshaw-Bayley – then show the bastard he’s made a great mistake. Being awkward will just confirm to him he did the right thing – don’t you see?’
‘Yeah, sure. Easier said than done.’ He stood up and stormed across to the bay window where he sulked. Roscoe sat back and exhaled with frustration. She gave him a few seconds.
‘Can we start again, Henry. Pretty please? I’ve got a job to do and I want you to help me. I’ve had a bad start to the day, including a barney with my bloke, so stop being a prima donna and start being the professional cop you’re supposed to be? Eh?’
Henry groaned in embarrassment. This was not his style and Roscoe was perfectly right. It had all just welled up in him when she had told him she was heading the Joey Costain job. ‘I’m being a prick, aren’t I?’ He came back to the settee and slumped down next to her.
‘A fully erect one.’ She smiled.
By the time the police surgeon got to him, Kit Nevison was in a mess. He was sweating profusely, shivering and shaking, pulling at his clothes and had started seeing serpents coming out of the cell walls, spitting fire and venom at him. He was pleading like a beggar for help. It was an easy option the surgeon should not really have taken, but the look in Nevison’s eyes said, ‘Danger,’ so she prescribed methadone, the heroin substitute in a linctus form, which PC Standring obtained from a local chemist.
Nevison eagerly drank two measured capfuls of the green liquid, gulped it down and desperately licked out the inside of the cap to get the last trace of it. The warmth from it was immediate and wonderful and serene. He then took a swig from the cup of tea thoughtfully provided by Standring. A hot drink, as the officer knew, speeded up the dissemination of the drug into the system.
Relief. Blessed, even. But short lived. Methadone was good, but not as good as the real thing which Nevison knew he would need very soon, otherwise he would really crack up.
‘Hell’s teeth, is that the time already?’ Roscoe jumped to her feet. ‘Got to get down to the murder scene, then go with the body to the mortuary.’
Henry rose rather more sedately. ‘So you come to me, saying you haven’t got a clue and then you reveal that you’re only just going to the murder scene?’
‘What are you saying – that I should’ve gone straight away? I had a DS controlling it and I didn’t want to get in the way of SOCO or forensics.’
‘Exactly. Most DIs I know could not have resisted going down to the scene and tramping their size tens all over it. What you’ve done is spot on.’
‘Thanks – more by luck than judgement.’
‘There is one thing, though. Take your time when you get there. Don’t let anyone rush you. You only get one chance at a crime scene and once something’s lost, it’s lost forever.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can’t say I’m enthralled by the prospect of the post-mortem.’
‘Lots of valuable evidence to pick up there. Plus all the insights the pathologist might offer. Anyway,’ Henry joked, ‘the PM might not take too long. He’s already been prepared, hasn’t he?’ Roscoe went pale at the thought. ‘Who is the pathologist?’
‘Baines – he’s down at the scene now.’
‘Oh, he’s good. Give him my regards, we go way back.’
‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’
Henry winked enigmatically.
‘Anyway, must go.’ Roscoe brushed her skirt down and walked towards the living-room door. ‘So you reckon the Khans aren’t suspects?’
‘Suspects, yes. They definitely need to be questioned. But offenders? I doubt it. They’re pretty handy with knives and if I’d found Joey with his throat cut from ear to ear, I’d go straight for them. But the way he was left . . . you’ll see for yourself.’ He shrugged. ‘The Khans do business first, then they might be killers, but to butcher someone like that takes a certain deranged mindset. But I could be wrong although it’s never happened before, though.’
They both laughed. Henry went down the back steps behind Roscoe into the hall. Roscoe put her hand round the door knob.
‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Pleasure. I’m sorry I was such a fool earlier. Just me getting in touch with my feminine side, I guess.’
Roscoe smiled tenderly. She hesitated, then reached out to touch his cheek with her fingertip.
‘I wanted to dislike you so much,’ she said softly.
‘Ditto,’ Henry responded, almost choking on the word. In a flash of memory he was taken back in time to a different hallway, a different doorway, where he had once stood with a different woman in a similar situation. One which had led ultimately to his affair with Danny, a plethora of lies and deceit to his then wife and a very complex life which he had hated. Now he was a free agent, able to do whatever he pleased, but he was wary, though excited, by Roscoe’s touch. This time it was the woman who was married, but the issues would be the same: lies, deceit, deception, betrayal. He did not want it to happen again.
