Backlash (7 page)

It was three minutes before eight and Joey Costain had not yet answered his bail. He was almost three-quarters of an hour late. Restlessness was beginning to creep in. The pool of ten stooges – the volunteers rounded up to make up the numbers on the parade and paid the paltry sum of £10 for all their hanging around – were becoming bored. The novelty value of the experience was wearing dangerously thin.

Saeed Khan was becoming increasingly obnoxious, muttering and ranting about ill treatment and racism.

Joey Costain's solicitor, one of Blackpool's best-known defenders of criminals, much despised by police officers, was also agitated. He had arrived at ten past seven, having arranged to meet his client in the public foyer of the police station.

Henry turned to the solicitor, a man by the name of Keith Dasher. He knew Dasher well and had developed a tolerably good working relationship with the guy over the years. Henry sighed. ‘He definitely said he was coming, yeah?'

‘Yes.'

‘When did you last speak to him?'

‘Earlier this afternoon, by phone. He was going to come, definitely.'

Henry raised his eyebrows and wondered why solicitors believed their clients.

‘I could've told you he wouldn't turn up,' Dermot Byrne said. Henry's eyes moved to him quizzically. ‘Because people like him don't,' Byrne said, responding to Henry's expression. ‘I don't know why we give people like him the chance,' he added, looking challengingly at Dasher, anticipating a reaction but getting none.

Dasher looked extremely indignant about the whole situation. It was evident that Joey Costain's non-appearance was irritating him immensely. Even Dasher had better things to do in the evening than wait around in a cop shop. His problem was that the Costain family paid him good money, well over and above the normal rate, to represent them, so keeping them sweet was a necessity.

‘Perhaps you could give him a ring now and see where he is,' suggested Henry. ‘If he's not here by 8.15, he'll be circulated as wanted.'

Dasher opened his briefcase and pulled out his mobile phone. He left the ID suite, punching a number into it.

Byrne said, ‘I find it hard to be civil to people like him. Really annoys the life out of me.'

‘It's just business, isn't it? He's got a job to do and so have we. The catalyst is our prisoners.'

‘Suppose you're right,' Byrne said grudgingly. He did not look terribly convinced by Henry's liberal viewpoint. In his turn, Henry was not too surprised by Byrne's attitude. A lot of cops thought in very clearly defined terms of right and wrong, them and us, and often lost sight of the overall picture – a tableau which Henry knew was very murky indeed with no fine lines and lots of ambiguity. He had long since stopped trying to make any sense of it.

Dasher came back into the room, a forlorn expression on his face. ‘No reply.'

Henry nodded. It was close enough to 8.15 to call it a day.

‘Give them their money and send them on their way with our thanks,' he instructed Byrne cheerfully. More seriously he added, ‘And I'll go and see Mrs Roscoe.'

As he put on each piece of equipment, his shoulders became a little more rounded, sagging a fraction more as the weight pulled them down.

First the heavy stab vest went on over his shirt, then the black Gore-tex blouson, followed by the Batman-like thick black leather belt round his waist onto which he hung his side-handled baton, personal radio, CS canister, rigid handcuffs and mobile phone. He felt like he was going to topple over. He put on his inspector's flat cap – more comfortable and better padded than a mere sergeant's or PC's cap. More befitting such a high rank, Henry thought. It seemed the only perk going, a soft cap.

He had a look at himself in the mirror, aware that critical self-appraisal seemed to be the order of the day. He hoped he wasn't getting to be vain. He thought he resembled a New York street cop rather than a Lancashire bobby and it hit him quite hard that the traditional days of policing were long gone.

There was a sharp knock on the office door. Henry pulled his cap off quickly and tried to move away from the mirror, but was not fast enough. The door opened and Dermot Byrne came in. He just knew what Henry had been doing.

‘You'll get used to it,' he reassured Henry. ‘By the end of the night you'll hardly remember being a detective . . . it'll be a vague, distant memory.'

