Backlash (24 page)

‘On and off for the past five years, I've worked with Henry Christie. He's also a good friend.'

‘Well woppy-doo, I'm so pleased to hear it.' Her face was drawn as tight as though she'd had plastic surgery gone wrong. Livid was the term which sprang to her mind.

‘What I'm saying is that despite his faults – I mean, he's always close to the edge – he is one of the best detectives I've ever known and I've known some of the best detectives in the world, believe me. He has a remarkable instinct about people, things, situations, so I truly think you should take heed of what he said before he was belittled out of the room by Fanshaw-Bayley, who I also know well and find to be a first-class asshole and I've known the best assholes, too.'

‘Well thanks for taking the time to offer me that advice,' Roscoe retorted primly. ‘But, y'know, I think you probably misinterpreted my body language and I know exactly what I'm going to do in respect of this inquiry.'

Donaldson flicked a mock-salute. ‘In that case, accept my apologies, ma'am, but to quote, “Many people receive advice, only the wise profit from it.”'

‘Eh?'

‘Pubilius Syrus – first-century Roman writer – bye y'all.' Donaldson was gone.

Roscoe sat speechless for a few beats, then gasped. ‘First-class asshole, my arse.'

PC Standring inserted the timed interview tapes, switched on the recorder and robotically went through the pre-interview spiel with Kit Nevison and the duty solicitor now representing him.

Nevison, now clean shaven, showered and smelling of soap, had a large plastic mug of sweet tea (six sugars) on the table in front of him. He said he understood what PC Standring had said and the interview commenced after he had been cautioned.

‘So, Kit, do you know why you've been arrested?'

‘Other than what you've told me – no.'

‘What recollections do you have of last night's events?'

Nevison thought about the question for a moment. ‘None.'

‘Why is that?'

‘Drugs 'n' booze, I expect. I was very drunk and I took loadsa different shite.' He shook his head at the recollection. ‘Everything's just a blank after about the ninth pint. My mind was clouded,' he said proudly, ‘and so was my judgement I expect.'

Standring sighed. This was going to be a pretty short, one-sided interview.

Back at his flat David Gill exercised to the limits of his physical capabilities: sit-ups, press-ups, ten thousand metres on the rowing machine, and then progressed onto cocaine which he was refining on the surface of a shaving mirror using a razor blade.

‘Chop, chop, chop, chop,' he intoned breathlessly to himself with each downward stroke of the blade. ‘Chop and separate, chop and separate, make some nice lines, just like soldiers marching along, one, two, three, four, left, right, left. But I'm not going to dip these soldiers into my boiled egg.'

With extreme care he perfected the lines of the white powder so they were all the same length and width. He had an eye for such things. Very precise.

‘I deserve this,' he said.

He used a shortened straw to inhale, following the lines quickly, sniffing deeply, tossing his head back as though swallowing a pill. Then he licked the mirror clean and waited for the rush. He gasped as the drug entered his system.

It had been a hell of a night. Much achieved, much more yet to do and he was not remotely tired. The coke had cleared his head. The physical exertions, far from exhausting him, seemed to have given him more energy, more desire. There was no way he could sleep.

He jumped up and paced the small living room, tensing his muscles, bouncing on his feet, growling like a leopard – which was often how he saw himself. A leopard, but one which could change its spots, could adapt, but could remain camouflaged in the undergrowth, waiting to strike and destroy. He needed to feel the rip of flesh again. He wanted to get his fingers around someone's hot heart.

‘No,' he said firmly. ‘No.' He tried to get a grip.

He forced himself to sit down, but he needed to be on the move, on the hunt.

A
fter the short conversation with Karl Donaldson, Jane Roscoe had wandered through the corridors of Blackpool police station, going round and round, worrying about the enormity of the task that lay ahead of her. Despite the brave face for Donaldson, it made her feel quite ill because she did not know how she was going to tackle the murder inquiry.

In the canteen, now transformed into a rather plush dining room following the privatisation of the catering side of things, she found an empty table near a window overlooking the rear of Sea World on the promenade. She devoured three slices of hot buttered white toast and had a cappuccino (unheard of pre-privatisation).

Her thoughts turned to the American. Despite his glaringly obvious physical attributes, he had managed to irritate her by offering advice. And that quotation of his by who? Some bloody first-century writer no one on God's earth had ever heard of fuelled her annoyance. Supercilious git, she thought, what does he know? An FBI legal attaché – in other words some pen-pushing diplomat's lackey. Not even a field agent. What really riled her was that he had been able to read her body language as easily as a book of ABC. If he had been able to, so had others.

The other thing that made her seethe was that the words of advice he had offered actually sounded like common sense: speak to Henry Christie, listen to what he has to say. Something she had failed to do when Henry had said his piece before leaving the pre-breakfast meeting with his tail between his legs. Foolishly, the only thing she had been thinking about then was the fierce confrontation she had left behind with her husband. It had been going round and round in her head and, for the first time, had contained the word ‘separation'. It had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Hence she had missed Henry's little speech and to be truthful, the only time she had started concentrating was when FB had singled her out and said, ‘You can have Joey Costain.'

Yikes! He had chosen her as a DI and now he expected her to get results.

So an approach to Henry would be a sensible thing. After all, he had been the first officer on the scene along with PC Taylor. For very practical reasons, an in-depth chat was a must. Yet she did not want him to perceive it as a cry for help. She would have to be a bit clever in the way in which she tackled him. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel superior again.

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. Wallow in your self-pity. The only person who is going to suffer is you.' On the last word she pointed accusingly at him.