Bad Cops Read online

  At the top of the stairs, he glanced down into the front hall. A shadow crossed the welcome mat. Someone was at the front door.

  He stopped, expecting post pushed through the letter box. He wasn’t expecting anyone or anything else.

  Alison Marsh, his fiancée, was busy working at The Tawny Owl, the pub and country hotel she owned way out in the wilds of north-east Lancashire; his daughter, Leanne, who still lived here, was away, and he did not expect anyone from work to be contacting him. He was signed off sick with no plans to return any day soon. For once, he was going to milk the system.

  He waited for the clatter of the letter-box flap.

  No post landed on the mat.

  But there was an urgent knock on the door, followed by the letter box rattling and an insistent ringing of the doorbell. Then someone called through it.

  ‘Henry? You fucking in?’

  Henry winced, then sighed stoically. He’d been found. For a fleeting and serious moment, he considered diving for cover and bluffing this out, like his mum used to do when the man from the Prudential called for payment, but the fact that his car was on the drive and his keys were dangling in the door were just a bit of a giveaway.

  ‘Henry,’ the voice called again. ‘Open up. This is your chief constable calling … and I heard you screaming like a wuss, so I know you’re in there.’

  After letting him in – and finding he was accompanied by another man Henry did not know, though vaguely recognized – Henry made the chief constable wait.

  He took a long shower – hot – then dabbed his wound carefully to dry it and redressed it just as carefully before pulling on a pair of jeans and an old Rolling Stones T-shirt and joining the two men who he had ushered into the conservatory at the back of the house, which overlooked the garden and farmland beyond.

  Both visitors had a mug of coffee in their hands and were chatting in a subdued manner when Henry appeared fresh and clean, bearing his own brew of coffee.

  The chief constable was called Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known as ‘FB’ to friends and foe alike. Henry had known him for almost the entire length of his own police service. They had first encountered each other in the Rossendale Valley in the early eighties when Henry had been a young uniformed constable with an attitude to control and aspirations to become a detective. FB was the detective inspector in charge of CID operations in the valley, reigning with a rod of iron and not a smidgen of self-awareness or modesty. He had been the stereotypical DI of the times, interested only in ruling the roost and clear-up rates.

  His and Henry’s paths had crossed frequently since then, not necessarily in happy ways. FB had gone on to become chief constable while Henry had clambered unspectacularly to the rank of detective superintendent, more by luck than by cunning, and much to the vexation of other, possibly more deserving officers.

  The two visitors had made themselves comfortable on the cane-backed chairs. Henry sat opposite, a glass-topped coffee table between them, and glanced from one to the other, his eyes narrowing in a slightly apprehensive way. He felt queasy, but it was nothing to do with having been shot. He knew FB well – too well, probably – and could only speculate negatively as to his intentions.

  Hence the queasiness.

  FB always had an agenda. It was one of his characteristics.

  Henry eyed the other man, trying to work out why he was faintly familiar, unable to quite pin it down.

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’ FB asked. Before Henry could even open his mouth to respond, FB butted in. ‘Is it going to keep you off work much longer?’

  Henry almost spluttered into his coffee. ‘Doctor says another month, just to be on the safe side. Then I can have a phased return on light duties.’

  ‘Really?’ FB sneered, unimpressed.

  ‘Well, it did kind of hurt and I very nearly lost a full body of blood,’ he pointed out with no exaggeration. ‘Thank goodness I got shot in a hospital – got plugged straight into the blood banks.’ He smiled. In reality, he was making light of it, but if he hadn’t been found by a hospital porter who’d noticed blood glugging from under the storeroom door, he would have bled out. ‘So I’m full of other people’s blood and, just at the moment, I’m dealing with heavy psychological issues … my personality is split several ways now.’

  ‘So you’re back to normal, then?’ FB said, deadpan.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Henry retreated dully, not having the energy to continue with banter. He could do without these men here. All he wanted to do was lock up the house and head to The Tawny Owl to be pampered by Alison. She was a former military nurse who combined medical expertise with TLC. He smiled thinly at FB, his eyes fleetingly taking in the other man, who was looking increasingly familiar. ‘But I am off for a couple more weeks at least.’

  ‘Pah!’ FB blurted, and exchanged a quick glance with his companion. He said to Henry, ‘How do you feel about coming back earlier than that?’

  Henry sipped his coffee, then pursed his lips. ‘Depends, I suppose. I’d hate to go against medical advice … health and safety and insurance, and all that.’

  ‘You could sign an indemnity,’ FB suggested.

  Henry wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. He screwed up his face. ‘Maybe you’d better explain why you want me to come back, then we can talk,’ he suggested in response.

  FB nodded and gestured to the man with him. ‘Let me introduce you to John Burnham …’

  The name clinched it. However, he continued to feign ignorance and let FB carry on with the introduction.

  ‘John is the chief constable of Central Yorkshire Police.’

  Burnham leaned forward and reached across the coffee table to shake hands with Henry, who mirrored the gesture but rather more gingerly; already his right shoulder was starting to stiffen up again.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Burnham said.

  ‘Likewise.’

