Screen of Deceit Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  BACKLASH

  SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

  DEAD HEAT

  BIG CITY JACKS

  PSYCHO ALLEY

  CRITICAL THREAT

  SCREEN OF DECEIT

  A DCI Henry Christie Mystery

  Nick Oldham

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in 2008 in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2008 by Nick Oldham.

  The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Oldham, Nick, 1956-

  Screen of deceit

  1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  2. Police - England - Fiction 3. Juvenile delinquents -

  Psychology - Fiction 4. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9'14[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6646-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-564-2 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  This one is for Bob Tanner

  Prologue

  It started to rain hard just after midnight, big spats of water exploding like tiny bombs on the windscreen. Henry Christie shivered and hunkered down even further in the front passenger seat of the decrepit but nondescript Vauxhall Astra, reached out to the dash and twisted up the heating a notch in an effort to keep warm – his nose was red with cold – and to clear the fogged-up screen. But the heater fan, rattling in protest, wasn’t working as effectively as it should have been – no surprise there – and Henry had to sit up again and run the back of his hand over the screen to get a half-decent view down the poorly-lit street.

  He sighed and slumped back, cupping his hands around his mouth and blowing warm breath into his palms to circulate it around his nose, which was now dripping unsightly beads of snot.

  ‘Just how good is this intelligence?’ he asked, discreetly checking his watch for the umpteenth time. He turned to the man in the driver’s seat, a newly promoted detective inspector called Rik Dean. The two cops had known each other for a number of years and Henry had been instrumental in getting Rik from uniform into plain clothes in the first place. He’d spotted and nurtured the younger man’s thief-taking potential early on. Rik’s subsequent rise from detective constable to DI had been entirely his own doing.

  ‘It’s good,’ Rik said confidently. ‘He’ll be here, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried. It’s just that at moments like this I realize the benefits of being a shiny-arsed headquarters Waller, nine to five, weekends off, warm office, long lunches … luscious secretaries,’ he concluded wistfully.

  ‘You make it sound very appealing, especially the secretary bit, but you did volunteer for this, remember?’

  ‘Aye … truth is, the job I do at HQ is as boring as bat shit and the fact is I’d give anything to be doing this sort of stuff day-in, day-out … waiting for bad guys to turn up … what could be better?’ He adjusted his position and shivered. ‘Except the car, maybe.’

  ‘Best we could do at short notice,’ Rik apologized, ‘but at least it’s not out of kilter with the surroundings.’ He indicated the rain-sodden back street, consisting of a few dilapidated terraced houses, some lived in, others boarded up, and the high gated wall surrounding a warehouse at the far end of the street with the area of derelict land opposite which looked like a World War Two bombsite.

  A companionable silence descended on the two men as they maintained their observations, waiting for their prey to arrive so they could pounce, claws drawn.

  Earlier that day – 9.30 a.m. – Henry had been sitting in a meeting at Blackpool Police Station, listening with a growing sense of boredom to the regular monthly get-together of the divisional management team, hoping his expression did not betray his inner feelings. He was there as a visitor, the head of Headquarters Special Projects Team, and was required to give a short presentation to the DMT on a new stop-and-search initiative that was shortly to roll out force-wide. He had visited all the other divisions in Lancashire Constabulary – and been greeted with stunned apathy at another harebrained HQ scheme – and this one, Blackpool, was his last gig of the tour.

  His mind wandered as he sat through the usual plethora of agenda items, wishing he could have been put on first, as in other divisions, but not here. In reality he should have been glad of the distraction afforded by days out around the county, but he wasn’t. His head was still full to bursting with the mush and emotional turmoil from the last time he’d managed to worm his way out of HQ and get involved in ‘real’ police work. He’d found himself mixed up with a murder which had led him into a real nest of vipers – not all criminal ones, either – which had ended badly. Henry was only just getting through his inner pain barrier, and scooting around the county giving meaningless presentations should have taken his mind off things … but it didn’t.

  He wondered if he would ever shake off the way he was feeling – but of one thing he was completely certain: attending meetings over-populated by career-minded brown-nosers who spent most of their time up their chief superintendents’ backsides was not the cure.

  Talking of which, the chief superintendent of Blackpool division drew a riveting discussion on budget allocations to a close and moved on to the next item on the agenda.

  Henry forced himself to concentrate. He wasn’t good at meetings at the best of times.

  ‘And now we come to Operation Nimrod,’ the chief super said, looking around the table and zeroing in on DI Rik Dean – unfortunately for him, a fully paid-up member of the DMT.

  Welcome to management, Henry thought sourly, and kiss real coppering goodbye.

  He pricked his ears towards Rik and what he had to say. At least Nimrod had some connection
to the business of front-line policing.