‘Won't be if I have my way,' Henry stated firmly. ‘Right,' he announced, businesslike, unconsciously coming to attention, drawing his heels together with a click. ‘As there's nothing of great importance for me in the custody office at the moment, I quite fancy a chauffeured ride out . . . see what's happening at the conference, then maybe we could have a look up on Shoreside and see what's bubbling. After that we'll nip up to casualty and see how things are panning out up there with our injured parties.'

‘Sounds good,' Byrne said.

‘And you can fill me in as to who's on duty, what's been going on around here and what's going to happen this week. I am so out of touch, it's unbelievable. I'm going to be relying on you for a few days, Dermot – and I don't mind admitting it.'

‘Yeah – no worries, boss.'

Henry was quickly getting to like Byrne. He seemed cool, capable and very much in control: the kind of sergeant who could be depended on. Byrne pointed to a black canvas duffel bag in the corner of the room. ‘Is that your public-order gear?' Henry nodded. ‘Best put it in the boot with mine, just in case.' Byrne picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

‘Let's go then and see what the streets of Blackpool have to offer.'

Feeling very self-conscious in all his gear, Henry walked alongside Byrne through the police station. They passed the report-writing room on the way in which a lone PC sat scribbling away at a statement.

‘Just a second, boss,' Byrne said. He swung into the room and the PC looked up. Henry continued to shuffle himself inside his uniform, taking little heed of the conversation. ‘John,' said Byrne, ‘sorry I didn't get a chance to welcome you back properly at parade.'

‘That's OK,' the PC said.

‘Good to have you back, anyway.'

‘Good to be back – a month of searching the Garden has sent me scatty,' he said.

‘At least you'll know the place well,' Byrne said.

‘Like the back of my hand.'

‘Anyway – see you later,' Byrne waved. He and Henry continued on their journey. ‘He's just done a month of pre-conference searching at the Winter Gardens,' Byrne felt the need to explain to his inspector.

‘Oh, right,' said Henry.

The conference security operation was very obvious and very high profile because this year it was the party in government holding its annual bash in town.

As Byrne drove north along the promenade, through what had become an extremely blustery, cold, wet night, Henry's sympathies were with the numerous uniformed officers drafted in from all over the county who were very much in evidence along the route. When they reached the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, the police presence was even more high profile, the hotel virtually surrounded by sodden, miserable-looking cops, all wearing high-visibility jackets.

The planning for the policing operation had actually been underway since the beginning of the year, but it was only since the previous Friday night that a ring of steel had been wrapped round the Imperial – the main hotel where government ministers, including the prime minister, were staying during the conference (which took place from Tuesday to Friday). The routes likely to be taken by VIPs from the hotel to the conference venue, and the venue itself – the massive Winter Gardens complex in the centre of Blackpool – had also been subject to the most rigorous security checks and searches.

‘It's a big one this year,' Henry commented. Over the last few years security had actually been scaled down, but this year had been one of those controversial ones which seemed to come to every government, when they seemed to upset everybody. The consequent threat level from many sources had therefore risen dramatically.

‘Yeah, tense on a lot of fronts this year,' Byrne said. ‘Irish peace talks fucked up as usual and the IRA have already hit a couple of targets on the mainland; the animal liberationists are up in arms about testing chemicals on hamsters, or something ridiculous . . . er . . .' Byrne was thinking ‘. . . the right wing has had a big resurgence recently – could be a big demo from them later in the week – the anti-capitalists have threatened some sort of action, too – all sorts of things happening. Could be an interesting week.'

Henry sat hunched, listening to his sergeant bringing him up to date with topics he should have really known more about. Although the policing of Blackpool was his main responsibility, as Burt Norman had made plain, he decided to make himself au fait with the strategic and tactical written orders issued for the conference. He was not naive enough to believe that the conference had nothing whatsoever to do with him. If something did happen it was more than likely that he and his shift would be called in to assist.

Byrne drove past the Imperial and up to the Gynn Square roundabout where they passed an armed response vehicle or ARV, whose occupants had stopped a suspect van. The firearms the officers were carrying were overt and very frightening.

‘Serious stuff,' Henry commented.

