Bad Tidings (21 page)

He had scooped up the cordless handset and introduced himself, but not in his wildest dreams could he have guessed the content of the call. He'd thought maybe the Nissan had been found, or Terry Cromer had walked into a nick with his hands held high . . . something along those lines.

It was the on-duty FIM, a guy he knew well, hence the informality of his ‘Sorry to bother you, Henry . . .'

He was dressed and ready to go within five minutes, during which time Alison made him coffee, found the unused flask and filled it. They managed a peck on the cheek as Henry rushed to his car, grim faced.

Her ‘Take care, love' was all but lost on him as he jumped into the Audi, reversed off the drive with a tyre squeal. The words ‘Shit, shit, shit' spouted repeatedly from his lips. He didn't even glance back at Alison as he slammed the car into gear and sped away.

There was no short cut to this destination.

Within a minute he was tearing eastwards – towards the reluctantly approaching dawn – along the M55, touching one hundred, sipping his coffee and keeping an ear to his PR, tuned into the appropriate channel. He didn't expect to hear too much over the air about this particular incident, but they knew he was on his way and he'd given instructions that he be kept up to date with any developments.

At the end of the M55 he bore south onto the M6, then exited at junction 31, which spanned the River Ribble, the well-known landmark of the Tickled Trout hotel across to his right on the southern bank. Here, many years before, he'd risked his own life whilst trying to rescue school kids from a submerged bus that had been blown off the bridge into the river. It was an incident that still haunted him occasionally, especially during the dark times. Mostly it was boxed away, compartmentalized.

He took the A59 towards Blackburn, then bore left, still on that road, towards Clitheroe, speeding down the long, straight stretch of road past BAE Systems at Salmesbury. He was aware of the flash of the English Electric Lightning fighter jet positioned on display at the factory gates. The best fighter plane ever, it was often claimed, never to have seen active service. It still looked the business.

The speedo touched a hundred again on that stretch, before he braked for the next roundabout, then accelerated away again, without being daft enough to chance the Gatso speed camera in the forty zone.

At the junction with Ribchester Road, he jumped the red light and turned left towards the old Roman fort. He continued to push his excellent car down the now winding country roads, which he knew well from years gone by. The area held happy teenage memories for him and as he passed the large detached country house that, way back, had been the Lodestar Club and Disco, he gave a quick salute to its memory. He had been in the tiny audience for the first ever English gig of Bob Geldof's Boomtown Rats and had also seen the Sex Pistols there. He had had the privilege of being gozzed on by Johnny Rotten. A night to treasure. He hadn't washed for three days after.

The road descended sharply and he slowed right down to negotiate the narrow bridge spanning the River Ribble. Further on he made a tight right into Gallows Lane – highly appropriate, he thought – and as the road rose and dawn came more quickly, he could see the verdigris-coated copper turrets of Stoneyhurst College. He sped through the village of Hurst Green, along more tightly winding roads, until he reached his destination of Lower Hodder Bridge and the three police cars pulled into the side of the road in a lay-by just prior to the bridge. Henry drew in behind the last car and got out after one more mouthful of his still hot coffee. The travel mug had been a good buy after all, he thought.

A uniformed constable scurried up to him. ‘Mr Christie?'

‘That's me. What's happening?'

‘There.' The PC pointed. ‘He wants to talk to you.'

Parallel to and about fifty metres south of the road bridge was another bridge spanning the River Hodder. This triple-arched structure dated back to Roman times and had once been part of the road connecting Ribchester to Clitheroe and beyond, into the wild and dangerous tribal lands. Now it had crumbled; although still a wonderful piece of engineering and construction, it was nothing more than a passing tourist attraction. It was wide enough to walk over, but there was no access for the general public, with high metal gates at each end, though anyone determined enough could easily get onto it.

The person with enough determination in this case was Bill Robbins, who not many hours before had shot someone to death in the line of duty. Bill had scaled or managed to shuffle around the gate with his dog and was now sitting at the middle of the central arch, his feet dangling in mid-air, some twenty feet above the rushing water below.

