Backlash (12 page)

These were not two milkmen on an early morning delivery round. The ski masks covering their faces helped to establish this fact. Their black clothing and gloves were also a bit of a give-away for any bright cop, and the rags tucked into the necks of the bottles in the crate completed the picture.

They were two very guilty people carrying a stash of petrol bombs – about twenty-four of them.

Even before the carrier had lurched to a halt, Henry was opening his door, a shout of ‘Stop – Police!' on his lips. The constables in the back were only a nano-second behind him.

The hypnotic effect of the headlights didn't last long and the two men dropped the crate with a crash and sprinted away in opposite directions. Very fast.

Henry knew this was an important one. Capturing at least one of these guys could lead to further information about who was behind the troubles and maybe to the persons responsible for attacking Dave Seymour.

As soon as he had seen them, Henry had locked onto the person nearest to him – and he was determined not to let the bastard get away. He hit the ground running, but his adversary was fast and lithe. Henry powered after the figure, driving himself hard despite his heavy clothing, lack of energy and general lack of fitness.

In his prime, many moons ago, Henry had been a passable rugby player and had possessed a sprint which could, on occasion, leave others standing. Back then he had been unencumbered by heavy clothing and life-long excess and encroaching middle-age, but he wasn't going to let something like a two-ton pair of overalls and a predilection for lager stop him now. He imagined himself going for that great try in the sky, envisaged himself in rugby boots, shorts and shirt. Told himself he was tough, mean and very quick . . . and that if he hadn't caught this villain within a hundred metres, he would call it quits. His arms pumped like pistons. His legs pushed and drove him.

The figure in front of him was moving like the wind. He dodged into one of the many alleys connecting one part of the estate to another by means of a double dog-legged passageway, one of those ideas which looked so good on an architect's jotter, but in reality was a superb place for drug dealers and muggers to loiter in.

Henry's ears pounded. As his heavy boots crashed to the ground, jarring his bones, his whole body rattled. Christ, this was hard work.

The figure ahead of him twisted round the first right-angled corner and disappeared from view.

He cursed under his breath. That was bad, losing sight of the toerag. As he ran, Henry's mind fast-forwarded to the trial, he could hear the sneer of the defence solicitor. ‘Ahh, officer, so you lost sight of the person you were chasing? In that case how can you be a hundred per cent certain my client is actually the person you were pursuing?' Pause. ‘You can't, can you?'

Henry had given identification evidence in so many trials that he knew the words off by heart.

He increased his pace and skidded round the same sharp bend, just in time to see his quarry disappear round the next corner. Out of sight – again.

Now his heart felt as though it was on the verge of bursting out of his chest like something from a horror movie; his lungs were stretched to their absolute limit, ready to pop. But he wasn't going to give this one up. He made one last surge as he came flying out of that second corner.

The man was barely ten feet ahead.

‘Got you!' Henry shouted. He hadn't, but that didn't matter. He was going to collar the guy. ‘Cunt!' he added for good measure. He was in the bag. Henry could feel it. A prisoner coming up.

Without warning the man stopped dead in his tracks, spun on his heels, a thick stick of some sort in his right hand. Henry could not tell for sure what it was exactly – except that it was swinging towards his head and he was running right into the blow. Henry's left forearm shot up in defence. The stick crashed down against his forearm. Like a matador, the felon pirouetted out of Henry's way as Henry stumbled past, driven on by his own propulsion.

The blow hurt his arm, but he had managed to glance off most of the force of it.

He was still on that imaginary rugby pitch. Wrong footed by an opponent, but recovering instantly. He veered round sharply and launched himself, low and hard, head tucked into his chest, anticipating and ducking in under the second intended blow which swished harmlessly less than an inch above his head. He slammed himself into the man's lower abdomen with all the power and violence he could muster, colliding hard with the masked figure.