They gazed at each other, suspended in time, her warm fingers on his face. Neither really wanted to break the moment.
‘Go back to bed,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Neither moved until Roscoe very slowly and deliberately leaned forward, went up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek, sending the equivalent of a thousand volts searing through him. At the same time she was thinking what a God-awful mess she might be getting into.
Before they could pull away from each other with any degree of conviction, the back door opened.
‘It’s OK,’ a voice was saying, ‘I’ll let you in to see him – Oh!’
Roscoe jumped away from Henry as though she had been stung by a bee.
‘Well,’ said Fiona. Behind her in the back yard stood Karl Donaldson. Fiona’s face was set as though in concrete. Donaldson was expressionless.
‘I’ll see you later, Henry. Excuse me.’ Roscoe ducked out between the door and Fiona and threaded her way past Donaldson.
Fiona remained rigid. ‘This man wants to see you,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll speak to you after I’ve castrated a bulldog.’ She pushed Henry out of the way and walked regally into the back of the surgery.
Donaldson contemplated his friend.
‘Got a problem, Yank?’
‘Nope.’
‘You’d better come in.’ Henry went back up the stairs, the word, ‘Fuck’ stuck silently on his lips.
Henry and Donaldson had met several years earlier when both found themselves on the trail of a psychotic Mafia hit man operating in the north of England. Subsequently they had become close personal friends and ever since the two had snaked in and out of each other’s personal and professional lives. Donaldson had non-judgementally supported Henry throughout the trauma of divorce without actually taking sides and alienating Kate, who was also a good friend. This was the first time they had spoken on a one-to-one basis for a while.
‘How’s it going?’ The big American gazed around the huge living room.
‘Oh – bouncing back, I think. Probably at a quicker pace than I’d intended, but that’s down to our mutual chum, FB, putting me into uniform.’
‘Yeah, I was surprised to see you dressed like that. It kinda suits you. I didn’t know about the transfer from the detective branch.’ Donaldson’s last sentence was slightly accusatory.
‘Nor did I until last Thursday.’
‘So fast?’
‘Yeah – this organisation can pin its ears back and make things happen when it wants to.’
‘And what’s the position romantically speaking? Is that homely DI Roscoe next in line for the famous Henry Christie chopper?’
; Henry giggled. He was glad the slight air of tension had gone out of their conversation and pleased that his friend lacked so much subtlety that he could broach such a potentially delicate subject head on.
‘No,’ Henry replied firmly. ‘She’s got my sodding job so how could I possibly want to screw her, unless it puts her on maternity leave? I’d more likely be plotting a nasty death for her. I despise her, obviously.’
‘Yeah, obviously. Goes without saying.’ Donaldson smirked.
‘Actually she is quite nice in a sisterly sort of way, but that’s as far as it goes,’ Henry said, trying to convince himself. ‘As you probably gathered, I’m seeing Fiona, the vet from downstairs, but after that little bout of foot stomping we could be on shaky ground. Not that I’d be too concerned if it fizzled out . . .I don’t feel comfortable with her, she’s far too intellectual for me.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
‘And Kate?’ Donaldson asked delicately.
The question stopped Henry dead, as it was designed to do. He inspected the carpet, scuffed it with his slippers. ‘Mmm, Kate,’ he said thoughtfully, sadly. A heavy silence descended like a shroud. ‘Dunno,’ he admitted. ‘Haven’t seen or spoken to her or the girls for almost two months.’
‘Miss her?’
Henry cringed and nodded. Like he’d had his heart cut out.
‘Still love her?’
‘Fuck! You don’t half ask some tough questions.’
‘Part of my job. I suppose you know she speaks regularly to Karen?’ Karen was Donaldson’s wife, an ex-Lancashire policewoman, now a chief superintendent with the Metropolitan Police.
‘I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.’
‘I pick up that she still loves you, y’know. Despite you being the biggest jerk this side of Birmingham. I think she regrets the hastiness of the divorce.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Henry sighed, a melancholy mist beginning to envelope him. ‘But it’s over now. Separate lives and all that. She has a new boyfriend.’ The last word was said with a sneer of contempt.