  Henry tried not to second-guess this, but two chief constables turning up on the doorstep, he thought – second-guessing just to himself – meant something big in the offing.

  ‘I actually do know you, vaguely,’ Henry said, fitting the little pieces together. ‘We were at Bruche together.’ Bruche was the police training centre just outside Warrington. ‘Initial training, ten weeks, same class. Got the class photo somewhere. I look like someone stood on my foot, if I recall rightly.’

  Burnham squinted at Henry through his chunky, black-framed glasses.

  They hadn’t been great mates, had not got to know each other very well by any means. Henry recalled Burnham being part of the serious, bookish clique, the ones who vied for top marks in the weekly multiple-choice exams they all had to endure in those days of classroom-based instruction. Henry’s only goal had been to pass with a mark high enough to avoid having to attend the embarrassing remedial classes. Most of the rest of the time he spent drinking and pursuing the very limited number of probationer lady cops on the courses, female officers being few and far between in those days. Notwithstanding the lack of numbers, he did have some notable successes in that department, while he seemed to recall Burnham winning the class prize and getting the highest overall mark in the whole intake.

  ‘You were in the West Yorkshire Police,’ Henry said. Burnham was one of the few unfortunate ones sent across the Pennines for initial training. Most Yorkshire recruits went to the regional training centre at Dishforth, but some were hived off over the hills into enemy territory.

  Henry had thoroughly enjoyed his time at Bruche, which, like all the other regional police training centres, had now closed forever to become a housing estate.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Burnham said. ‘I transferred later to Northumbria, where I got on the Special Course, as it was, then eventually ended up in Central Yorks.’

  Henry nodded, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Special Course … ’course you did.’ The Special Course meant accelerated promotion for officers with potential to become chief officers. It was another thing that had passed Henry by, though a
gain, like the disappeared police training centres, the Special Course no longer existed.

  ‘As its chief constable?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Only after I left on promotion, then came back again five years later,’ he said, reminding Henry of the mystery of how chief officers flitted around the country from force to force like butterflies chasing promotion, although Henry usually substituted the word butterfly with something less pretty. ‘To save it,’ Burnham added bleakly.

  Henry nodded. As a superintendent, he was reasonably aware of what was going on in the bigger world of policing, and he knew that Central Yorkshire (CY), as it was commonly known, was under considerable pressure financially and operationally, compounded by a damning inspection report from the HMIC, the body responsible for independently assessing police forces across the country. There was talk about carving up CY, but Henry didn’t really know the full details. Every force in the country was under the cosh, hit with cutbacks and microscopic scrutiny, including his own, Lancashire, which was just about staying afloat.

  ‘How’s that going?’ he asked Burnham, who winced a little.

  ‘So-so.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘How can I help?’

  Burnham glanced at FB, then back at Henry. ‘Your chief speaks very highly of you,’ he said. Henry tried desperately to keep a cynical mouth-twist off his face, managing to raise his eyebrows modestly instead.

  ‘That’s kind of him.’

  ‘It’s pretty much a make-or-break time for the force and my task, basically, is to drag it out of the last century, where it still lounges – a lack of capital investment and investment in training and development being the primary causes. I’ve been in charge for about six months now and a few things are starting to happen for the good. Anyway, a big part of my strategy is to ensure that, when my officers interface with the general public, it is spot on. That, to me, is where it all begins and ends.’

  Henry could not disagree.

  ‘I want us to be efficient and effective in everything we do; do it right first time, every time,’ he said earnestly.

  Henry blinked at the management speak and could see that Burnham would be good in interviews for jobs. But he did know that if the public was looked after properly and that ‘bit’ was working, everything else behind could be addressed in good time. He knew it wasn’t that simple, but it was a starting point. However, he wasn’t sure where he came into this until Burnham started speaking his language.

  ‘And that applies from domestic disputes to murder investigations.’

  Henry nodded with a touch more enthusiasm. He was a senior investigating officer (SIO) in FMIT. He investigated murders. He saw it as his job, his lot in life, maybe even the thing he was put on this earth to do. Hunt down and bring killers to justice. Fight for the dead.

  He acknowledged it to be a pretty lofty aspiration, but at least it was an honest one. Plus, there was nothing more thrilling in life than charging someone with that terrible offence, looking into their eyes and knowing they had done it.

  Henry refrained from saying, ‘So I presume that’s where I come in,’ even if that was what he was thinking. He just waited and thought through what little knowledge he had of Central Yorkshire Police. In some respects, it was a mini-version of Lancashire, but the main city on the east coast had proper docks that still worked, unlike Preston, which had given up the maritime ghost many years before. He tried to rake his brain for the name of that city, but could not dredge it up. It was not an area he knew well, nor had any reason to frequent.

  Perhaps he would soon learn more.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘When I took over the force, the SIO team was already depleted. One detective super had retired on ill health and the remaining one, Jack Culver, was bearing the load. There were, what, six murder investigations up and running and he was flitting between them all like a headless chicken – and doing a pretty good job, I hasten to add. Four were solved but there are now, still, two running, and I want to get a result on those.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said again, his voice dubious. He already did not like the possibility of putting another super’s nose out of joint by sticking his own into their business, which is the conclusion he immediately jumped to.

