‘ He’s like a dog with two dicks,’ Gallagher said triumphantly.
‘ Good. I thought he would be. The guy has difficulty keeping his keks up, apparently, where there’s the slightest possibility of getting his end away. What about the other areas we discussed? We need to force those issues as soon as.’
Gallagher nodded. He floated a couple of ideas past his boss who immediately approved them.
The briefing which followed was very detailed, professional and thorough. Henry did not like Gallagher for some reason, but he was impressed by the way in which he had planned and delivered the meat and bones of ‘Operation Cabal’.
No reason was given as to why the operation was so-called, and Henry did not ask. Nor did he actually know what the word ‘cabal’ meant. He made a mental note to look it up when he got home, whenever that would be.
An hour after starting Gallagher was winding up. ‘OK, that’s about it, men,’ he announced, failing to include the four women present in the room, three being members of the firearms team. ‘Because we’ve all been on duty for almost eight hours already, the Operation will commence proper at 6 a.m. tomorrow. This is to ensure you all get a good night’s sleep, because it may go on for a very long time indeed. Don’t be surprised if you’re working fourteen-hour shifts — or more — once we’re up and running. We’ll do it until we catch them. So tell those loved ones at home. Right, any questions?’
There were none.
‘ Good. You must be in your ob points at 6 a.m. — so be there.’ His face broke into a smile. ‘Now go home, get some quality sleep and be ready to roll. That’s it, folks! Henry, chats please.’
With Siobhan at his side, Henry made his way over to Gallagher, who handed him a small laminated business-size card. It was an authorisation to carry firearms.
Henry was stunned. He blinked. ‘But I haven’t carried a gun for nearly two years and I certainly haven’t kept up my shooting skills.’
‘ Don’t worry,’ said Gallagher. ‘Needs must. You’ll be OK. I want you to go back with Siobhan to our offices in Blackburn where you can sign a weapon and a radio out and get some body armour from our store. You’re almost one of us now, so you might as well use our equipment. You need to be armed for this thing, Henry. We’re dealing with some real nutters here and I want everyone protected properly who’s likely to come into first contact with them.’
One of those quivers of unease shimmered through Henry. The thought of a gun. Last time he’d held one in his hand he’d killed somebody. Deliberately. An act of self- defence.
He swallowed and stared at the firearms authorisation, dated that day and signed by the Chief Constable.
Boy, this squad really had some clout.
The offices of the North-West Organised Crime Squad were situated in what could loosely be described as the ‘red light’ district of Blackburn, just off the main town centre in the area bounded by King Street and appropriately enough, Mincing Lane. They were offices which had originally been used by the Lancashire Constabulary Traffic Department, before over the years becoming home to a series of specialised police units until eventually the NWOCS moved in.
Money had been spent on modernising and refurbishing the rundown array of buildings, which had proved an ideal location for the unit, providing office space, secure parking and a reasonably centralised location in the north-west.
Siobhan drove Henry from Blackpool in appallingly grim, wet weather, which as they went further east towards the Pennines, turned to sleet.
Despite the rain, several prostitutes were in evidence, walking the streets in totally inappropriate gear — high heels, short skirts, low-cut tops. Whatever the weather, business had to be done.
In the early part of his service Henry had spent a few years in Blackburn. He knew the area well and was surprised to see so little change. The district was still bleak, poorly lit and slightly seedy, just as it had been way back.
Blackburn was the only town in Lancashire that had a problem with streetwalkers and their customers. Fortunately, the red-light district was situated where there were few residents to annoy.
Siobhan pulled off King Street down an unlit, badly-surfaced side street and stopped at a reinforced gate with a barbed-wire top. She opened her window and ran a swipe card through a machine, tapped a three-digit number on a key pad and the gates swung open with a clatter. She drove in. Security lights came on and flooded the car park with bright white light.
On one side was a triple garage with a couple of offices above. On another side was the main building where the majority of offices were to be found. The other two sides of the car park were high walls.
Siobhan led Henry to the main building and after tapping in another number, this time of six digits, on a key pad, she pushed the door open. Once inside, the warning beeps of a burglar alarm pinged out. She went to the alarm control box in the hallway and tapped in yet another sequence of numbers. The pinging stopped.
‘ Goes straight to Blackburn police station, the alarm,’ she explained. She ran the side of her hand down a pad of light switches. The interior of the building came alive and four strategically placed permanent outer lights came on too. ‘Welcome to our humble little abode,’ she said, opening her hands in a theatrical gesture. ‘Come on through.’
She took him up a set of stairs and along a landing. ‘Tony’s office, that one,’ she said, passing a closed door. She turned next left into a large, fairly open-plan office. It had been completely updated since Henry had last seen it nearly twenty years ago. The range of desks, PCs, filing cabinets and lumbar-friendly chairs was impressive. Police offices were usually kitted out with tatty furniture, broken chairs, telephone lines crossed dangerously all over the place… a Health and Safety nightmare. Not this place. There was even a coffee machine and a pure water dispenser.
‘ Nice,’ remarked Henry, pouting with admiration.
One thing which resembled police offices everywhere was the phenomenal amount of paper stacked everywhere in baskets, and the walls which were plastered with notes, intelligence bulletins, photographs of crims and all sorts of other non-essential rubbish.
‘ This is where our team hang out,’ Siobhan explained. ‘The other team are downstairs.’
‘ You’ve got two teams?’ Henry asked, surprised. She nodded. ‘Why’s that? I thought it was all one big happy family.’
‘ Oh, we’re all happy enough, there’s just two teams,’ she shrugged.
Henry accepted the fact with a nod. He wasn’t about to question it. At least he was on the same team as Siobhan Robson.
‘ This is where Geoff Driffield sat.’ She pointed to the only desk devoid of paper. ‘I… er, suppose it’ll be yours when you get on the squad.’
Henry gave a short laugh at the assumption. The phrase ‘Dead men’s Doc Martens’ sprang to mind. However, it looked a nice desk. Dead man’s desk. And it hadn’t taken them long to clear it. What a damned ruthless organisation the police is, he thought.
‘ That’s the radio cupboard.’ She waved in the direction of a large steel cabinet in one corner of the office. ‘Here’s the key. I’ll just go and get you a bulletproof vest. They’re kept in the store over the garage. Book yourself a radio and a couple of charged batteries out.’
She swished away. Henry heard her footsteps fading down the corridor, then the stairs, the front door slamming. He walked to the office window which overlooked the car park and watched her cross to the garage.
He unlocked the radio cupboard, assembled a PR and grabbed a couple — of extra batteries. He knew what it was like to be unable to transmit because of dud batteries, and he had promised himself he would never be caught out again.
As with all police equipment, there was a book to record Issue and Return; he opened it and signed out the radio.