Henry’s attention returned to his report. ‘Typo,’ he said, sniffing, found a pen on Laker’s desk and added the missing letters of his name as neatly as possible.
‘Thought you might be getting ideas above your station,’ Laker commented as he took the amended report back between his finger and thumb and dropped it into his in-tray. ‘See what I can do.’
‘Sooner rather than later.’
‘It’ll be processed,’ Laker said with a shrug and Henry knew he had to back off. Pursuing the pen-pushing idiot too far would result in the request finding its way to the bottom of the pile — again and again.
‘Thanks.’ Henry swallowed and turned to leave just as the door to the chief constable’s office opened and the man himself appeared with one of the divisional commanders, the chief superintendent in charge of Blackburn division, their meeting having ended. They were having a bit of a chuckle at something, then shook hands. The divisional commander bade the office a grand goodbye, then left.
‘Right, good,’ said the chief. He turned, saw Henry — but looked right through him — and without saying a further word retreated into his cosy office, closing the door.
Henry’s nostrils flared. It was almost as though the guy didn’t know him. Twisting to Laker, he said, ‘Can I see him now?’
Laker shook his head, his supercilious eyes half shut, a slight grin on his lips. ‘Appointments.’
Suddenly the chief’s door reopened and the tubby incumbent poked his head out, bellowing across at Laker, who winced, ‘What’s next? Completely forgotten.’
‘Erm …’ Laker consulted his computer, tapping on the keyboard to bring up the chief’s electronic diary. Henry’s eyes zoomed in on the screen and even before Laker had seen it, Henry said, ‘It says “office”, sir,’ over his shoulder. ‘Next appointment half an hour.’
‘Right, ta.’
‘Henry,’ Laker growled warningly under his breath, sensing the next move.
‘So could I possibly bob in and have a quick word? Sir? If that’s not too presumptuous?’
He was unimpressed.
‘Downright bloody cheeky, not presumptuous,’ the chief constable corrected Henry, pointing him to the low leather sofa in his office with a flick of the finger. ‘This’d better be quick. I don’t do unannounced visits. Sit.’
The sofa was just comfortable enough. Not too soft so as to let someone sink into it, but just enough to lull them into a false sense of security. Henry sat, but didn’t lean back. Instead, his elbows were dug into his knees, his fingers loosely interlocked in front of him.
The chief sat on the arm of the leather chair opposite: management body language for ‘You’re not staying long, mate.’ A large, beech-framed, glass-topped coffee table divided the two men.
‘Well?’
There was a slight hesitation as Henry gathered together his thoughts, staring at the carpet. He hadn’t actually expected to be sitting across from the chief constable so PDQ and he didn’t want to blow it through lack of preparation. He pursed his lips and looked up.
Robert Fanshaw-Bayley — known as FB — was the chief constable of Lancashire Constabulary. FB was an affectionate term used by the people he hadn’t yet wronged. ‘That ’effin’ bastard’ was a phrase often bandied about by those leaving his company less than pleased with the result, ensuring that FB also stood for something not very nice. He had been a career detective who had risen surely through the ranks within Lancashire, clinching the helm of the organization following a short stint out of force.
He and Henry went back a long way and they had always maintained a less than healthy relationship, biased in favour of FB, who used Henry’s skills, often ruthlessly, to achieve results, then discarded him when it suited. Henry had once believed that FB quite liked him and he definitely had some good things to thank him for, but that belief had just been another example of Henry’s naivety. Since the incident with Dave Anger, when Henry had expected FB to be ruthless, the chief constable had actually dropped Henry like a handful of hot cat shit.
FB waited.
‘I just want to know what’s happening, that’s all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With me and Anger, of course,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m still holed up as a temp DCI in FMIT and he’s still the department head. He’s still running the show like nothing’s happened and I’m sat there with my thumb up my ring piece. My life is a bloody misery and I’ve done nowt to deserve it, except stand up to a bully. The only thing that’s kept me sane is the Trent trial.’
‘Well, you know’ — the chief twisted his head as though his neck was hurting, but Henry recognized it as a monstrous nervous tic — ‘these things move slowly.’
‘Boss — I’m the victim in all this and I’m the one on the ropes here. The guy who harassed me, damaged my car, is still my boss and now I’m starting to pick up the vibes that I’m the baddie in all this and that no one wants to know me.’
‘Henry — I feel like flicking your fat, blubbering bottom lip and making you go, blub, blub, blub like a babykins.’ FB’s face hardened. ‘You’ve got a whiney voice and you feel sorry for yourself — snap out of it!’
Henry bridled. Heat ran up his spine. He sat bolt upright. ‘I have the right to know what’s happening. No one has been in contact with me, no one at all. You and me go back one hell of a long way and I deserve something from you at least.’ Henry’s mouth tightened. ‘Have the divvy commanders rallied round him, the other chief supers? Am I screwed career-wise?’
FB shuffled uncomfortably, pulling at his collar, which was tight fitting around his plump neck. ‘The divisional commanders are a pretty influential lobby.’
Henry shook his head in disgust. He sat back, unable to conceal his cynicism. ‘And is it true about the footage I got of him trashing my car?’
FB’s body language began to leak like a drain, reinforcing Henry’s position even more. ‘Is what true?’ he croaked.
‘Unexplainably gone AWOL.’
FB looked away.
‘It bloody has, hasn’t it?’ Henry had only ear-wagged a rumour that the film he’d managed to obtain of Dave Anger merrily smashing his Mondeo to pieces had gone walkabout. There had been nothing confirmed about it — until now.
‘I’m afraid it has.’
‘Oh dear.’ Henry sighed.
‘These things happen.’
Henry slumped back on to the sofa, his face angled towards the ceiling. ‘Was anybody going to tell me officially?’
‘At an appropriate moment, of course, yes.’
‘I take it the mobile phone records are still intact?’ He was now referring to the phone company records of the text messages that Anger had sent him, mostly of a threatening nature.
‘They are.’
‘Well, that’s something.’ Henry chewed the inside of his cheek noisily for a while as though chewing the cud. ‘This ain’t going anywhere, is it?’
‘Probably not,’ FB said, pouting.
‘And what’s happened to my extra pip?’ He touched his shoulder. Now he was talking about the promotion to the substantive rank of chief inspector FB had promised him, which had never materialized. At the moment Henry was still temporary in the rank, which meant it could be taken away from him in the blink of an eye.
FB remained silent, cogitating, doing what chief constables do best — as little as possible. He stood up and thoughtfully paced the large office, pausing at the window to gaze blankly across the sports pitches that Henry had hurried across a few minutes earlier. He turned.
‘What exactly do you want out of this?’
‘It’s not about wanting something. It’s about principles. About seeing justice done,’ he spouted grandly. ‘A bit of belief that the organization actually does what it says in all those highfalutin policies about equal opportunities and fairness and all that — y’know, the drivel that’s being rammed down my throat across at the training centre right now. How can I be expected to “walk the talk”’ — Henry twitched the first two fingers of both hands to represent speech marks — ‘when I don’t have any faith in the firm itself?’