‘ Quick chat, Henry.’ Someone put some money in the jukebox and loud music began to pound. FB leaned towards Henry’s right ear. ‘Just want to bring you up to date with Rupert Davison.’
In the scheme of things, Davison had receded to mean nothing to Henry. In fact, he had virtually forgotten the man. However, he feigned interest in what FB was saying.
‘ Suspended on full pay,’ the ACC informed him. ‘Big internal enquiry going on — the missing interview tapes and all that. Apparently the rubber heel squad’ — by which FB meant Complaints and Discipline — ‘did a telephone check on him for the night you got blown out of the water by Elphick. Davison made a call to Gary Thompson’s mobile number. Obviously we don’t know what was said, but it’s pretty incriminating; and there’s also video tape footage of him stealing the tapes from the Custody Office, from the camera in there, so the Custody Sergeant’s in the clear and Rupert’s in the shit. Add that to what he said to you in the LEC and I think he’s for the high-jump.’
‘ And no doubt he’ll end up getting a slap on the wrist and a transfer to some piss-easy office job,’ Henry growled bitterly.
‘ You’re such a cynic, Henry. Anyway, don’t be surprised if you get called as a witness against him at some stage.’
‘ I won’t. Thanks for letting me know, boss.’
FB took a swig of one of his drinks. ‘By the way…’ He tapped his nose. ‘I got to see the full post-mortem report of DS Furness.’ He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘Secret’s safe with me.’ He gave Henry a big wink, stood up and walked away.
Kate Christie hated using lavatories in public houses, but at least the cubicle she entered was clean. As she locked the flimsy door and sat down, she heard two women come into the toilets. She did not recognise their voices, but it was obvious they were part of the police contingent from Blackpool, probably two policewomen. They had come in to freshen up, not to pee, and they stood at the wash-basins, preening themselves in the mirrors as they chatted.
The memory of the conversation Kate Christie overheard remained clear in her mind long afterwards, and formed the basis of the divorce papers which were later served on Henry Christie, her cheating husband.
This is what Kate heard.
‘ God, that was really, really sad.’
‘ Yeah, tragic. Dead nice she was, Danny.’
‘ What a way to go, though.’
‘ Yeah, ‘orrible. Really, really sad.’
‘ At least she died happy.’
‘ Why do you say that?’
‘ Well, I head she was having an affair with Henry Christie. So — she was out in Tenerife with him and they must’ve combined work with shagging.’
‘ God, I didn’t know that… but he is a bit of all right, isn’t he? I’d let him fuck my brains out.’
‘ Me too. He’s shagged a few, y’know… and I’ve heard something else too — but you mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘ Go on. I won’t.’
‘ I’ve heard that Danny Furness was up the spout. Preggers. Post-mortem apparently showed it… very, very recent pregnancy.’
‘ Bloody ‘ell! So it must’ve been Henry Christie, the dirty fucker. Wonder if his wife knows.’
‘ I doubt it — have you seen her? All soppy and like a puppy dog around him. Sad bitch… Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got a drink and a fella waiting.’
The two women left the toilets and Kate emerged from the cubicle. She washed her hands, dried them and walked slowly back into the pub, trancelike in her appearance.
Henry was still sitting alone. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his colleagues around him. He was under no illusions about keeping Danny’s pregnancy under wraps, just as he was under no illusion that his rape would one day seep out and become public knowledge; in the police, secrets are never well kept. He wondered if his wife would ever find out about either.
Kate stood in front of him. Henry looked up at her. Immediately he knew that she knew.
Quietly, she said, ‘I didn’t want to believe it, Henry, not again. Not after what we’ve been through. How could you hurt me again? I thought that sort of thing was over. I was wrong, obviously. Even when I dialled 1471 that day and Danny’s number came up, I still didn’t completely believe you’d cheat on me again.’
‘ Kate…’ Henry began, getting to his feet.
‘ NO!’ she said sharply. Henry’s mouth closed. ‘Is it… was it
… your baby?’ she asked simply.
Henry hesitated and that was enough.
‘ In that case,’ Kate’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper, ‘our marriage has just ended.’ She walked away without a further word.
It was only by pure chance that the police eventually stumbled on Don Smith’s home address. The ground-floor resident in a small block of private flats in Lytham St Anne’s, just south of Blackpool, awoke one morning to see his bathroom ceiling sagging and leaking, about to collapse, from a water burst in the flat above. Unable to think of anyone else to help, he called the police, who responded. A bobby arrived and when he could not get a reply from the upper flat, nor find anyone with a key, he forced an entry on the pretext that there might be a body lying undiscovered. He didn’t find anyone decomposing, but switched off the water and called a plumber out.
A search of the flat, to try to trace the owner, uncovered documents relating to Don Smith. The officer was sufficiently switched on to make a connection and immediately informed the MIR at Headquarters.
Many pieces of evidence linking Smith to Crane and Colin Hodge were found in the flat. To Henry Christie, one of the most interesting was the rough draft of a letter Smith had obviously intended to send to Crane after the robbery.
It read, Dear Bill, by the time you read this you’ll be well pissed off with me. You see, I’m totally pissed off with you and have been since we screwed that building society in ‘86. How the fuck could you set me up for a fall, you bastard? You were quite happy to let me go to jail and for you to get away with it, weren’t you? I’m glad it backfired on you. I thought we were friends. Obviously not. It’s been festering in me ever since, so I thought I’d fuck you up too big style… (indecipherable)… so none of the money from the job turned up in any of yow; accounts, did it? Hah! That’ll fucking teach you. You’ll never find any of it — the guy who laundered it got instructions from me well before we handed the cash over to him and now it’s all in accounts belonging to me… (more squiggles… indecipherable)… so I used you like you used me. And don’t bother trying to find me. I’ve got enough money to keep ten steps ahead of you. The letter ended there, unfinished, unsigned.
Henry had guessed correctly that it would take six months to complete extradition proceedings against Billy Crane.
It was a torrid six months for Henry. He was served with divorce papers, shunned by his daughters, barely acknowledged by his own mother and overworked in the office, sorting out the complex legal aftermath of the robbery and murders. He sat through discussions with divorce solicitors, where he learned he would be unlikely to come away with anything other than his pants; he sat through court proceedings in Tenerife, most of which he could not follow, and moved out of his home into lodgings with another would-be divorce on his uppers. They made a very sad pair, sitting night after night in front of a portable black and white TV, eating pre-cooked dinners and drinking cheap Belgian lager. Henry hated his new existence, but Kate was unrepentant.
Henry and Dave Seymour picked up Billy Crane from Tenerife on the day the extradition hearings finished. Henry cuffed Crane with rigid handcuffs and kept them firmly on the villain’s wrists throughout the flight, despite Crane’s constant whingeing and threats.
Even though Henry had, by default, beaten Alexandr Drozdov to Crane, he remained cautious. He had arranged to be met at Manchester by a firearms team for protection. After landing and once all the other passengers had disembarked, only then did Henry, Crane and Seymour leave the plane.