Bad Cops Read online

  If he was honest, he was not really looking forward to facing up to the tender wrath of Alison Marsh.

  As he negotiated the last bend before Kendleton, a huge Red Deer stag suddenly appeared from the bushes on his right-hand side and skittered to an ungainly halt on the road surface, the hooves of the magnificent beast not really designed for tarmac. Henry slammed on the brakes and almost collided with the animal, and would have done had its muscles not quickly tensed around powerful haunches and back quarters and it powered itself off the road, over the low bushes on the left, disappearing like a spectre into the woods.

  Henry’s car fishtailed, almost tipping into the roadside ditch but stopping as he wrestled with the wheel, yanking and jarring the muscles in his right shoulder, sending a flame of agony through his upper chest and neck.

  ‘Fucking stupid animal!’ he shouted, then gasped at the pain while holding on to the wheel. ‘Fucking accident waiting to happen.’

  A minute later, he drove sedately into the car park at the front of The Tawny Owl, still creased up in agony. He climbed out of the car and tried manfully to give the impression he was in no pain whatsoever – no wincing, no bending double – just in case Alison was watching him.

  ‘He nearly wasn’t a problem in any way, shape or form,’ Silverthwaite told Runcie. ‘He almost stuffed his car into a frickin’ huge deer.’

  Silverthwaite was speaking on his mobile phone. He and Hawkswood had tailed Henry from Blackpool all the way to Kendleton, certain they hadn’t been clocked by him, even on the quiet back roads beyond the motorway. They had been close enough behind to witness the deer leaping out in front of him, but far enough back not to get noticed themselves. As Henry had driven into the car park of what appeared to be the only pub in the one-horse village that was Kendleton, Silverthwaite and Hawkswood had driven past the opening and stopped further down the road. Looking back in their mirrors, they had seen Henry hobble stiffly from his car into the pub.

  They had tried to get a phone signal, which had proved to be a problem out in the sticks, and eventually managed to get a few unreliable bars, which is when Silverthwaite called Runcie.

  ‘You say he’s a detective?’ Silverthwaite asked with a touch of disbelief.

  At the other end of the line, Runcie was back in her office at divisional HQ, her door firmly closed, with Saul pacing the space on the opposite side of her desk while she watched him coldly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Saul recognized him from the photo you sent.’

  Hearing his name, Saul stopped mid-pace, folded his arms and looked at his boss.

  ‘Remembers him coming to give a talk a few years back on one of his detective courses. I’ve done a bit of digging, too. The guy’s an SIO with Lancashire, a detective super. He can’t be a million miles off retirement.’

  ‘Well, he walks like an old man,’ Silverthwaite commented cruelly.

  ‘Question is why has our chief constable been to see him?’ Runcie asked.

  ‘You no wiser?’ Silverthwaite said.

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Thought you had a snout in Burnham’s office?’

  ‘I do, and that’s what I’m waiting for.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You know, the word is that Burnham’s not one hundred per cent with us,’ Runcie said.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Silverthwaite snarled.

  ‘If Jack Culver got to him, we could be backs against the wall.’

  ‘So what d’you want us to do, boss?’ Silverthwaite asked.

  ‘Where is Christie right now?’

  ‘Driven to a pub in the middle of nowhere. Looks like he could be here for the duration – took a holdall in with him.’

  ‘Look, got a call coming in,’ Runcie said. ‘This could be what I’m after. Just hang fire and I’ll get back to you.’ She ended that call and took the new one indicated on her mobile. ‘Elise,’ she cooed, ‘you got something for me, honey?’

  Henry pushed his way through the front doors of The Tawny Owl, not allowing himself to cringe as his right arm brushed the door frame. He immediately caught sight of Alison leaving the kitchen at the rear of the pub, bearing two plates of steaming hot food for a couple of customers sitting in the main bar area. She was actually reversing out through the swing doors and did not see Henry straight away.

  But he saw her.