Henry had expected to come into contact with something firmer, more resilient, more muscled. Instead he was amazed to find out how easy it was to bowl the figure over; there seemed to be very little weight in the body mass. Even so, Henry was remorseless, driving the man to the ground, forcing all the wind out of his diaphragm, while reaching out for the hand which held the stick, grabbing it, cutting his fingernails into the narrow wrist and whacking the hand onto the ground, ensuring the weapon was released.

Even as Henry grappled with the masked figure something did not seem right. The realisation dawned on him that he was fighting a woman. Her free hand went for his face and tried to gouge lines down his cheek with her fingernails.

Henry caught the hand and pinned it down.

She wriggled, twisted and bucked underneath him. Henry took his time. His weight moved over her, straddling her chest, never letting go or losing concentration, a smile of triumph on his face, which was probably lost to her in the darkness.

Then his colleagues burst round the corner onto the scene. The chase was over.

Though manhandled by three burly cops and in handcuffs, this did not prevent the woman from fighting and struggling all the way back to the personnel carrier. The gestures were futile but she obviously believed they had to be made. Allegations were already being screamed about police brutality and violation of human rights.

Once inside the carrier the struggle against the oppressive regime continued. Eventually, his patience running low, Henry ordered his men to lay her out on the floor and sit on her. He flicked on the interior lights illuminating the inside of the vehicle brightly.

He reached for the top of her ski mask and with a flourish – ‘Da-daah!' – something he later regretted because it was unprofessional, he yanked the mask off and revealed her face to the world.

The fight went out of her as though the mask somehow gave her courage. Now exposed, she was weak and vulnerable. She glared defiantly at Henry. A wild cat cornered.

Rings were in her nostrils, eyebrows, lips; studs were in her ears. Her hair was bright red with a green diagonal flash across it. The expression on her face reminded Henry of one of Mel Gibson's
Lethal Weapon
looks. Mad and bad.

Before Henry could utter a word, all the personal radios blared out in unison. ‘Inspector Christie receiving?'

Henry turned away and said, ‘Go ahead.' There was a certain amount of trepidation in his voice, having recognised the less than sweet tones of the person calling him.

‘ACC Fanshaw-Bayley here,' came the clipped, no-nonsense tone. ‘Come in and see me immediately, Inspector.'

No ‘please', no politeness. Just arrogance of rank. Henry hated him.

‘Roger,' he responded pleasantly, wondering what the bastard wanted.

On the way back to the station Henry found himself chewing his thumbnail, biting little pieces off and spitting them off the tip of his tongue. When he realised he was doing this he ceased immediately and sat upright rather sheepishly. He knew exactly why he was doing it: it was the thought of coming face to face with Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, ACC (Operations), referred to widely as FB by most people. He was a small, bull-like man who had spent his entire career with Lancashire Constabulary which was quite exceptional in modern times when officers of that rank usually flitted about like butterflies from force to force. No other force would bloody well have him, Henry thought. Who would wish to take on someone who combined the management styles of Hitler and Genghis Khan with a hint of Stalin?

The relationship between Henry and FB went back a long way. It had never been a smooth association because of the ruthless way in which FB had often used Henry's skills in situations which had almost cost Henry his life. Henry had always come up trumps for FB in terms of results but with hardly ever a word of gratitude from the higher-ranking officer.

Yeah . . . Henry had always done the business and this was how he had been repaid: booted off CID, dumped into uniform. Instinctively Henry glanced down at the public-order gear he was wearing and took stock of how he was feeling physically. In his steel toe-capped boots his feet were swollen and the boots were now tight and chafing. Somewhere down beneath his right big toe a lovely blister had blossomed. His legs were jittery and weak and he was experiencing a great deal of pain from the two physical confrontations he'd had that evening. Muscles not used in many a month had been brought speedily out of semi-retirement to do things alien to them. A dullish throb pounded remorselessly in his head over the bridge of his nose. In all, he felt like shit.

So thanks a bunch, FB. Thanks a bundle for transferring me from the refined, laid-back, super-cool calm of the role of detective inspector and putting me head first into this Godforsaken mother of a job. Two fights, one riot, arson, an officer critically injured, another slashed open with a Stanley knife. Henry was more used to picking up the pieces, not being there when things were being smashed.

