Dead Heat (21 page)

But that wasn't him at all. He might think it, but he couldn't do it.

‘Where do I come into this?' he found himself asking.

Jane returned with four mugs of milky coffee. Henry scraped the skin off his with the handle of his fork, then took a sip. It was hot and slightly sweet, reminding him of the coffee he used to drink as a youngster. This café was the only place he knew could recreate it and for a moment he was back with his mother in their little house in a hilltop village in East Lancashire where he had been born and bred and brought up until he was ten. His mother was now dead, had been for about eight years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he missed her. Milky coffee had been her speciality.

He shook himself out of that fast, wondering where it had come from. He had not thought about his mother for a long time and felt guilty.

‘You OK, Henry?' Donaldson said, noticing his friend's momentarily spaced-out behaviour.

‘Yeah, sorta déjà-vu for a split second.'

FB sat back, replete, and slapped his tummy. He had certainly put on weight since gravitating into the highest echelons of the police service. Too much money, too much good living. He reminded Henry of a Pot-bellied Pig. ‘Where do you come into this?' he echoed Henry's question. ‘Let me lay this on the line, Henry. I actually don't want you involved in this in any way. You're suspended and it makes things very complicated if you get involved in anything to do with police work. There is no precedent for it.'

‘What am I doing here, then?'

FB's eyes narrowed to slits. He looked sideways and distastefully at Donaldson. ‘We are under some pressure to solve the Marty Cragg murder. It's been going on for too long and yes, that is a criticism of the SIO team. In my books they should have got it bottomed by now.'

Easier said than done, Henry thought, especially given the complexity of the job. People like Mendoza and professional hit men are not easy people to bring to justice.

‘The investigation is under strain,' FB reiterated, ‘and the Home Office and the Police Authority have revealed their disquiet.'

‘And my bosses want progress too,' Donaldson said. ‘Mendoza has killed two of our guys now. We want him, as you might say quaintly, “fettling”. We are keen to pursue any line we can. The Wickson connection has only just come to light and by pure chance you're already involved in the family for another reason.

‘We would like you to stay in there, purely from the point of view of information and intelligence-gathering, nothing else. Mrs Wickson invited you in to dig around on some horse mutilation that's been going on at the stables – which could be connected – so we want you to carry on with that, get as close into the family as you can and see what dirt lies under the rock that hides the Wicksons – and get a direct line to Mendoza, if poss.'

‘But I'm suspended. I have no police powers,' Henry persisted.

‘Like I said, there's no precedent for this,' FB said. ‘So yes, you would be acting purely as a civilian, nothing more.'

‘No back-up? No resources?'

‘Nowt.'

Henry shot a hard glance at Jane, then Karl Donaldson. ‘Do you support this, Karl?'

‘It was his fucking idea,' FB blurted, almost choking. ‘He seems to think you might do a good job. And, may I remind you, you might be suspended from duty, but you are on full pay.'

‘And you think that obliges me to do this for you?'

FB nodded. Yes, he did.

Henry's mind clicked and whirred. He did want to get involved, but it had to be on his terms with his own safeguards in place.

‘What's in it for me?' he said and held eye contact with FB.

‘Do you know, I couldn't fucking believe my eyes.' FB and Henry were on the beach close to the White Café. The other two were sat on a picnic bench outside the café whilst Henry and the Chief strolled side by side in the sand. ‘On my first day I decide to start off in the control room and the first thing I see is the helicopter download of you being bloody hijacked.'

‘Sorry.'

‘I didn't know about your suspension then. Can't say I'm surprised though. You sail close to the wind . . . but this lack of judgement thing . . . ? Disobeying a lawful order?' FB shook his head in disbelief as though he could not get his thoughts round it. ‘A witness shot and severely injured, a cop shot too?'

‘Neither have died.'

‘Hardly the point, Henry.'

‘True, but I'm not to blame for it happening. I went through the correct procedure to get a firearms operation authorized and it got kicked out . . . I still had a vulnerable witness on my hands who needed moving urgently.'