  Nimrod was an ongoing, countywide operation, aimed solely at disrupting the drug business and targeted at dealers and their set-ups. ‘A raid a day’ had been the grand motto and there had been some notable successes, even though everyone knew the honest truth: no matter how much the police did, how many dealers were arrested and brought to trial, the drugs trade was so widespread and sophisticated that, even as one dealer was banged up, another was stepping up to the mark. Not that this prevented the cops from doing their job – and Nimrod showed the public that the cops were hard at work – it just meant that the deep-rooted social issues related to drugs were never really being tackled. That was a job that the politicians ducked and weaved around.

  Rik inhaled nervously. This was his first DMT as a fully-fledged member, and his stress showed as he shuffled his papers, cleared his throat and began …

  ‘… and some more good news, Tommy “the Crud” Hawthorn appeared at Preston Crown yesterday and after pleading guilty to importation and supply was sent down for eight years –’ an audible Mexican wave of ‘Well dones’ and ‘Good stuffs’ murmured around the table. Rik acknowledged the plaudits without too much of an ego-show. He’d been the one who’d nabbed and nailed Tommy ‘the Crud’ in a previous Nimrod raid a few months before. Henry gave him a wink – ‘Which brings me to tonight’s Nimrod operation, subtitled “Wiggum” …’

  Henry saw a few creased eyebrows but no one had the courage to ask ‘Why Wiggum?’ Henry, though far removed from any form of youth culture himself, did know that Chief Wiggum was the police chief in the Simpsons cartoon, which he happened to love.

  ‘Obviously I can’t share any of the intel or operational details at this forum,’ Rik went on. All intelligence gathered prior to a Nimrod strike was closely guarded and only disseminated when necessary. It was vital to keep the whole operation watertight – until the moment of the fateful knock on the door. ‘But the briefing’s at ten tonight in the parade room and a lot of detectives and uniforms’ll be showing up for this one, because it’s a biggie,’ he concluded with a grin.

  ‘And you have all the resources you need?’ the chief super asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Rik nodded. He vaguely explained a few more details before winding up and asking if anyone had any questions. There were none – which then brought the meeting round to Henry.

  He took a deep breath and prepared to bore his colleagues into oblivion.

  The meeting dissolved, the attendees drifted back to their real life jobs. Henry quickly gathered his notes and slotted in behind Rik Dean as he left the room.

  ‘So who are you going to nail tonight?’ Henry asked him mischievously.

  Rik raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t tell you that, Henry,’ he said, mock-affronted.

  ‘Yes you can.’

  ‘You might be a bent cop for all I know.’

  ‘As a nine-bob note … go on, come on, tell me, mate.’ Henry cajoled.

  They walked down the narrow corridor on the fourth floor of the station, then twisted to the stairs, Rik ahead of Henry, taking the steps two at a time as he descended.

  ‘Come on,’ Henry whined pathetically.

  Rik stopped on one of the dog-leg landings between floors. Henry almost crashed into him.

  ‘You may well be a DCI, but you know how secret Nimrod is.’ Rik looked furtively around, up and down. There was no sign of anyone else in the stairwell. He leaned toward Henry and whispered a name in his ear which made Henry go weak at the knees.

  Henry drew back. ‘You jest!’

  Tight-lipped, Rik shook his head.

  ‘Hey, look,’ Henry said hurriedly, ‘Kate’s away for the night,’ he said, referring to his ex-wife, with whom he lived, ‘and the girls,’ he added, talking about his two daughters. They were in London to catch We Will Rock You. Henry had been invited, but had made a poor excuse not to go.

  Rik grinned knowingly.

  ‘Can I come along for the ride?’ Henry pleaded. ‘Can I?’

  It was just the sort of tonic he needed.

  Which is how he came to be sitting in a battered pool car with a dickey heater, shivering, and watching nothing in particular in a back street just off Blackpool’s town centre, wishing he hadn’t volunteered himself so hastily. Like most of his rash decisions, it had seemed a good idea at the time, but now, two hours after the briefing, with nothing moving but sodden cats and a rat, he was repenting at leisure. But only up to a point, because deep down there was always that chance of action. He just needed to be patient – but for how long? At the back of his mind he was thinking that whatever happened, whatever time this job went on to, he had to be back behind his desk at nine next morning.

  ‘So how you doing, H?’ Rik asked, breaking their silence. ‘I know you’ve been through the ringer.’

  ‘Out the other side now,’ he lied brightly.

  ‘Must’ve been tough,’ Rik commiserated.

  Henry nodded. Yeah, it had been tough. Seeing the bodies of two of his colleagues who’d been butchered by terrorists and having the same almost happen to him and then – very big ‘then’ – shouldering all the guilt, however misplaced, that maybe he had been responsible for their deaths.

