Critical Threat (16 page)

‘A complex web. Wow,' she said again.

‘Aye, so it doesn't surprise me Eddie's fallen foul of the underworld.'

‘You reckon the Class Act is involved in this?'

‘It's a bloody good starting point.'

‘Don't get blinkered.'

‘Would I?'

They smiled at each other.

‘So,' Cranlow said hesitantly, ‘what's the Henry Christie story?'

‘Something along the lines of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, just on a smaller scale: sex, debauchery, adultery – rock 'n' roll, even.'

Cranlow chuckled and his eyes met hers at the complete opposite of the spectrum to when they had met Jackie Kippax's.

‘I'm looking at a 1 p.m. briefing for this,' he said quickly. ‘We'll use the MIR at Blackburn nick. I'll arrange for personnel to be drafted in and hopefully we'll be knocking on doors by three. How does that sound?'

‘Good,' Cranlow said coolly, recognizing when she had been cut dead and obviously feeling a little embarrassed by it.

A car drew in behind them, headlights reflecting in the rear-view mirror. The occupant climbed out and Henry recognized who it was.

‘Pathologist's here,' he said, opening the door of the Mercedes. ‘Just one thing, boss,' he added. ‘When I dropped Jackie off, she told me something … she's just been diagnosed with stomach cancer.'

‘I never thought I'd see you again,' Keira O'Connell, the Home Office pathologist said as she carefully removed what was left of Eddie Daley's brain from its cranium and carried it with equal care over to the stainless steel dissecting tray on which she laid it. Henry Christie followed her, standing just by her right shoulder like a henchman. They were in the mortuary at Blackburn Royal Infirmary and O'Connell was about an hour into the post-mortem. ‘You'd been given the boot.'

She was clearly referring to the time Henry had been ousted from the murder of the female who had just been featured on
Crimewatch
, when Dave Anger had ignominiously tossed him off the case and replaced him with DI Carradine.

‘It was a pretty public sacking,' O'Connell said, looking over her shoulder at him. ‘So how come you're on this one?'

He gave her a stupid grin. ‘They needed me more than I needed them, only they just didn't realize it.'

O'Connell wiped her blood-streaked, latex-gloved hands on a paper towel and picked up a digital camera, taking a few choice shots of the damaged brain.

‘Did you catch
Crimewatch
last night?' O'Connell asked.

‘Hm,' Henry affirmed.

‘They phoned me yesterday to ask if there was anything more from my point of view they should say on the programme.'

‘Who phoned? Dave Anger?'

‘Yeah.' She turned away from the workbench and returned to Daley's body on the mortuary slab. He was now naked, his clothing having been removed and bagged for forensic examination. His body was overweight and pathetic and sad, and the blood that remained in him had settled although he had lost a lot from the head wound and bled profusely on to the floor of his office. She dropped on to her haunches and peered into Daley's scooped out cranium.

Henry hovered. ‘Did Mr Anger say anything about the progress of that investigation to you?' he asked speculatively, trying not to seem too interested.

‘Not much. A bit.' She poked her finger about and moved Daley's head.

‘Did he say anything about the necklace that turned up?'

‘Er, yeah, apparently, the guy who found the body came forward with it.' She stood upright. ‘He'd found it when he tripped over the body and helped himself to it, then at some stage his conscience kicked in … now then …' She returned to the dissecting table and picked up a hand-held tape recorder and started to speak into it.

Henry stifled a yawn. It was 11.30 a.m. The coroner, whose office did not open until 9 a.m., had been personally contacted by Henry and had allowed Henry's identification of Daley's body, though he required it to be backed up by Jackie Kippax's identification of Daley's personal effects. This had been a relief to Henry because an ID at any time was stressful and emotional, even more so when the loved one has a bullet hole in the head. He especially didn't want to put Jackie through that, bearing in mind her mental state and the revelation that she was suffering from cancer. Her future looked bleak enough without the addition of having to see Eddie on a slab.

It was also a relief because the pathologist was ready to roll on the nod of the coroner and Henry knew the value of getting an early PM done. What better than to have the preliminary results ready for the murder squad briefing?