  With her lioness-coloured hair scraped back tightly into a businesslike ponytail, wearing an unflattering blouse and skirt covered by a Tawny Owl apron, and flat shoes, she should not have looked stunning – especially balancing two big dinner plates and with a tea towel slung over her shoulder – but she did and, as ever, took Henry’s breath away.

  He had only a fleeting moment to take her in before she caught him in his appraisal. For a second, her face had been a tense mask of concentration but, when she spotted him, the veneer dropped and her eyes widened slightly. She half-smiled and stuck out the tip of her tongue briefly. Then everything returned to full concentration and she entered the bar after subtly blowing him a kiss.

  Henry realized he was still breathless. He inhaled with a judder, then made his way through the door leading to the spacious ground-floor owner’s accommodation right at the back of the pub.

  He was now feeling slightly guilty.

  Not many weeks before, he had promised Alison in no uncertain terms that he would retire from the cops in the ‘near future’, once he had cleared his desk. And that he would go down on one knee and propose to her somewhere tropical, as opposed to the location he had actually popped the question.

  His guilt was that here he was, still off sick, and actually knowing he would be taking on extra work in the guise of visiting another force to review a couple of murders, and returning to work just for that purpose.

  She would not be impressed. Not one little bit. And he couldn’t blame her.

  ‘Henry!’ she blasted.

  He recoiled just a smidgen.

  ‘I cannot believe my ears. You’re still in recovery. You were shot. You almost bled dry. And you’re still getting over your mum’s death – don’t say you aren’t,’ Alison warned him. Henry’s mother had died in hospital at much the same time as Henry had been bleeding out in another hospital. Her death had quietly devastated him, but he had kept his feelings – publicly, at least – under control, only allowing himself to ‘lose it’ when alone with Alison, who had been brilliant throughout.

  Now he felt like he was betraying her.

  They were in the living room. Henry had just made himself a mug of tea and was just about to make his way to the front of The Tawny Owl, where he intended to settle down and start on the murder books. He’d mentioned his intent to Alison, catching her in passing as she carried out two more meals from the kitchen. He’d hoped, in his man-like, cowardly way, that her brain might be too overloaded to take in what he’d said and she would just accept it as a given. Once more, he’d underestimated her. When she burst through to the living room, he knew he was in deep.

  ‘You are not fit to go back,’ she remonstrated with him. ‘You’re still as weak as a kitten.’

  ‘B-but …’ he stammered.

  ‘B-but what?’ she mimicked him.

  ‘It’s just a case review job, that’s all. Not real live murders.’

  ‘Murders?’ she demanded. ‘You said murder, not murders plural.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ he lied. ‘It seems I’m the best man for the job, chosen from hundreds of other hopefuls.’ He gave her a twisted grin. ‘Like the X Factor.’

  ‘You’re a complete fricking idiot,’ she informed him. And despite the insult, it was just at that moment he thought he might be OK here. One of the things he’d come to accept about Alison – love, even – was that when she became irate, she started to use very base language indeed. The fact she hadn’t called him a ‘fucking idiot’ gave him cause for hope.

  She rolled her eyes, uttered a guttural ‘Ugh!’ of scorn, spun and left him standing w
ith the two murder books under his arm.

  He exhaled, took a sip of his tea, waited until he was certain she’d gone, then crept cautiously out to the front of the pub with his brew and reading material.

  Runcie listened carefully to what the woman called Elise had to say.

  Elise Makerfield worked as an administrative assistant in the chief constable’s team, holding the lowest position within that team, the most ignored yet put-upon person there, although the new chief, Burnham, always found time to have a little chat with her and she found him unusually pleasant, even though he was also all business. Burnham had inherited the admin team when he took up his position, always intending to slowly re-staff and restructure it to suit his needs. So far, he hadn’t had time to do that. Taking the reins of a failing police force meant he had to concentrate on more urgent matters than a team reshuffle. Though they seemed to be good and dedicated, the key was that he had ‘inherited’ them.

  And that meant Elise Makerfield.

