FB blinked theatrically, then looked at Henry as if he were dumb. ‘Fine words, noted … now what do you want out of all this?’
‘Anger to be dealt with. Him to suffer, not me.’
‘And in the real world?’
The words permeated into Henry’s noggin. He held up his hands in submission. ‘It’s quite obvious you don’t want the stink this would cause, making the organization look bad.’
‘Thing is,’ FB explained, ‘other than his minor problems with you, Dave Anger is the best head of FMIT yet. He’s respected and liked by the divvy commanders and his clear-up rate is excellent. Everyone who works for him likes him … but then again, not every one of them has screwed his wife.’
‘It was a drunken one-night stand over twenty-five years ago and she wasn’t even his wife then,’ Henry bleated. ‘They weren’t even going out with each other.’
‘I know, I know … I just didn’t expect the kind of backlash that came with all this, OK?’
‘All right,’ Henry said, taking in the reality of the situation and the invertebrate in front of him, ‘what do I want? Substantive DCI … somewhere other than FMIT, say Major Crime … otherwise I’ll be knocking on the doors of the federation’s solicitors with my tale of woe and I’ll drag this whole thing through an employment tribunal, the press and maybe the court. The local rag loves dishing the dirt on us.’
‘Henry,’ the chief declared, ‘I always knew you were a cunt.’
‘And I always knew you were one, too. Sir.’
They came out of the office, all smiles and handshakes for the benefit of the chief’s entourage.
‘How’s the trial progressing?’ FB asked. ‘I know it constantly makes the papers, but I only get a chance to glance.’
‘They’ve had a break this week … the final summing-up begins next Monday. Hopefully verdicts by the end of the week. Looks good, though.’
The trial at Preston Crown Court of Louis Vernon Trent had been going on for six weeks and Henry had been present every single day. Trent stood charged with the murder of several young children and a police officer, amongst many other serious matters. The trial had attracted massive media attention across the world. Henry had been involved in Trent’s arrest and had spent the bulk of his time leading up to the trial ensuring that the complex case was watertight — and the proof was now in the pudding. As difficult and challenging as it had been putting the case together, Henry was convinced Trent would be spending the rest of his misery-causing life behind bars, unless he escaped, something he had a knack for.
‘Good stuff, but he really deserves to be hung,’ FB said, patting Henry on the shoulder and opening the door which led out into the corridor, ushering him out with an ‘I’ll let you know about things, but don’t harass me for a while, OK?’ Just before he closed the door, Henry caught sight of the new deputy chief constable, Angela Cranlow, emerging from her office. It was the first time he had ever seen her in the flesh and he was quite taken aback, but didn’t get much chance for a lengthy appraisal as FB’s hand in the middle of his back propelled him out like a drunk being ejected from a bar into an alley.
He exhaled and rubbed his face, turned and walked towards the stairs as his mind tumbled over what had just taken place in FB’s office. He was only vaguely aware of the door reopening behind him and the quick approach of footsteps — then a hand on the shoulder.
It was Chief Inspector Andy Laker — bag carrier extraordinaire.
‘Henry,’ he growled low, ‘don’t you ever do anything like that to me again. I can see why you’re a pariah. You are a loose cannon and you need putting out to grass.’
With disdain, Henry peeled Laker’s fingers off his shoulder and flicked them away. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, proud of his well thought out retort. ‘And another thing’ — Henry turned and stepped menacingly towards Laker, making the smaller man step nervously back — ‘don’t mix your metaphors. It doesn’t suit you.’
With that, he spun away, leaving the staff officer speechless in the corridor, his mouth popping like a grounded fish.
Henry could not quite face going back to the classroom and being bombarded with race and diversity, particularly as the theme of the day was gender issues, including transsexuals, transvestites … trans-everything, most of which just made him angry. The race stuff had been quite interesting, all about Islam and religion, but men becoming women, or wearing women’s clothing other than in a pantomime? It made his blood boil. It was like most things these days. He felt like he had become an angry old man and it didn’t feel good.
Instead he meandered down to the HQ canteen and was just in time to rescue two sausages and wrap them in bread before breakfast time ended. Then, with a strong coffee he found a table in the corner of the room, and sat, observed and pondered as the food and drink calmed his soul.
With the dubious expectation that he was about to meet and be treated to the tale of woe of a man who had undergone a sex change operation and been discriminated against as a result — boohoo, Henry thought — he made his way back to the training centre with a heavy heart, wondering in a very un-PC way where they managed to unearth such people who were happy to be wheeled out in front of a class of cynical cops to face a barrage of nooky questions. He guessed a nice, fat daily rate helped to grease the wheels.
The footpath across the sports pitch carried on through the pleasantly wooded grounds of the centre, past the FMIT block, which he had no intention of visiting. Even his training course had more allure than that.
As he rounded the corner of the block, he ran into Dave Anger emerging from the front door, pulling on his jacket. They almost collided face to face, but managed to stop a foot apart.
Henry’s heartbeat moved up a pace.
‘Henry,’ Anger said. At least the guy looked as rough as a dead badger, with dark circles under his eyes, his skin a deathly pallor, his lips drawn and scrawny.
‘Dave.’ Henry didn’t bother with a ‘sir’ or anything approaching respect. ‘I’ve just been to see the chief.’
‘I know — that’s where I’m going now.’
‘To discuss yours truly?’
‘Don’t think you’re that important, pal,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll get round to you if we need a laugh.’
‘Funny about those tapes going missing,’ Henry said.
Anger’s eyes narrowed behind his small round glasses. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said with a twitch of his shoulders which looked like someone had just walked over his grave.
‘Course not.’
‘Anyway — excuse me.’
‘Certainly.’
Anger grimaced a tight smile and eased past Henry on the narrow path.
‘By the way,’ Henry couldn’t resist calling. Anger’s shoulders drooped visibly. He turned, a hateful expression on his face.
‘What? You want to rub it in? How good she was?’
Henry crinkled his nose. ‘Nah … I don’t even remember it … is that worse?’ he asked, although he was fibbing. One could hardly forget having sex with a randy young policewoman on the bonnet of the commandant’s car at the regional training centre. Not an experience easily erased from the mind. ‘No, it’s not about that.’
‘What then?’
‘D’you think I’d be daft enough not to have a copy of the tape?’ With a smirk of triumph, Henry continued his journey back to the classroom, hoping Anger would stew, even though it was a lie. He didn’t have a copy.
The graphic details of the sex change operation — including a toe-curling PowerPoint presentation — made Henry squirm and cross his legs like most of the other guys in the room. The ladies seemed to be revelling in the male discomfort, whilst the speaker, the one who had undergone the op, was very blase about the whole thing.