He watched O'Connell working skilfully away at her job, impressed. She did everything meticulously from all the preliminary stuff at the scene, then in the mortuary, all the way through to the point she had just reached, the examination of the remnants of the brain. Henry did miss his old friend Professor Baines who was the Home Office pathologist for this area, but he was away on another conference and Keira O'Connell was a more than able substitute, and much prettier. He doubted whether she would want to go for another drink with him though, after boring the life out of her last time.

She clicked off the tape recorder and walked back to the brain, selecting a brain knife – a straight, finely honed, twelve-inch bladed knife which was used to make long, clean cuts through the brain tissue. She held it up to the light and inspected its sharpness, then turned to Henry. ‘Do you know,' she said, ‘you missed a very good opportunity when we went for a drink six months ago … unfortunately I'm now in a relationship.' She gave him a sad look and twizzed the knife around. She turned her attention back to the brain. ‘Shall we?'

Henry raced across the outer rim of Blackburn to make it to the police station for 1 p.m., the time of the first briefing. He had delegated the job of pulling together some staff to get the investigation rolling to an increasingly sleepy and tetchy DC Hall, who had responded to the request with all the enthusiasm of a death row prisoner being asked to take a seat on the electric chair. He was tired, needed his sleep and would have to be back on duty that evening at six whatever, he whined. Henry just told him to get on with it, whilst he attended the autopsy.

There was no way he was expecting a full squad on day one, but he would be happy so long as there were enough bodies to put together a Major Incident Room, get a few roles allocated and get actions underway.

The car park was chocka and Henry eventually abandoned his car, knowing he was blocking someone in. It was par for the course in police station car parks these days not to find a parking spot, so before entering the building proper, he left his mobile number at the front desk so he could be contacted if the ‘blockee' wanted to get out.

As he pushed the door open into the innards of the station, he immediately spotted Trevor Hall walking towards him, with an anxious expression, which gave Henry instant cause for concern.

‘It's not my fault, boss,' were the first words Hall uttered.

‘What isn't?' Henry asked darkly.

‘I did my best, honest.'

‘What the hell are you talking about, Trevor?'

‘The murder squad.'

‘What about the murder squad?' Henry's words were slow and deliberate.

Hall's worried eyes rose past Henry's shoulder whilst at the same time his head seemed to shrink into his shoulders.

‘We need to speak.'

Henry spun round. Angela Cranlow, looking a little shamefaced, had appeared behind him and from the look on her face, Henry knew something wasn't quite right.

Angela dragged Henry out of the station, bundled him into her car and drove him the short distance to the nearby McDonald's just off Whitebirk roundabout where they could have a more discreet chat.

She brought him a coffee and sat him down by a window, plonked herself opposite. ‘I'm sorry about this,' she said quietly.

Henry decided to let her fill in the silence. Inside he was churning as he wondered what could possibly be so bad.

‘I've had my knuckles rapped.' Instinctively they both looked down at her hands, which were laid flat on the Formica tabletop. She gave a short laugh. ‘Metaphorically speaking.'

‘Why?' he asked, suddenly knowing the answer, but did not want to hear it.

‘Not following procedure.'

‘Oh.'

‘By deciding to allocate Eddie Daley's murder to you.'

He nodded, understanding, an empty feeling overcoming him. His mouth twisted acerbically. He was going to have this one snatched from him, too, he thought. Another kick in the …‘Bollocks,' he said, without vehemence. He scratched his head in a gesture of despair. ‘I thought it was too good to be true. But there's not many people in this organization who can rap your knuckles, ma'am.'

‘It was FB … under immediate pressure from Dave Anger … he was on the phone from London first thing this morning, obviously been briefed by someone.' She sounded heartily hacked off by the whole affair. ‘Apparently I should have turned out the on-call FMIT DCI who was on cover … I know that,' she said, wringing her hands. ‘Still, serves me right. Always been my problem, that.'

‘What has?'

‘I hate following procedure, 'specially when it's all cock. It's obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and an arsehole you should still be on FMIT. It's a bloody travesty you aren't.'

Henry managed a forced smile. ‘Unfortunately you've come along in the middle of something and you've done what appears to be right on the face of it – and I thank you for trying, I really appreciate it. It was good while it lasted and I hope I've done a decent job with it.'

