But that was not his problem.
He drove hard and fast through the country roads behind HQ before joining the motorway and heading towards Blackburn for what seemed the millionth time in just a few short days. Throughout the journey he continually called Angela’s mobile but got no answer, which increased his agitation and concern.
He hated it when officers went to a job and then you didn’t hear from them.
Ninety-nine per cent of the time it was for a legitimate reason and sooner or later they came back on the radar.
It was that last percentage point that bothered him today. He wondered if Cranlow, in her eagerness to be hands-on, had been a bit reckless and not obeyed the golden rule of telling someone where you were, what you were doing and that you were OK when you’d done it.
Henry grimaced.
Even the most experienced made mistakes. The unfortunate thing was that sometimes those mistakes became banner headlines.
Or was he overreacting?
During the course of his journey he picked out the voice of Bill Robbins on the radio, his old friend he had faced the pit bull with. It seemed he was not working the Condoleezza Rice operation, but doing a general ARV patrol — much to his chagrin, Henry suspected.
Henry tapped Bill’s collar number into his PR and called him up, using the mobile phone facility.
‘Bill, Henry Christie … are you available to give me a chuck-up?’
‘Is there a dog involved?’
‘Hope not.’
‘In that case I’m free.’
Henry suggested an RV point at Blackburn police station in ten minutes. As his conversation with Bill ended, his own mobile rang.
‘Henry, it’s Jenny … got that address for you. Took a bit of doing, though. It’s only on the Special Branch system.’
Major relief flooded through Henry’s system.
Fifteen minutes later Bill Robbins and his partner for the day, the policewoman called Carly, were travelling behind Henry’s car towards Whalley Range, an area in Blackburn which is predominantly Asian. Henry had been there many times over the years, particularly in the late 1970s just after he had joined the force, when there had been a great deal of racial unrest caused by the activities of the extreme right-wing political party, the National Front.
As he turned on to Whalley Range, a long, narrow road, sided by terraced houses and various Asian shops just off Blackburn town centre, he noticed a lot of street activity, more than was usual. No doubt generated by the arrival in town later that day of the American Secretary of State. From the snippets he’d heard, Henry knew there was to be a protest at the town hall by the Muslim community later that day, and maybe the bustle on the street was connected to this. A visit to a local mosque had been called off because of fears that protesters would invade. There was a distinct buzz of tension and he saw many people stop and coldly watch the liveried ARV behind him.
Henry drove on, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. He wasn’t a cat amongst the pigeons any more; he was a cat tiptoeing through a dog pound.
The street he was searching for was just off Whalley Range, one of the myriad of tight terraces clinging to the steep hillside north of the town centre: Balaclava Street, a name to conjure with, one which gave a good idea of the time when it was built. They were all pretty standard, two-up, two-down, many now extended at the rear for a kitchen, and almost all the outside privvies demolished and the toilets now indoors, although some outside loos still did exist. The street reminded Henry of the one in Accrington into which he had led a PSU on a dawn raid that seemed an eon ago. A stroke of luck had saved him that day. He hoped he wouldn’t need such fortune again.
Still the questions lingered. Where was the dep? Where was Graeme? Henry had asked Blackburn comms to try and contact them, but there had been no reply. And still no reply from the dep’s mobile phone.
Henry pulled in on Randal Street, just before the junction with Balaclava Street, the ARV Ford Galaxy drawing up behind. He jumped out with the intention of speaking to Bill and Carly. Before he could open his mouth, all their personal radios interrupted.
‘Chief Constable to DCI Christie, receiving?’ FB’s gruff tones demanded over the airwaves.
Henry rolled his eyes. He knew that FB was at the helm of Condoleezza Rice’s visit today, that he was to be found at Blackburn nick, kicking everyone’s arses. ‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘I’ve been made aware of the situation, Henry … any developments?’
‘I’m just about to knock on a door.’ Henry gave FB the address.
‘Is there any reason why we should be concerned?’
‘Only in as much as communication has broken down and we can’t contact two officers.’
‘OK — do what you have to do … oh, have you got back-up?’
‘Yes — an ARV crew have joined me.’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘Roger.’ He regarded the two firearms officers. ‘I’m just going to go and knock on the door, just like I’m a cop knocking on a door. Can’t see any reason to do it any other way, except if you’ve got a spare ballistic vest in the back, I’d appreciate it.’
They did and he put it on. It was a new style vest, very light and flexible, giving just as much protection as the older, heavier vests; however, it didn’t stop a bullet to the head or the groin. He put his leather jacket over it.
‘If I’ve worked this out right, it’s up on the right. I’ll walk to it and you just stay here ready to rumble and I’ll see how the land lies. If I suspect anything’s amiss, I’ll yell. I don’t want to spook anybody unnecessarily.’
‘OK, Henry. What about tooling up?’ Bill asked.
‘Based on what?’ Henry replied. Bill shrugged, understanding that so far there was nothing to suggest that firearms were likely to be encountered — that anything was likely to be encountered, actually. He and Carly climbed out of the Galaxy and lounged against it, arms folded. Henry set off around the corner and up Balaclava Street, out of their sight.
The house looked no different than any of the others — and why should it? A front door, opening directly on to the footpath, with a living room window next to it, two windows above on the first floor. The curtains were all drawn. But nothing outwardly untoward.
Henry paused outside the door, holding his PR in his left hand and warrant card in his right. He banged firmly, using the bottom edge of his radio, waited. There was no response, so he banged again — harder. Still no response. As he was about to turn away and make to the back, there was a noise from inside and the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
His cop instincts, honed over many years of knocking on doors, tingled and told him to beware. Two experienced cops didn’t go missing for nothing. It was always the ‘routine’ jobs that took everyone by surprise.
There was someone behind the door. He could hear them. Then it opened an inch to reveal the eye of a man peering out across a security chain.
‘Hello,’ Henry smiled. ‘I’m DCI Christie from Lancashire Constabulary … I wonder if I could have a word, please?’ He held up his warrant card.
‘About what?’ Through the gap, Henry could make out the guy was of Asian background and appeared to be quite big.
‘I’d like to speak to Mansur Rashid, if he’s at home.’
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know him.’
Henry’s guts did one of those sick-inducing somersaults. He swallowed as he identified the first lie.
‘I’d still like a word.’ He moved slightly closer to the door and gave the eye he could see the evil eye from himself. ‘I won’t be going away,’ he added.