  She had previously been in several positions within the force during her less-than-illustrious career, and before she had moved on to the chief’s team she had been an admin assistant on CID, where she had first encountered DCI Jane Runcie. Runcie had discovered her weaknesses, exploited them and finally found a useful home for Elise in the chief’s office, where there was always the chance of proving herself useful. Eyes and ears in that location were always good things to have.

  Runcie referred to Elise as a ‘rat duster’, even to her face.

  ‘It’s not all that easy,’ Elise whispered over the phone. She had sneaked out of the office that housed the chief’s team and gone outside the old headquarters building to a smoking shelter, which at the moment was unoccupied. ‘The new boss isn’t as careless as the old one … he puts stuff away.’

  ‘Look, Elise, I’ll tell you what’s easy and what isn’t,’ Runcie said harshly. ‘Fucking up your dear son good and proper, that’s easy. You owe me, you little bitch, so don’t start whining when I ask for favours.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Elise groaned, feeling queasy. She’d come under the control and manipulation of this nasty woman to firstly get her son off a minor drugs trafficking charge – he’d been buying from a dealer, then selling it on – only then to find that Runcie wanted her to get a job on the chief’s entourage and feed back interesting information to her.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Runcie urged her. ‘What’ve you found out?’

  Elise told her things which only really confirmed what Runcie already knew. It was the last piece of the jigsaw.

  She hung up, and called Silverthwaite again.

  Spring had just about got into gear. The days were gradually growing longer, the light lasting all that much more, but there was still a distinct chill in the air, which was why Henry wrapped himself in a fleece while sitting out at the front of the pub. There were a couple of picnic benches on an uneven terrace which was going to be replaced by some fairly extensive and expensive decking in the near future as part of Alison’s ongoing plans for the pub, which she’d bought a few years earlier when it was neglected, unloved and very close to being shut down forever. She and her stepdaughter Ginny had resurrected the place and reversed its fortunes, bringing back local and passing trade a-plenty.

  For the time being, though, Henry made do with sitting carefully on a rickety old picnic bench, and opened the first murder book.

  Mark James Wright, born January 21, 1973. He would have been forty years old this year, but had been murdered in October 2012, so he never actually made that milestone, a fact that automatically made Henry slightly sad. Forty was a big event in any person’s life, and Mark James Wright would never celebrate it. This was one of the myriad reasons that tended to drive Henry on while investigating murder. He hated the thought of people not having the chance to live their lives until their natural end because some other bastard took it away from them.

  Henry liked such people to be punished. Sometimes, though, they weren’t. Henry had occasionally known murderers walk free from court against the most compelling evidence, but he had learned to accept the foibles of a flawed justice system and, as galling as it was, he lived with such decisions because his job was to find the killer and bring him/her/them to court and present as watertight a case as possible. Beyond that, it was up to the courts.

  That is what he was good at. Mostly and despite everything, he did feel a little smug that FB had chosen him for this job (even though it had been FB choosing him to investigate three unsolved murders at the end of last year that led him to getting shot); on the other hand, he rarely trusted FB’s thought processes. There was usually an agenda behind them.

  Henry opened Mark James Wright’s murder book but, before he could get anywhere with it, he glanced up and watched a Vauxhall Insignia pull up on the car park and stop alongside his Audi. He raised his face and narrowed his eyes at the arrival. Two men got out and walked towards the pub. From the way they were focused, he was fairly sure they hadn’t actually seen him at the bench, even though he wasn’t hidden from view.

  Cops, he thought, then looked at their car again, frowning slightly.

  They were chatting to each other, which was probably why they hadn’t seen him and, as they came up the steps, Henry called amicably, ‘Hi, guys, how you doing?’

  Their reaction showed he was right – they hadn’t seen him. They turned and looked at him as if they’d been caught stealing from the biscuit tin.

  One was a tall, lanky man, his brown suit hanging loosely from his thin frame, the trousers baggy at the knees. The other was younger, smarter, more compact, and his body filled out his suit which, as opposed to the other man, was tight, particularly around the shoulders and biceps. Henry could tell this one worked out, while the taller man looked as though he abused his body with cigarettes and alcohol.

