man’. For no other man that night, snorted Henry. There was a picture of her in her overalls with a mop and bucket, looking as ugly as sin. God knows how I ever fucked her, he thought bitterly.
The worst of it was that he hadn’t told Kate.
Miss Lisa ‘Shit-Face’ Want had been very busy indeed. Some of her facts weren’t exactly spot on and there was a great deal of literary exaggeration, but all in all it turned out to be a much better profile than she’d promised.
Henry rushed to the toilet and vomited.
He hung over the pan, spitting and slobbering, almost crying. This, once more, was where his life had gone.
Dave August spent a very subdued weekend, returning to work at eight on Monday morning. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on him, as though they knew. He tried to shrug the feeling off: he was the Chief Constable, after all. It was only natural that he should be the centre of attention.
Jean was at her desk, sorting correspondence. He bade her a jovial good morning and she was glad to see that her boss had rediscovered some of his lost friendliness. His mood over the last week had started to put a crisp edge on her nerves.
‘ Shall I make tea?’ she suggested before he reached his office door.
‘ Most certainly, Jean. Best drink of the day,’ he replied.
She got up, smiling, and left. He paused with one hand on the door handle. Taking stock of himself, he turned it and confidently shoved the door open.
Everything was as it should have been. There was nothing untoward in the post or on his desk.
August sighed with relief.
He got the phone call at 9.05 a.m.
Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson arrived at Lancaster Castle together. Donaldson was driving, even though Henry had had his plaster removed first thing that morning and his wrist felt OK, if a little weak.
They were greeted by a crowd of eager journalists and photographers who’d been herded behind barriers by the police. Questions and flashes assaulted the ears and eyes of the two detectives. They held up their hands to shield their faces and said ‘No comment’ to all the enquiries.
Once inside the building, Donaldson turned to Henry and said, ‘Fame at last, pal,’ with a grin.
Henry couldn’t help but laugh.
They both submitted themselves to the search procedures and entered the court.
Then they went to hunt for Lisa Want — but she was noticeable by absence.
Henry entered the witness-box at 10.30 a.m. on Wednesday. He took the Bible in his right hand and said, ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing the truth.
My name is Henry James Christie. I am a Detective Sergeant with Lancashire Constabulary, currently on the CID at Blackpool. Previously I was seconded to the Regional Crime Squad, also based in Blackpool. ‘
The QC for the prosecution stood slowly up. He shuffled his papers.
The court was hushed and expectant.
Henry had a quick look round.
He saw that Lisa Want had suddenly appeared in the press-box. He looked at the jury. They seemed to be good, decent people.
Then his eyes locked with Hinksman’s.
Hinksman was fondling his chin thoughtfully with the fingers of his gilt hand, gazing at Henry. As Henry looked at him, Hinksman almost imperceptibly drew his first finger across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.
Henry allowed himself a slight sneer.
The Judge had seen the exchange. She made no comment on it, but noted it down.
The QC coughed and began to take Henry through his evidence.
Henry felt he had done well. The jury were obviously on his side, sitting there open-mouthed with anticipation and sympathy.
As he drew to a close the prosecuting counsel thanked Henry and said, ‘Would you please wait there, Sergeant. I’m sure my learned friend will wish to ask you some questions.’
He sat down and handed over to Graham.
Graham, with his half-glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, stood up slowly, adjusting his robes as he did so.
Henry knew of his reputation — well paid, defender of rich villains and celebrities, ruthless — and was on guard immediately.
Graham pushed his spectacles up his nose to the bridge, then allowed them to slide back down again to the tip. He pursed his lips into a pucker. He nodded at Henry and said, ‘Sergeant,’ by way of a greeting.
Henry nodded back apprehensively. This is not going to be easy, he thought. Why don’t you just get on with it instead of fannying around, you bastard.
Graham’s lips then went tight across his teeth, like a dead man’s smile.
‘ I’m very pleased to see, as is the court, that you have recovered from your injuries.’
‘ Thank you,’ said Henry. He realised that this would probably be about as humane as Graham got.
‘ You certainly have been in the wars,’ he commented. ‘It’s a wonder you made it here.’ A titter went round the court. ‘You have been through a very traumatic time, physically and mentally.’ Though this was a statement it was phrased as a question — but Henry chose not to answer it. If you want to ask me questions, he thought, then ask and I’ll answer.
When nothing was forthcoming, Graham added, ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘ Yes,’ said Henry simply.
‘ Right, Sergeant, if I may, I’d like to take you back to the night in question — the night, in fact, when you shot my client.’
Suddenly it was as though Henry was on trial.
Henry stood stock still. He avoided eye-contact with Graham; he knew that would be disastrous. Eye-contact led to verbal battles; once these battles were joined, the officer giving evidence had usually lost the war, unless he was very experienced and clever. Henry had given evidence many times, but was aware he was no match for a devious, slimy barrister when it came to word-games.
He desperately wanted to say, ‘And the night when your client killed a whole bunch of people,’ but he didn’t.
He decided to stick to his usual courtroom strategy: keep it simple, don’t stray from the written statement, don’t lose your cool, don’t answer back. Tell the truth — but if a lie has to be told, remember what you said.
‘ You were on a surveillance operation that night, you say, tailing a man who was eventually shot in front of you.’
Henry said nothing.
Graham then knew he would have to ask direct questions.
‘ Is that correct, officer?’ he asked stonily.
‘ It is,’ nodded Henry.
‘ And you followed this man into a public house in Blackpool, the — ’ and here Graham read out the name of the establishment from his brief. ‘Did you drink any alcohol when you were in this bar?’
‘ Er… I can’t remember,’ said Henry.
‘ Wouldn’t you have stood out like a sore thumb if you’d been in there without a drink in your hand? You were, after all, undercover. ‘
‘ I may have had a soft drink,’ Henry admitted. ‘I was on duty and I don’t drink on duty.’
‘ So, no alcohol?’
‘ No,’ said Henry. He actually remembered buying a bottle of Bud but wasn’t going to reveal that.
Graham nodded, not impressed.
‘ When you followed this man and his associates out of the public house, you stated that you lost sight of