  ‘So what I would like,’ Burnham said, bracing himself, ‘is for you to go over and review those two murder enquiries … fresh perspective and all that. I’ve had a long discussion with Bob, here,’ he nodded at FB, ‘and he thinks you’re just the man. Therefore, so do I. And it seems you’re between jobs at the moment.’

  ‘What does Superintendent Culver think about it? There might be some very good reasons why the investigations are dragging on. Sometimes it happens.’ Henry shrugged without enthusiasm.

  ‘I know. I was an SIO myself at one point.’

  Henry thought fast. ‘If I did go,’ he said, ‘which I haven’t said I would, because I do want a proper medical sign-off for everyone’s sake, then I would want Mr Culver to be happy about what’s happening.’

  Burnham and FB exchanged a curious glance that unsettled Henry, who frowned and said, ‘What?’

  ‘Superintendent Culver doesn’t run investigations now,’ Burnham said.

  Henry was about to say, ‘Well, that makes it OK, then,’ but didn’t get the chance.

  Burnham said, ‘He was killed in a road traffic accident last week. His car collided with a stolen car which tipped him off the road. He was missing for two days before we found him.’

  THREE

  ‘Who’s the guy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In that case, you need to find out and then do what you have to do.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘You fucking know – sort it, sort him, sort them … I don’t have time for this shit just now.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Jane Runcie ended the call on her iPhone with an angry stab of her thumb and hissed the word, ‘Tosser.’ She slid the device back into her trouser pocket, wiped the grimy sweat from her forehead, caught her breath and then gathered her ponytail at the back of her head, slid off the elastic band, bunched her hair and fitted the band again.

  She had wanted to take the call from Silverthwaite, but it had come in at an inopportune moment to say the least. With her nostrils flaring wide, she looked down at the unmoving form of the man at her feet lying splayed out, face down on the painted concrete floor of cell number six in wing two. It was her favourite cell because, despite its low number, it was situated furthest away from the custody office.

  A pool of blood was spreading wide from the man’s crushed face on the non-porous surface.

  Runcie swore and squatted down on her haunches, reaching out with the index and middle fingers of her right hand to check for a pulse in the soft flesh just under the man’s chin in the carotid artery.

  It was still there. Weak, but there.

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  Runcie rose stiffly to her full height, her knees popping. She was a tall, rangy woman, just under six feet tall without heels, so she usually wore flats to work. She eyed the man standing opposite her on the other side of the prostrate guy, noticing his suit, like hers, was splattered with flecks of blood.

  ‘’Course he fucking is,’ she said.

  ‘What do we do now?’ The man, older than Runcie, wiped his face, which was also blood-spattered, stretching his tired features.

  Runcie’s face twitched. Under her calm exterior, her mind was racing, working out the angles, the possibilities, thinking about what she had in place for eventualities like this – a man beaten half to death in a police cell.

  She put her hands on her hips.

  ‘Let’s think.’ She invited the man – his name was John Saul and he was a detective constable – to consider. ‘We have a man lying on the floor in front of us, who we strongly believe of being the man who abducted and raped four children and murdered them, burying their bodies in the woods …’

  ‘Yet he denies it,’ Saul
pointed out insipidly.

  ‘Oh, he did it, he fucking did it,’ Runcie stated with exacting certainty. ‘So I think this: he’s been in police custody, been released without charge after interview, decided he can take no more and, in a fit of despairing remorse, he tops himself … What do you reckon to that scenario?’

  A smile quivered on Saul’s lips. ‘All fits,’ he agreed. ‘Just a bit of a problem.’ Saul looked down at the man’s body, which shuddered slightly as a moan escaped from his mouth.

  Still very much alive.

  Runcie nodded. ‘You got your two p’s?’ she asked. Saul nodded. ‘How many prisoners are along this corridor as we speak?’

  ‘Four, I think.’

  ‘OK, you sort out the CCTV while I speak to the custody officer.’

  The two detectives backed out of the cell, closing the heavy, steel-clad door with a gentle clunk. They walked quietly down the cell corridor, Runcie pausing at each cell that was occupied, easily identifiable as all empty cells were left with the doors wide open. She put her eye to each circular, toughened glass peephole just above the inspection hatches and peered into each cell.

  Saul had been correct. Four prisoners in total. Two were laid out on their benches, sleeping soundly. The other two were awake, both sitting on the benches, their legs drawn up. As Runcie’s eyes appeared at the holes, each man looked up at her. One stayed seated; the other rose and crossed to the door, but Runcie did not stay to talk.

  She and Saul entered the custody office where the single sergeant on duty was making entries into custody records, keeping them up to date. Her name was PS Anna Calder and she eyed the detectives warily as they split.

  Runcie approached the sergeant while Saul went to a small office behind the custody desk.

  The young sergeant looked strained as Runcie leaned on the desk.

  ‘The cameras are going off for five minutes,’ the DCI said. ‘That pesky intermittent fault.’