He could still feel the kick-back of the big revolver in his hands, smell the cordite in his nostrils, and half-wished he had the Magnum in his possession to see how well he could double-tap live targets. I’d give them a head start, he thought sportingly, then hunt them ruthlessly down.
He twitched as his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He sneaked it out and glanced at the newly arrived text message asking him to contact the force incident manager regarding a murder which had just been reported. He didn’t want to jump for joy that some poor unfortunate person had been killed, but at least it got him out of this purgatory, because if he stayed there was every chance there would be a gender-bender-related murder.
Three
Six months later
As much as Henry Christie had been assured at the 3 a.m. briefing that his task, his responsibility, during the operation — codenamed ‘Enid’ — was probably the one with the least chance of risk associated with it, he could not help but feel just a little bit excited.
It had been stressed that his role was peripheral to the main operation and, more subtly, that he was there only to make up numbers; it was just that they needed someone of his rank to help out and because chief inspectors were thin on the ground for various reasons; the corporate barrel had been scraped and Henry had been found lurking in a crack like an ugly germ.
Obviously that had not been said out loud at the briefing, but Henry knew this to be the case. He had been called in because no one more suitable — preferable — was available and they needed someone of his rank to hang the blame on should something in his corner of the op go tits up. The ‘no blame culture’ that had been bandied about a few years before was now a dead duck, floating feet up in the water. Today’s climate of fear and failure in policing definitely needed scapegoats, hence Henry’s presence. If it all went well, then he wouldn’t even get mentioned in dispatches. It was one of the things that came with being someone who was considered too hot to handle, someone who nobody even wanted to be near enough to cattle-prod away.
But for once, Henry couldn’t care less, because for the first time in an eon, he was feeling enthusiastic.
It came not from the minor role, but from the feeling that had made being a cop so worthwhile throughout his long, often tortuous career. Here he was, sitting in a scruffy, battered police personnel carrier, kitted up to the eyeballs in protective equipment like a Jedi knight, in the dead of night, amongst a feral gang of Support Unit officers who belched, swore, farted, laughed and joked, and didn’t give a rat’s scrotum whether or not Henry was a chief inspector, because they knew they were good, the best. They knew their job and as soon as they stepped out of their van, they would leave the childishness and inappropriate behaviour behind and become cold, ruthless and professional whilst performing their allocated task. He’d once been on Support Unit and had been just the same.
It was 4 a.m. now. An east Lancashire dawn was just around the corner. The streets of Accrington were damp and silent and a dozen hairy-arsed bobbies were raring to go on the word of command.
What could be better than this?
Henry was back at the razor sharp end after months of lying fallow. A wonderful sensation. Out playing with the lads ’n’ lasses (there were two female officers in the back of the van and the rather butch sergeant next to him), just waiting for the nod via his earpiece. It was something he didn’t do enough of these days, rarely getting the chance to grubby-up his hands with day-to-day policing.
The buzz was incredible.
Just sitting in the front of the van on the bench seat with the sergeant squeezed between him and the driver. Biding time. When every other non-crim soul was tucked up in bed asleep, he was out on the streets.
He was even in uniform, wearing his public order overalls — which, if he was honest, he’d had to cram himself into, steel toe-capped boots and a flat uniform cap with the chequered band. The chief inspector’s model, of course, with a bit more padding for the brain than the plebs of lower rank were issued with. However, no matter what sort of police cap he wore, he always thought he looked more like a bus conductor because, for the sake of comfort, he always wore it tipped on the back of his head.
Here they were, waiting for the signal, all systems go.
Despite the air of flatulence, Henry could not mask his smile. In the next few minutes, a collection of size eleven boots and heavy metal, double-handed door openers would combine as his team for the night ‘front-and-backed’ a terraced house and then, as the doors flew off their hinges, they would pour in like wolves. Around the division, half a dozen similar raids were being choreographed concurrently, one of them being a fully armed incursion.
Terrorism was in the neighbourhood and this was the police response to it.
Henry’s smile became grim. How the world had changed, he thought sadly, wondering what would greet his team as they roared into the target address. His smile changed again, this time becoming twisted and sardonic, when he realized that if his one and only fleeting experience with the Security Services was anything to go by — and it seemed that most of the intel for Operation Enid (who the hell chose that name?) had come from MI6 — Henry’s raid could go one of a number of ways. Either it could be spot on as promised, or it could be completely the wrong address, or, worst case scenario, they’d barge into a highly dangerous terrorist cell hiding out in a booby-trapped house and get themselves either blown up, or shot to bits.
‘Excuse me, boss,’ the sergeant next to him said, interrupting his thoughts, ‘but are you OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah, why?’
‘It’s just you had a bit of a strange look on your face, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine.’ Henry folded his arms, tilted his head back and tried to relax. There was no point in fretting about anything now. What would be would be. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through flared nostrils, exhaling slowly and thought, with more than a trace of bitterness, that whilst he was excited to be involved in Operation Enid, the reality was he would have much preferred attending the scene of some grisly murder or other. That was what he really loved doing. He truly believed he had found his niche as a senior investigating officer after years of bouncing around in various detective roles, but other people had other ideas. Obviously.
He was as sure as he could be that he had investigated his last murder.
And that irked him personally, because the key word was ‘investigated’, not ‘solved’. He hadn’t come anywhere near solving it, hadn’t even started investigating it properly.
He uttered a snort of contempt without meaning to, which he covered up with a cough when he opened his eyes and squinted at the sergeant, who was still giving him curious looks.
‘Sure you’re OK, boss?’
‘Yep, yep, fine.’
She regarded Henry as if he were strange.
The uncontrollable snort had been uttered as he had thought about that last murder six months earlier and how things had changed for him in the intervening time …
When he had discourteously flounced from the Race and Diversity training course, he had been eager to get to the scene of the murder, even though he had only the sketchiest of details. Because he believed he had been sidelined and given only dross to do, he was desperate to grab this one by the throat and make it his. He knew he had to get in there quick, take charge and stomp his identity on to the front of the policy book. If he dallied he knew there was the probability of some more favoured detective being handed the job by Dave Anger. He needed to ensure a fait accompli.
He had traded in his trusty Ford Mondeo after Dave Anger had trashed it and bought an almost new Rover 75, which was slotted into a tight space at the far end of the training centre car park. He rushed across the tarmac in a very ungentlemanly fashion, before manoeuvring it out of its spot and speeding out of the headquarters complex, slowing only for the road humps on the drive.