  ‘I can see you’d rather not go down that route,’ Rik said. He smiled wanly at Henry.

  ‘Wiggum Alpha Four to Wiggum Alpha One,’ their personal radios blared in stereo. They were tuned into an encrypted frequency dedicated solely to this operation and all the other officers involved had been designated call signs beginning with Wiggum. WA4 was the call sign of the plain traffic car parked up on a bridge spanning the M55, one of the two routes most likely to be used when travelling into Blackpool. WA4 was equipped with a state of the art ANPR – Automatic Number Plate Recognition – which locked on to the registered number of every vehicle heading towards Blackpool and checked it against numerous computerized databases, including various intelligence ones and the Police National Computer. The resultant search was almost instantaneous.

  Rik exchanged a quick glance with Henry. ‘Alpha Four, go ahead.’

  ‘Bingo!’ said the officer in a less than professional manner. ‘Target vehicle, the black Lexus’ – he gave the registered number – ‘has just passed under my point on the M55, heading towards the golden city.’

  ‘Roger, thanks for that,’ Rik said, a quiver of excitement in his voice. He locked eyes with Henry. ‘The consignment’s on the way in,’ he said gleefully. Into his PR he said, ‘All other patrols acknowledge.’

  Which they did, one by one.

  ‘No one is to move from their positions,’ Rik instructed them, ‘until I say.’

  He gripped the steering wheel. Henry saw his tension.

  ‘The guy is supposed to be mega-surveillance conscious,’ Rik said. ‘If he even smells a cop, he’ll be off … shit!’ Rik saw a movement down the street and slithered low in his seat, as did Henry, who had spotted the same thing: a car, no lights, turning slowly into the street by the area of derelict land, creeping inch-by-inch towards the warehouse gates.

  ‘Who the hell’s this, then?’ Henry hissed.

  ‘Dunno,’ Rik breathed.

  ‘Wiggum Alpha Five to Wiggum One,’ their radios called up. WA5 was a pair of plain-clothed PCs huddled in the back of an old Transit van on an adjoining street. ‘A Ford Focus has just turned into your street.’

  ‘Yeah, got eyeball,’ Rik confirmed. ‘Nothing else, though … maybe two occupants, but it’s a good one-fifty yards from us … did you get the reg number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Rik said, but not into the PR, smacking his hand on the edge of the steering wheel.

  ‘Uninvited guests,’ said Henry.

  ‘Lookin’ that way.’

  ‘Always expect the unexpected,’ Henry said unhelpfully.

  Rik glared sideways at him. ‘Maybe this has nothing to do with us,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘You mean a car creeping suspiciously around wit
h no lights, on the street where you expect a drugs drop to take place, and at the same time of day, i.e., the witching hour? Pull the other one, Rik old pal.’

  The offending car pulled in by the warehouse gates. Behind these gates was a partly derelict warehouse, Henry knew from the briefing, where a consignment of drugs was supposed to be being stashed, and at the moment they were stashed, the cops were going to leap into action and ensure that all the baddies were banged up. It was as straightforward as that – a dozen cops dotted around, hidden from view, ready to be given the ‘Go, go, go!’ by Rik … but another car and another two players on the scene had caught them on the hop a little.

  ‘They could be scouting, checking the place for any signs of us,’ Henry thought out loud.

  ‘They could be waiting to nab the drugs for themselves.’

  ‘Or they could be out screwing.’

  ‘Or they could be here for any number of reasons,’ Rik said, wrapping up the speculation. ‘Question is, what do we do with them?’

  ‘Sit tight, keep everyone informed, see what transpires,’ Henry said, now starting to thoroughly enjoy the slowly unfolding events. The intelligence was that the biggest drug dealer in town was bringing in a consignment to hide in the old warehouse and, quite simply, the police were going to nab him. No one else was expected to be turning up to the party. But Henry did not believe in such coincidences. The guys in this car were definite gatecrashers.

  The Ford remained motionless. Even through the pouring rain and the obstruction of a car parked in front of their Astra, Henry could see exhaust fumes rising from the tailpipe of the newly arrived car. He peered through the night, squinting, to establish there were just two figures in the car.

  ‘Switch off,’ he said quickly to Rik. ‘If I can see their exhaust fumes, they can see ours.’

  ‘Good point.’ He flicked off the ignition.

  The rain continued to bat down. The Astra began to steam up almost immediately.

  ‘Wiggum Alpha Six to Alpha One.’

  ‘Alpha One,’ Rik acknowledged. Alpha Six was a cop sitting at the motorway exit at Marton Circle, just on the outskirts of Blackpool.