Angela blinked. Her eyes moistened softly as she looked at Henry. ‘Anyone can see you've been crapped on from a great height. I might just have to take the bastards on.'

‘Ma'am, I'm not being funny, but the ACPO team are all blokes and every chief super is, too …'

‘I know what you're saying, but I'm the dep,' she said grimly. ‘Paid good money to do a tough job, which I fully intend to do.'

‘Well, I wish you luck,' Henry said with a trace of resignation. As of that moment, he fully expected that the climax of his career would be spent behind a desk, pushing paper nobody wanted to see, teamed up with a bunch of misfits. ‘So who gets it?'

‘Gets what?'

‘Eddie Daley.'

‘Oh, sorry, you do – for the time being.'

Henry pulled a face. ‘What?'

‘Well, I did make a bit of pitch for you. I said you'd uncovered some good leads and said it was only fair that you had a stab at it. And because nearly everybody in the world is involved with the visit of the American Secretary of State later this week – me being the exception because I'm looking after everything else – you've got until next Monday. If you haven't got a result by then, you hand it all over with pink ribbons to FMIT. How does that sound?'

Henry's head bobbed unsurely. ‘And the murder squad consists of?'

‘Ah, well, that's something else. You haven't really got one. You can have some Support Unit officers to do some searching and stuff, but that's about it. Better than nothing.'

‘So, me, basically?'

‘Yep.'

His mind swam, floundered actually. ‘Hell's teeth!'

‘And me,' she said brightly. ‘I'll give you a chuck up as best I can.'

‘That's very kind, ma'am.'

‘You're not impressed.'

‘It's just that … it's a hell of a task … daunting. The Class Act is just a possibility, not a certainty.' He stared out at the traffic rushing by.

‘Do you want me to tell Dave Anger he can have it back now, then?'

‘Oh, no … that's just what he'd love to hear. No, let's see what we can pull out of the bag.'

‘That's the spirit.'

‘And in terms of a squad, I have a bit of an idea on that score – that's if you agree.'

M
aybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. Henry gazed across at the shocked faces in front of him and almost wanted to turn and run out of the office. It was as though he had just declared that a nuclear warhead was en route and they had four minutes to live. He glanced quickly at Angela Cranlow, who had approved his plan, and she grimaced back as if in severe pain.

‘So what do you reckon, guys, gals?' Henry asked, trying to whip up some enthusiasm. The Special Projects team, his mad idea of a murder squad, looked at him aghast and in stunned silence. ‘Look, this'll be good,' he said positively, guessing this was what it was like swimming in treacle. ‘Just imagine,' he said, looking beyond them to the wall and seeing an imaginary banner, ‘the Special Projects Murder Squad. What d'you think?'

They were in their nice, warm, open-plan office on the top floor at headquarters, having all dragged their chairs from behind their desks, and formed a U-shape around Henry in one corner. His eyes moved from individual to individual.

‘It's been approved by DCC Cranlow' – he gestured to her with a shift of his shoulders – ‘and it'll do you all the world of good.'

‘Speak for yourself,' someone unidentified, but suspected, muttered.

‘Right,' he began, and perched himself on the edge of a desk, about to launch into his reasoning behind the idea. Before he could speak, a sergeant piped up.

‘Henry, the truth is, that's real pressure. We don't do real stress or pressure in here, that's why we're in here. We're the land of misfit cops – and that includes the support staff in here, too.'

There was a general murmur of agreement and nodding of heads.

‘It sounds like you're proud of it.'

‘No, not proud – we just are who we are.'

Henry gathered his thoughts. ‘This office,' he declared, ‘is full of people who have got skills, knowledge and experience. Why you've all ended up here is not the issue, but the fact is that you are all here and I'll lay it on the line: I believe that in reality, none of you truly wants to be here, do you? You've all got talents and the truth of the matter is,' he said, using a pointing finger, ‘I've got the chance to investigate a murder until next Monday, a chance given to me by Ms Cranlow, and I desperately don't want to blow it. I need your help and I know you can do this, be part of a team catching a murderer instead of just pushing paper around that no one reads, if truth be known.'