suits. Clean shaven. Short hair. Henry pinned them as detectives immediately. He smiled.
‘ Yes. Hello, fellas.’
They did not smile. ‘DI Fletcher, this is DC Tumin. Carlisle CID.’ They flashed their warrant cards.
Henry nodded, wary now.
‘ I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. I’m not gonna bore you by reciting that new caution, mainly because I can’t remember it. You know you don’t have to say owt, but if you do it may be given in evidence — and if you do say owt, then it’ll do any defence you might have no good. Understand?’
Chapter Twenty
The trial at Lancaster Castle, due to begin properly the following Monday morning, came to a standstill quite quickly, much to the smiling pleasure of Hinksman who was led back down to the holding cell.
Several members of the jury had complained to an usher — who’d passed the complaints on to the court clerk — that strange things had been happening to them over the weekend. Two had windows broken at their homes by unidentified persons, two received unusual phone calls and three had tyres slashed on their cars. Taken separately, each incident amounted to nothing more than a minor annoyance; taken together, they were more than a coincidence. It was very sinister and unsettling. The jury was being got at.
In the chambers, the Judge saw FB. He promised to look into the matter and told her that he would arrange for each juror — if they so wished — to be escorted home by police each evening and back to court next morning for the duration of the trial. He also said he would provide each of their homes with an alarm linked to the police radio system. Such an alarm, once activated, would immediately alert every police officer on that frequency who could respond without delay. The cost would be excessive, but would have to be borne. Better safe than sorry.
FB also told her what had happened to Henry Christie that weekend.
She listened, appalled.
The trial did not begin until 2.30 p.m.
And Henry Christie was sat in court.
He looked a mess. The eye-socket which had been head-butted stuck out as big and red as a cricket ball and his throat was a swollen mess of dirty purple bruises. His left wrist was in plaster, and held across his chest in a sling.
He waited for Hinksman to be brought up from the holding cell. Only then did he leave the court as he was required to do.
Only when he had made eye-contact with Hinksman.
Only when he had made it quite clear that he would not be beaten. Everybody’s eyes were on him as he hobbled out of court.
The Judge covered a grin and called for proceedings to begin.
Outside the court, Henry made his way to the police room where
Donaldson was waiting, together with Karen.
He sat down and gratefully accepted the proffered cup of tea. ‘Now then, Henry, you old son of a gun, bring me up to date,’ requested Donaldson.
Henry took a sip of the tea, leaned back and told them his story.
Two uniformed Constables had guarded Henry on Saturday night through to Sunday morning — just in case he decided to run away. Henry, pumped full of blissful drugs, slept like a baby in a dark, dreamless void. He awoke refreshed the following morning, when he was discharged from hospital and taken into police custody.
He didn’t blame them for arresting him. He would have done the same. Someone had died a violent death; explanations were needed.
It didn’t stop it being an unpleasant experience. He was treated well and courteously, but there was no quarter given just because he was a fellow cop. He was grilled by experienced detectives whose techniques were very, very good. Henry could have played games with them, but he didn’t. He was open and honest and admitted what he’d done. He argued self-defence and everything pointed to his story being right.
The presence of FB in the background helped, too. He came to assist as soon as he heard.
At the end of the day after nine hours in custody, several of those hours being spent brooding in a cell, Henry was released without charge but warned that a report would be submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service for advice. Informally he was told by a Detective Chief Inspector that the ‘job was going nowhere’ — police terminology meaning that he would not be prosecuted. In his heart of hearts Henry knew that this would be the case, but it was a relief to hear it anyway.
True to her word, Kate came for him and drove him back to his flat above the vet’s, despite his insinuations that he would be better cared for in the marital home. She was having none of it.
Alone in his flat, with the barking of a dog recovering from a hernia operation downstairs for company, he toyed with a bottle of Scotch. In the end he binned it in favour of some analgesic tablets, a hot drink of milk and bed.
He slept better than he would have thought possible.
There was nothing particularly eventful about Dave August’s return to work that Monday morning. He’d spent a dull weekend with his family, and was glad to get into the office, which he did at 7.30 a.m.
At 10 a.m. he had his usual briefing from the ACC who’d been on duty over the weekend. There was little to bring to August’s attention, other than to update him regarding Henry Christie and request protection for the jury in the Hinksman trial. It was clear that they were being nobbled.
‘ That’s all we need!’ exclaimed August. ‘What about protecting the witnesses, too?’
‘ That’s in hand, I understand.’
‘ I’d be tempted to give Christie authority to carry a gun home with him under the circumstances. He may need it… it’s something I’ll have to consider.’
‘ Could be a good idea.’
‘ Hm. Anything else? No? OK, thanks for that.’
The ACC collected his reports and left the office. August checked his appointments for the day ahead. He was quite busy. He sighed and his mind turned to Janine. They’d made no firm plans for the week ahead, but she’d said to call her whenever he felt like it. She was working in Cumbria all of this week, and when she’d dropped him off at headquarters on Saturday morning, she’d given him her mobile phone number.
He wanted her there and then. He could imagine it — her bent forwards, holding onto the edge of the desk, him thrusting into her, both of them crying out with the pleasure of it all…
What a night they’d had. Pure carnal pleasure which had been increased by his introduction to cocaine. At first he’d resisted, but when he’d seen the effects on her, and been reassured that it wasn’t addictive, he’d given it a try.
It had been fabulous.
He dialled her number, but it came back unobtainable. Strange, he thought, but decided to try again later.
The sight of all that paperwork in his in-tray depressed him. He scooped it up and laid it in front of him on the desk.
A couple of reports merely required his signature. The next piece of correspondence was a large, A4-sized Jiffy envelope, addressed to him personally. It had arrived via the external mail, post-marked South Lakes. He lifted it up, interested. It was fairly heavy.
He peeled the envelope open and shook the contents out. There was a video-tape, VHS, TDK make, with a label on it that said boldly COPY, plus a series of photographs which had been taken over the weekend, of him and Janine kissing and embracing in public.
August suddenly felt very queasy. Typewritten on the sheet of paper which accompanied the video were the words, This is a very edited version of events. Hope you find them interesting. Will contact you in due course. NB —