  Their reaction came under smooth control.

  ‘Hey, didn’t see you there, mate.’ The lanky man gave him a friendly wave.

  Henry grinned. ‘I’m good at hiding in plain sight,’ he replied affably.

  Lanky Man – as Henry had named him – jerked his head at the other man and Henry realized that this one, the older man, was probably the one with a bit of rank behind him, maybe a DS.

  Tight Fit (also named by Henry) nodded and followed him towards Henry, who closed the murder book and laid his hands over the title in order to cover it, though he was aware that the words Central Yorkshire Police and the force crest were still visible in the header section.

  ‘We’re just passing through,’ Lanky Man said. ‘Reps, you know,’ he added unconvincingly.

  Henry blinked at the blatant untruth. ‘Really? Selling what?’

  The men exchanged a quick, nervous glance, before Lanky Man answered, ‘Agricultural machinery.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Henry sat back slightly, keeping his hands over the front of the murder book. ‘What sort?’

  ‘Uh, tractors. John Deere,’ Lanky Man said feebly.

  ‘Come to the right area, then.’ Henry smiled. ‘Nowt but tractors round here.’

  ‘Yeah, uh, we just thought we’d grab a bite before we hit the road back. That’s if this place serves it,’ Tight Fit cut in firmly, trying to end the lie before they got tied in knots. ‘Can you recommend it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so,’ Henry said.

  Lanky Man gave him a lazy thank-you salute and the two guys went through the door, leaving Henry wondering about them and also if he was just being suspicious for no reason. Maybe they were agricultural reps, but he doubted it.

  He gathered up the murder books and his newly drained mug and retreated inside, checking the bar before going into the owner’s accommodation to dump the books. He was back a few minutes later and went into the bar. The two visitors had got themselves a drink and were at a table in the bay window, perusing menus. Henry knew they were watching him over the tops of the menus like old-fashioned spies. He gave them an amicable nod and went to sit at the bar, which was propping up
one of the regulars, an old farmer called Don Singleton, who, had there been a competition for the most stereotypical farmer, would have won hands down. He was ruddy-faced, sun-blasted (although his bulbous, veined nose was more a result of alcohol than the weather), and always sported a battered tweed flat cap, an open-neck check shirt, loose trousers held up by a twine belt and cut-off Wellington boots.

  ‘Afternoon, Don,’ Henry said, sliding alongside the customer.

  ‘Henry,’ he acknowledged, drained his second pint of real ale and slammed the empty glass on the bar.

  Alison came from the kitchen with her pen and pad, about to take the order from the two reps.

  Henry smiled wickedly to himself and, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the visitors, asked Don, ‘Those two guys been to see you today?’

  Don’s big head turned and looked. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘They sell farm machinery.’

  ‘Never seen ’em before.’ Don’s hand still encircled his beer glass and he rolled it cheekily on the counter, the meaning very apparent. He was angling for a pint on the house.

  ‘Do you know most of the reps who cover this neck of the woods?’

  ‘All of ’em. Like flies on a carcass, always trying to get me money.’ He tapped the glass on the bar. Henry glanced at the young lady behind the bar and said, ‘One on me, please. And don’t give him a fresh glass.’ Henry knew that Don insisted on using the same glass throughout a drinking session because he thought it was unlucky to keep getting a clean one. ‘And they aren’t any of them,’ Don said.

  Henry considered this, then asked Don, ‘What sort of tractor you got these days?’

  ‘Got four, all for different things.’

  ‘Any John Deeres?’

  ‘Nah, shite … I’m a Massey Ferguson nut.’

  ‘Know anything about John Deeres?’

  The refilled pint – a Lancaster Bomber – arrived in front of him. He sucked off the foam. ‘I know everything about any tractor … tractor mags are my porn.’ His eyes glazed over at the thought of page after page of tractor ads.