With a double-barrelled shotgun laid across his lap, his dog by his side.

There was enough light in the day now for Henry to see Bill clearly. He jumped over a low wall and trudged up to the gate, which had been unlocked by the landowner and was guarded by the patrol sergeant.

‘Boss.'

‘Mornin', Sarge.' Henry gave a desolate shrug.

‘He wants to talk to you, but I've also turned out the on-call negotiator, if you don't mind.'

‘No probs.'

They were far enough away from Bill to have a conversation he could not overhear because of the running water below.

‘Has he threatened anyone?'

‘No – just insisted on talking to you, face to face. But he did tell us to keep back or he'd do it.'

‘Do what?'

The sergeant pressed the fingertips of his first two fingers of his right hand up into the soft flesh underneath his chin.

‘Oh shit.' Henry knew then that, whatever the outcome, Bill really had had his last day on firearms. There was no pulling back from a suicide threat. ‘Whose gun is it?'

‘His own. He's a licensed shotgun holder. Does a lot of rough shooting around here, I believe.'

Henry glanced across to the road, where an ambulance arrived and stopped behind his Audi. ‘Block the road, divert all traffic. I don't want any gawkers or distractions, Sarge.'

‘Will do.' The sergeant hesitated.

‘Now,' Henry urged him, and he set to his task. Henry peered through the gate at Bill. Since he'd arrived, Bill had not looked over once, so Henry didn't even know if he realized he had arrived. He simply sat there, head bowed, peering down at the river through his legs.

Henry settled himself about four feet away from Bill on the edge of the bridge, the stone cold and damp, legs dangling. It may not have been the highest bridge in the world, but sitting on it, looking at the water, it seemed a long way down.

Bill had not moved or acknowledged him. The dog, a black Labrador, watched him suspiciously, however.

‘Bill,' Henry said.

‘You came.' Bill still didn't move, his gaze fixed at a point on the water below.

‘Course I did.'

‘I'm not sure if I can take this again.'

Henry watched him. The profile of a man he had known for a long time, who he'd always thought of as rock steady. Clearly Henry had no idea of the secret turmoil Bill had been through after the last occasion he'd pulled a trigger and taken someone's life. Henry believed he had done everything in his power for his old friend, but the closed door of Bill's mind, now ajar, revealed that Henry hadn't seen a fraction of what had been going on in there. He was under the impression Bill had coasted through it, that all he had been bothered about was not shooting well enough.

‘You have no idea how shitty it was,' Bill said. He looked sideways at Henry. ‘Completely out on a limb, everyone always suspecting you were lying, everything you said being challenged and that you were covering up the truth.'

‘You were exonerated, Bill. I know it was a tough time.' Henry had also been through the ringer. ‘But you hung in there like you had to, and the truth did come out. You used your weapon lawfully, as you did this time. No one said it would be a walk in the park if you ever had to use your gun, nobody promised you that.' Henry knew he was being blunt. He hoped it was the best way. ‘And you were reinstated, Bill, which showed how much faith the force had in you.'

‘Doesn't stop it being the shittiest part of my life, Henry. It turned me into an arsehole at home, nearly split me and the missus up. I ended up on bloody Prozac, for fuck's sake. Two weeks of that and you could watch a bulldozer flatten your house and you'd just shrug your shoulders and say so what.'

Henry did not know about the antidepressants. Nor, he thought, did anyone else.

‘I can't go through it again, H. Not least because I've killed another man. He was a shit, but he was still a bloke . . . what was it Clint Eastwood said? Uh, when you kill a man you take away everything that he ever had and everything he's gonna be . . . something like that. He could've turned out to be a community worker.'

‘You can't go down that road, Bill. He would have shot you and me and that was the equation at the time. He'd already killed one man, then another in front of us. His blood was running hot and he got what he deserved, and you acted lawfully.'

‘Honest, I never thought I'd ever have to face a gunman again,' Bill went on wistfully, as if he hadn't heard Henry. ‘Not really. I mean, what are the odds? Loads of firearms jobs come in, but they're mostly crap . . .' His voice trailed off.