‘Yeah – four ARVs on the road twenty-four hours a day from now until Friday afternoon, instructed to be high profile and very proactive.'

Byrne negotiated the roundabout and doubled back along Dickson Road which ran directly behind the Imperial.

‘How many have we got out on nights this week?' Henry asked.

‘Four double-crewed cars and two pairs on foot in the town – which is pretty good going. Usually lucky to get five out, but all leave has been cancelled this week. It's Scale D, by the way,' he added, referring to the shift which was on duty.

Henry's eyebrows shot up. Scale D, hm? They had a reputation, well deserved, as a team of hard nuts who went in tough and asked questions later. They generated complaints by the bucket load. ‘Lucky me,' Henry mumbled. ‘Scale D. D for Death.'

‘The very ones . . . they're my shift now, for my sins.'

Henry peered at Byrne in the half-light, aware he and his sergeant hadn't been properly introduced to each other yet. Henry knew very little about Byrne's background, other than that he had transferred into Blackpool while Henry had been off sick. He was about to ask what Byrne's sins were when he looked out of the car and spotted someone he knew. ‘Hey – pull in next to that guy, will you?'

It was a constable, standing on a street corner, looking ultra-wretched, obviously glued to the point to which he had been assigned. Byrne slewed in and stopped alongside him. Henry wound down his window.

‘Dave – all right?' he called.

The officer peered suspiciously through the sheets of rain, seeing only the pips on Henry's shoulder and wondering what he was going to get a bollocking for this time. As he approached the police car his look of wariness turned to one of pleasure when he recognised Henry.

‘Bloody hell! What the fuck are you wearing?'

‘Pantomime gear. How the hell are you, mate?' Henry had joined the police at the same time as this guy back in the seventies when times had seemed so much simpler and more clear cut, when cops could get away with most things unpunished and juries believed them. They had been good mates for a short while back then, but had since maintained only irregular contact because their respective postings, shift patterns, job progressions and private lives had made anything more substantial an impossibility.

In reply to Henry's question, Dave lifted the palms of his leather-gloved hands to the downpour, ‘Other than this shite, I'm OK . . . but I'll tell you one thing –' He sidled up to Henry's window, leaned in and spoke with a conspiratorial air. ‘This must be the most important fucking point in the whole shagging operation.' He pointed down to the concrete pavement underneath his size eleven Doc Marten boots.

‘Why's that?' Henry had a smile on his lips, ready for the punchline.

‘Why the hell else would they put their best fuckin' officer on it and tell him to stay there, get wet through and not move on pain of death and discipline – and stay positive?'

Henry's smile became a chuckle. ‘You're obviously happy with your work.'

‘Normally – yes. But this? Fuckin' politicians! Why can't we just let the bastards get blown up? And it's all right for those twats, too – just look at 'em.' He nodded towards the rear gate of the Imperial Hotel car park where a sleek BMW saloon was pulling out onto Dickson Road. Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘They never get fucking wet, do they?'

As the BMW drove off towards Blackpool centre, Henry made out the figure of Assistant Chief Constable Robert Fanshaw-Bayley at the wheel. He was the Gold Commander of the whole operation for policing the conference – which meant he had overall responsibility and accountability. He had a front-seat passenger and there was a dark figure in the back of the car. Henry caught a profile of the front passenger and, with a jolt of surprise, recognised him.

‘Fanshaw-Bayley, the ignorant, arrogant twat,' Dave bleated. It was another remark Henry should have challenged. He didn't this time because he agreed with the sentiment expressed.

The constable's personal radio blared loudly, operating on a channel dedicated exclusively for the conference, separate from the normal radio channel used by Blackpool section patrols, the one to which Henry's set was tuned. The officer listened then acknowledged the message. He stepped back to Henry and pointed up to a CCTV camera high on a lamp post nearby. It was trained directly on them. ‘That message was for you. They say that even though this is a police car, you're not allowed to stop here and I'm not supposed to be chatting to you, so I've had a rollocking too. If you don't move, they'll get the bomb squad in to blow you up.'