‘I reviewed the case last night.' FB stopped, picked up a flat pebble and skimmed it across the surface of a large rock pool. ‘You never went through the correct procedure at all, just went ahead off your own bat and it went pear-shaped. You're a loose cannon, always have been, Henry, and now you're about to get your comeuppance.'

‘My request for a firearms operation was turned down.'

‘It says in the report that you never made the request.'

‘That's bollocks.'

‘I'm just telling you what it says, what, in fact, a highly respected detective chief superintendent says.'

‘In that case I'm completely fucked, because I know you'll believe him and not me. That's how it works, isn't it? The organization looks after its chiefs and the Indians can just go and screw themselves?'

‘The discipline hearing is in two weeks' time.'

‘I didn't know that.'

‘You could be getting your P45.'

Henry said nothing for a few moments, then: ‘In that case I'm not interested in this Wickson business. I don't feel inclined to do anything for the Constabulary.' He sounded sad, broken. ‘Shit,' he murmured, picked up a palm-sized pebble and lobbed it across the beach. A tear formed on his lower eyelid.

‘I can understand that, except for one thing . . . I actually believe your story. I mean, you are a loose cannon, no doubt. You fly by the seat of your pants, but you've got great instinct and you've always come through for the organization in spite of the way it's treated you.

‘The Wickson thing is very big, Henry. I knew about it before I came back to the force and I'm keen to get something done about it, especially now that two officers are down and that nurse. I want to catch that killer and I believe that Wickson could well lead us to him and Mendoza, maybe, and some bigger sharks. You could help. You might not discover anything, but so what? At least you'd have helped. You asked me what's in it for you?'

Henry nodded. ‘Don't try to blackmail me emotionally about the greater good and all that,' Henry warned him.

‘I won't, but what I will do is closely review the discipline case immediately.'

‘Is that it?'

‘Henry, I believe what you're telling me. I'll get to the truth of the matter, trust me. I scare the shit out of people, as you know.' There was a glint of steel in his eyes. ‘But don't misunderstand me . . . if you don't take on the Wickson job, I won't help you at all. Even if you do take it on, you're on your own. Like you said, no resources, no back-up. You'll be operating totally independently and if anyone asks me, I'll deny these conversations. I cannot officially condone you getting involved in this and that's the public line I'll take. The only thing I will offer is for DI Roscoe to be an unofficial point of contact for you. You two can work that as you see fit. She's pretty busy because I've put her in charge of the inquiry into the deaths at the hospital, which will link into the Cragg inquiry, so you'll have to balance it out somehow. That's the deal.'

‘Does Jane know about this yet?'

‘No.'

Henry guffawed and wazzed another large pebble, speechless at the way FB operated. If anyone was the loose cannon, it was he. Compared to him, Henry was a boring, by-the-book, regulation poodle.

‘What's your answer?'

‘What if Mrs Wickson doesn't want me back?'

‘Then we're back to scenario one: you're suspended and about to lose your job and most of a big, fat pension.'

‘How very persuasive you are in your arguments, FB,' Henry shrugged. ‘OK, I'll do it.'

H
enry needed another shot of caffeine. He could have done with something stronger but it was too early and he had made it a point to steer clear of the bottle throughout the stressor of suspension and wasn't going to start now, even though his stress levels were pretty high on the Richter scale. He felt he had somehow backed himself into a trap, accidentally maybe, but here he was, as his favourite rock band the Rolling Stones put it, ‘Between a Rock and a Hard Place.'

He was alone in the White Café now. He had declined the offer of a lift from FB. He needed some time to get his thoughts together and though it was a good six-mile journey home, he told them he would find his own way there.

This time he ordered a black coffee, strong and filtered. He'd had enough of the milky stuff. It had taken him to a place he did not want to go to. He leaned his elbows on the glass-topped table, his hands supporting his chin as he looked out across the sand dunes to the distant sea.