Henry squinted at him.

Bill said, ‘You know what it's like, don't you? The weight you have to carry around with you . . .'

‘Yes, I know. Taking a man's life is the toughest call of all, but your life goes on and you have to deal with it professionally and emotionally.'

Bill's head snapped around. ‘Are you saying . . .?'

‘I'm saying I know how it feels. I know the temptation is to let it all go to rat shit because the effort to keep on an even keel is so very hard. But, Bill, it's happened. You did the right thing. I saw you do the right thing. I heard you do the
right thing. There was no alternative. He gave you no choice. Now it's down to you to deal with it. OK, yeah, you go through shit up here' – Henry tapped his head – ‘and at work and in the justice system, but you keep your focus, your dignity, your belief, your professionalism and your life. You seek help if you need it – me, the welfare department, counselling, whatever . . . and you look ahead.'

‘I know the IPCC already want to stitch me up. They said I should be locked up.'

‘Yeah, and guess what? The force said bollocks.' Henry paused. ‘We will be with you, Bill, I promise. I've already spoken to the chief constable and he's completely supportive—'

‘Oh, yeah, right . . . until the politics get too tough.'

‘Nah.' Henry shook his head. ‘As much of a twat as FB is, he'll stick by you. He will,' Henry affirmed gently. ‘And so will I, so will your department.'

‘Which I'll get booted off.'

Henry could not argue that one. ‘I'll see you right,' he promised. ‘And I'm not just saying that to get you off here, though my bum is wet and cold. You know me. I keep my word.'

‘You struggled last time. You couldn't get me a full-time job on FMIT.'

‘That's because of how the department is set up,' Henry came back, slightly cross despite himself.

Bill nodded. ‘OK.'

‘And I won't promise to get you on this or that department this time. You know I can't . . . but I'll do my best for you.'

Bill continued to nod.

‘So what are you going to do now?'

‘I'm screwed with guns, aren't I?'

‘Do you want the truth or a fabrication?'

‘I can handle the truth.'

‘Then yes . . . and that includes your own shotgun certificate.'

A huge sigh rattled through Bill's chest. He raised his face to the dawn sky.

‘Give me the gun, Bill.' Henry reached over for the shotgun and took it from Bill's grip.

C
onsummate professional that he was, no one would have guessed that Detective Superintendent Henry Christie had only had two hours' sleep in the last twenty-four.

He was back at work at 12.30 p.m., after having got home just before ten that morning and dropped like a block of lead into bed. He had been sensible enough to set his alarm, and as soon as he had done that and snuggled down into bed, alone, and assumed his number one sleeping position – on his right side, left leg drawn up, hands clasped together under his pillow – he fell asleep instantly. When the alarm clock woke him he felt more drained than ever, could easily have turned over and gone back to sleep.

He dragged himself unwillingly into the shower, trying to keep the water from swilling away the butterfly strips that Alison had applied to his head wound, yet wanting the powerful hot water jets to massage life back into his dead face.

His reflected image in the shaving mirror almost made him want to smash the glass with his fist. Then he realized he probably didn't look much worse than normal – an unedifying insight. He looked old and haggard. His eyes were heavily bagged, bloodshot and red raw in the corners. He raised his chin and rubbed his neck, feeling where Freddy Cromer had attempted to throttle him last night. It hurt more now than it did at the time, or perhaps he just hadn't had time to notice it previously. It had all got just a bit frenetic afterwards, and the attempted strangulation seemed tame in comparison to the events that followed.

He shaved and applied moisturizer, something he'd only recently and reluctantly begun to do as his face started falling apart. Then he dressed casually and went downstairs.

Jenny and Leanne were in the kitchen. Lisa was nowhere to be seen and he already knew that Alison had gone back to Kendleton. It was going to be a busy day at the Tawny Owl. It was a special curry day and every table had been pre-booked throughout the day. Henry hoped to be able to make it later. The chef's Indian food was as authentic as it could be without him actually being from the sub-continent, and Henry always hated the thought of missing out on a good curry.