Backlash (25 page)

‘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.

‘Had a new boyfriend,' Donaldson corrected him. ‘Ditched him.'

Henry digested this titbit.

‘Look, H, I gotta lay it on the line and hope you won't be offended by this.' Donaldson cleared his throat. ‘I'm here to see you for two reasons: one is professional and I'll come to that soon; the other is personal. When Kate learned I was coming north she specifically asked for me to deliver a message to you, one for you to think about.'

Henry's throat constricted and went very dry. His stomach churned, and it wasn't with wind.

‘She wants you to ring her, see her, contact her somehow – but make contact.'

‘To what end?'

‘She wants to talk things through, sort things out,' Donaldson said quietly. ‘She misses you, the girls miss you. Their lives are all upside down without you . . . maybe there's a way ahead.'

Henry swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘I've given her too much to forgive.'

‘Speak to her, Henry,' the American urged, ‘can you say you're happy here?' Donaldson flashed his hands around the room. ‘I mean it's –' He struggled to find adequate words. ‘OK but not exactly home from home.'

‘Yeah, I get the picture.' Henry stopped him.

‘And if you still have any feelings left for Kate, if there's any chink of light there for her, you owe it to yourself and her to talk. Just talk – you never know what might come of it.' Donaldson slapped his thighs and sat upright. ‘Here endeth the lesson. I now wish to turn to more pressing, professional matters.'

The heavy key clunked in the lock on the cell door and turned the bolt back.

Kit Nevison, laid out on the plastic mattress on the bench-bed, opened his eyes and sat up, wiping his face on the rough blanket.

‘OK, Kit, how're you feeling?' PC Standring asked.

Nevison had been asleep. It had been short, deep and untroubled, made all the better by the methadone which was now well into his blood stream. He was dithery, and feeling weak, but otherwise on a fairly even keel. He twitched his shoulders in response to the officer's question, unable to get his brain to engage his mouth to speak.

‘Time for court.'

Nevison grunted something and swung his legs off the bed.

‘Can you fold the blanket, please?'

Nevison complied. As he carried out the instruction he was able to utter a sentence, ‘What d'you think'll happen to me?'

Standring grinned wickedly. ‘Put it this way, Kit – you assaulted some poor guy in a club with a broken glass, you slashed open a cop's face and you held a solicitor hostage. You are obviously a danger to society, so what d'you think'll happen?'

‘'Aven't got much chance, have I?'

‘No, probably not,' said Standring. ‘Still, stranger things have happened.'

The conversation had moved on, but what Donaldson had said to Henry about Kate lingered in his mind. He had to concentrate hard on what the American was saying to keep his thoughts from drifting back to her.

‘I didn't get a chance to talk to you in as much detail as I would have liked,' Donaldson explained to Henry. He laid a briefcase on his lap, clicked open the catches but did not lift the lid. ‘I told you about the bomber operating across the States, if you recall.'

‘New Offender Model Terrorist,' Henry nodded.

‘You were listening,' Donaldson said, impressed.

‘I've read about him in the papers – big spread in the
Sunday Times
recently. I've got my plans to distribute photos and some warning posters to the gay bars tonight.'

‘Yeah – that's good. One of the things I wanted to share with you was the up-to-date intelligence on this guy, but I was told not to by FB in case of panic – but I'm gonna tell you anyway because I think you should know. I trust you not to blab.'

Henry sat up. ‘Sounds interesting.'

‘It is,' Donaldson said wearily, ‘and you'll probably understand why we really want people to be on their guard this week. One thing the newspapers haven't yet picked up is that the bombs used for the four bombings in Europe in the last two months were all built by the same person. It's pretty hot news and we've only just put it together.