Instead of biting his nails, he ground his teeth, ensuring his headache went up a few more notches on the Richter scale.

The transfer to uniform duties had come out of the blue.

Henry had been off sick for the best part of two months, stressed up to the eyeballs, trying to sort his head out and get his life into some sort of order after almost a year of false starts. He'd been to see his tame GP in the middle of the previous week. With reservations, Henry had said he was feeling better, needed to get back to work, needed something to occupy his time. Yes, I am thinking straight, he'd answered the doctor's question. Sleep was OK-ish. Still can't shake off the nightmare, but it was getting less frequent. I don't snap at everybody all the time now, I'm even coming to terms with being divorced, he'd told him. (That, Henry admitted, had been a very difficult thing to say out loud: ‘My ex-wife.' It was the first time he had ever actually voiced the phrase. It had felt very uncomfortable coming off his tongue. My ex-wife! Christ!) Blood pressure's down. Had a few counselling sessions. Haven't drunk a drop for . . . well, three days. Yep, I'm as right as rain.

The doctor had looked at Henry in disbelief. Eventually he had sighed and relented. ‘I'll sign you back to start next Monday.'

Oh my God, Henry had thought desperately on leaving the health centre, clutching the doctor's note. What have I done?

With a great deal of trepidation he had phoned his detective chief inspector to announce his imminent return to work. He should have suspected something was not quite right when he became aware of the hesitation in his supervisor's voice. He had not seemed comfortable talking to Henry, had been evasive, extremely vague and non-committal when it came to answering questions, and it had only been when he had told Henry that Fanshaw-Bayley wanted to see him that the alarm bells had clanged in Henry's brain.

FB? Why the hell would Fanshaw-Bayley want to talk to him?

‘Dunno.' The chief inspector had responded sheepishly to the question.

‘OK – see you Monday then,' Henry had said cheerfully.

‘Yeah.' The relief at having the conversation over had been apparent even in that short, single syllable.

Henry had hung up thoughtfully. Something just not right.

After a few deep breaths he had phoned headquarters and asked to be put through to FB. He had not expected to be connected, because people at that level are secretary-protected, so it was no surprise when Lucy, FB's newish secretary, had come on the line. What was of greater astonishment was that she had immediately put him through to FB who spoke in a particularly fawning, falsely caring tone.

‘Henry? How are you? It's so good of you to call. You must be feeling better – coming back Monday. That's fantastic. Really sorry I haven't had any chance to speak to you while you were off . . . busy, y'know. Anyway, I do need to have a word with you. I'd love to pop over and have a chat, but I'm tied up all day in meetings with just one window. How about three p.m. for fifteen minutes? Can you make it? Splendid. Look forward to seeing you.' Clunk. Conversation concluded.

Henry had been left holding a dead phone which had given off bad vibes.

He had made it to headquarters with ten minutes to spare, driving Fiona's car in through the gates and parking in one of the visitors' bays outside the front doors of the building. He looked across the rugby pitch and even now, the grass was still charred where the helicopter had exploded.

Lucy let him wait in her office and covertly Henry watched her working. She was pretty and seemed very efficient.

A few people whom Henry knew either by sight or personally trailed in and out of FB's inner sanctum, often referred to as the burial chamber. A couple of times he caught the dulcet tones of FB's raised voice coming through the panelled door. Each time the person who had gone in to see FB had come out shortly after, tail between legs, very pale-looking, eyes fixed firmly downwards. FB was known as the constabulary hatchet man with good reason. Today seemed to be one of his ‘people days'.

Lucy had looked up from her work and smiled reassuringly. ‘He's running a little late, I'm afraid,' she said pointlessly. It was 3.30 p.m.

At four o'clock FB stuck his chubby face round his office door, nodded at Henry and apologised for his lateness.

Like a black widow spider to her unsuspecting husband, FB beckoned him in with a crooked finger and directed him through the office to a chair by means of digital gestures.