He breathed in deep. Exhaled slowly.

Trapped by accident, he thought. Not my fault. Wrong time, wrong place. But he was under no illusions that he did not have any choice in the matter now. FB was a totally ruthless operator and Henry knew that without him on his side he would be completely stuffed at the discipline hearing. FB could make or break him and if he, Henry, did not help out, he would be snapped like a twig in a forest, a twig that no one would hear breaking.

What niggled him was that Karl Donaldson had put the idea into FB's noggin. FB had obviously tweaked it and then used it for his own ends. Karl would not have seen that side of things. It was something that Henry felt he would have to address with his American friend. Henry gave a short, inner laugh. Despite Donaldson's undoubted ability as an FBI field agent and crime-fighter, he was a little naïve in the ways of the world sometimes. Maybe that was a trait of all Americans.

In the meantime, Henry had to work out how to get back into the Wickson family home fairly unobtrusively at the same time as a massive policing operation was intruding on them in a big way. One thing Henry knew for sure was that he did not want to know where the cops were up to with their inquiries. His experience as an undercover cop was that it was imperative not to know, then it was impossible to trip yourself up by revealing a snippet of information which you had no right to know, one which might alert a switched-on subject. He had to distance himself from the police, otherwise his credibility with the Wicksons could be jeopardized.

He speculated about how best to go about his assignment. The thoughts made him wonder what it would be like to be a private investigator, acting alone all the time. Henry was used to having an organization of 5,000 people behind him. A Human Resources Department (or ‘Human Remains' as cops often referred to it), an intelligence unit, cops with guns, dogs and lots of equipment, a Training Centre, numerous support departments – a bloody big, complex piece of human machinery to back him up, or to roll on without him. It worked both ways.

Here he would be alone, with the exception of contact with Jane Roscoe, whatever use that would be, and his own resourcefulness.

He felt like he had been stripped.

And it was not comfortable.

His coffee gave him an extra kick. He looked around the café, the people inside it. He took in their faces and returned to one, that of a woman who kept staring at him.

He caught her gaze. She frowned and looked away. Henry was sure he did not know her, but got the impression she thought she knew him. But a lot of people knew him. It came with the territory of being a cop, or, he laughed to himself, a private eye. Henry Christie PI. It had a certain, discordant ring to it.

The woman was staring at him again, transfixed. Henry looked out to sea and sank some more coffee.

Firstly he would give Tara Wickson a ring. Check out how she was feeling. See if she wanted anything more from him . . .

‘You don't know me, do you?'

Henry's head swivelled. He was not surprised to see the woman from the nearby table standing next to him. Henry put her about his age, but she seemed older for some reason. There was a great sadness around her eyes which immediately touched Henry. He had seen it before. It was the look of loss.

‘No, I don't,' he admitted.

‘I don't actually know your name, but I know you, I recognize you.' Her eyes were watery, almost tearful. ‘I'm sorry, but could I have some of your time?'

‘Uh – sure.' She took a seat without further invitation. ‘What can I do for you?' His brow was deeply furrowed.

‘Six years ago, it was, maybe a little longer, I'm not sure . . . yes, it would be a little longer. Time has lost its meaning for me. I'm just floating around now, treading water until I die.'

Henry's warning signals blared out. Oh-oh, nutter. ‘Oh,' he said.

‘I know what you're thinking.' The woman smiled a sad smile. Henry relaxed. He knew his first assessment had been correct: loss, bereavement, but not mad. She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think I am going bonkers, but I'm not. Going mad would be a release from the hell I'm in.'

‘What can I do for you?' he asked again.

‘Six years ago you were on a stand at a careers convention at the University of Central Lancashire.'

‘Yes, I was.' Henry recalled it vividly. Two days of sheer hell, inundated with hundreds of rude students asking him about life as a plod. It was not something he had volunteered for, but FB – then a chief superintendent – had volunteered him. Two torrid days of smiling and pleasantries at students who were mostly shits, with the occasional one showing real interest.