‘How’s she doing?’ Carradine asked her.
‘Fine — flat out — no problems yet.’
The DI nodded. He and Henry glanced through the door into the poorly illuminated cell. The prisoner was stretched out on the concrete bench/bed, lying face up, mouth open, snoring. Her own clothes, taken for forensic examination, had been replaced by a paper suit about ten times too big for her. She looked a slight woman in her late twenties, hardly capable of brandishing and using the size of knife Henry had seen embedded in her husband’s chest. However, he also knew what strength rage could bless on a person.
To the policewoman, Carradine said, ‘OK, keep vigilant. Never trust anyone accused of murder.’
‘Sure, boss,’ she responded with surly lack of interest, settled back with her magazine and started to flick through the pages.
‘Shall we talk it through?’ Henry suggested to the DI.
Carradine nodded and led Henry back through the cell complex, out through the custody office and up into his own cubbyhole of an office on the first floor of the building. There was freshly filtered coffee on the side, smelling wonderful. Carradine poured out two mugs of the steaming black gold.
Easing himself into a chair, Henry took a sip, then, over the rim of the mug, got straight to the point. ‘What’s gnawing away at your bones, Barry?’
‘What do you mean?’ he replied innocently.
Henry’s mouth twisted sardonically. He said nothing.
Carradine shrugged and kept up the pretence.
‘I think you know — the attitude.’
Carradine manoeuvred himself to his desk chair and sat down on it. He swivelled slowly around, stopping at 360 degrees and considering Henry. ‘All right,’ he relented. ‘You have severely pissed off a large number of detectives in this force by coming back from suspension and being given your sweet job back — and keeping your temporary promotion to boot! Quite a few people I know were chasing a job on the SIO team.’
‘You being one of them?’
Carradine’s narrow eyes seemed to hood over. ‘I’d been made a promise.’
‘By whom?’
‘Can’t say, but all I can tell you is that a lot of people think you’ve been given preferential treatment. Everyone knows you’re right up the chief’s arse. Pity there isn’t a competence in brown-nosing.’
Henry bridled, feeling his whole body shimmer. He reddened angrily and shifted on the chair. It took a lot of self-control to keep himself from banging the mug down and rising both physically and metaphorically to the bait. Instead, he tried to remain unaffected and calm — except for the redness, which he could do nothing about.
‘All I did was return to the job I left,’ he explained.
Carradine shook his head slowly, in disbelief. ‘Many, many people are not impressed,’ he insisted, sticking to his guns.
Henry cracked a little then and blurted, ‘In that case, a lot of people can go and fuck themselves.’ He winced inwardly as soon as he’d said it; not a turn of phrase designed to get ‘a lot of people’ on his side. Huffily, he said, ‘Shall we talk about the case in hand?’
Henry stumbled out of Burnley police station into the chill Pennine night. The briefing about the domestic murder had gone well, if a little coldly, after his and Carradine’s exchange of views about Henry’s predicament. As he slid back in the car, Henry grated his teeth and grimaced as he reviewed what the DI had said.
Henry had known that his return to work would be difficult. He had envisaged it many times in his mind. He knew that the detective fraternity was a close-knit but intensely competitive bunch of individuals who would have been eyeing his post up like salivating dogs — or a pack of hyenas — the stimulus being the SIO job and their response being their tawdry elbowing and kneeing to jockey themselves into position. Henry almost chuckled as he imagined the insistent lobbying and kow-towing that would have been going on whilst he was suspended.
Being a member of the SIO team was one of the plum detective jobs.
And Carradine had the audacity to accuse Henry of being up the chief constable’s backside.
However, it was only to be expected. Henry had been suspended for allegations of disobeying a lawful order and displaying judgement that was, to say the least, suspect. The resulting disciplinary action had been dropped and Henry exonerated, but he was intelligent enough to know one thing about cops: when mud got slung, some of it always stuck, usually in big clods.
He now had the difficult task of proving that the allegations that had been made against him were unfounded, not to a disciplinary panel but to his peers. Far more difficult.
In some respects it would have been better to have returned to a less prominent role, somewhere out in the sticks, but he was actually glad to be doing what he was doing. He felt very suited to the SIO role. Only thing was, there would be many out there only too ready to take a pop at him, not least the detective chief superintendent in charge of the SIO team, who simply did not want Henry on the squad.
Henry knew he would have to be meticulous in his approach. He would have to work to the book and yet get results — quick. He had a very tattered reputation to repair and it would not be easy pulling the threads together.
This was his sixth week back at work and it was still early days. He had dealt with two other domestic murders successfully and had been given a fifteen-year-old cold case to review. A fair proportion of his time had been spent working on the job he had foolishly got himself involved with whilst on suspension — one of the reasons why the detective super did not want Henry back on the team, because he suspected Henry of telling lies. That case was ongoing and still generating more questions than answers. It would be a long, drawn-out process before the horrible mess was anything like sorted.
In the six weeks he had also drawn the short straw in terms of night cover, having had to cover three weeks in that time. Henry saw this as a less than subtle message from the boss: don’t think for one moment you’re going to have an easy ride of it.
Yes, Henry had no illusions. He would be up against it for a long time. In the past this could easily have fazed him, but now, being physically and mentally balanced, he was up for the challenge. He felt so confident he believed he could take on the world.
Before setting off home, he spent a few moments ticking off a mental checklist to ensure he had done everything necessary; then, positive he had hit all the buttons, he started the car.
The first call came on his mobile just as he accelerated down the slip road on to the M65. Using his recently acquired ‘hands-free’ kit, he kept both hands on the wheel and complied with the law. ‘Henry Christie.’
‘Dave Anger.’
‘Hello, boss.’ Henry had been expecting the call. The Detective Superintendent checking up on him. Yes, he was expecting it, but on the other hand he wondered who had informed Anger that he had turned out to a job. No doubt Anger had secretly briefed the control room inspector to call him if Henry was mobilized. Anger would be eager to keep a close eye on the disliked new boy. . or was it that Henry was being paranoid?
Henry shrugged. Just because you are paranoid it doesn’t mean that people aren’t out to get you.
Anger skipped the pleasantries. ‘What’s the job?’
‘As if you don’t know,’ Henry wanted to say — but didn’t. ‘Domestic murder.’
‘Why haven’t I been informed?’
‘You obviously have been, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me,’ Henry said, too sharply. ‘Or are you just calling on spec?’