strike, actually. One of the longest and most bitter strikes ever to hit the UK, lasting for over a year, it had a major spin-off for the police officers who were required to police it: by working the excessive amounts of overtime needed, they made plenty of extra money. This particularly applied to officers who had to travel from their own force areas to the trouble spots to support their colleagues. These travelling officers often found themselves working away from home for weeks on end, and their pay packets reflected this, with up to double their usual earnings.
Some officers, it was said, taunted the striking miners by waving their hefty pay cheques at the picket lines. Others sent postcards from far-flung places around the globe to the miners’ leader Arthur Scargill, thanking him for the money which had paid for the holiday of a lifetime.
Another downside to the money was that some officers found themselves in debt when the strike ended and the wage slips returned to normal.
Eric Taylor had made a great deal of money out of the strike.
He was one of those who was always available to go, and over the year he spent about seventeen weeks away from home, policing the miners, earning a relative fortune.
But, like so many others, he failed to plan ahead and the end of the strike caught him by surprise.
A new car, conservatory, new three-piece suite, a couple of holidays abroad — all still needed to be paid off once the strike was over.
And he was still feeling the ramifications to this day.
He had had to borrow to service his borrowings — and then borrow to service those borrowings. At least a third of his salary went out to pay for loans taken on board twelve years earlier.
And he was a bitter man.
His wife left him, taking their two children and a large percentage of his remaining salary in maintenance payments.
A long-term woman friend also took him to the cleaners.
Now he lived in a rented terraced house, alone, unhappy and ripe for corrupting.
These people were always easy targets.
He was the first of two to be visited that evening.
Whilst Henry was shuffling around Blackpool police station, DI Gallagher and DS Tattersall knocked on the front door of Taylor’s house, knowing he was off-duty and fully aware of his severe financial problems. He was unlikely to be out gallivanting.
Perfect.
A sour-faced man opened the door.
Gallagher and Tattersall held up their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Gallagher was carrying a briefcase.
Taylor recognised them. He’d seen them knocking about the station throughout the week, but he did not know who they were.
‘ Sergeant Taylor, is it?’
Taylor nodded suspiciously. He did not like being visited at home by anyone. He was always slightly embarrassed by his inferior surroundings, having once lived in a detached house with a double garage. He had really come down in the world, in his own estimation. And he was particularly wary of two detectives from NWOCS.
‘ Yeah,’ he answered shortly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘ Could we possibly come in and have a chat?’ Gallagher asked affably enough. Tattersall remained silent, as he was to do for the remainder of the visit. He was a brooding, unsettling presence, hovering behind Gallagher. The DI noted Taylor’s look of wariness. ‘Nothing to worry about, honestly.’
Taylor accepted the words of comfort grudgingly. Not completely happy, but nevertheless, he was intrigued.
He allowed them into the threadbare lounge which was furnished like some 1970s throwback. Typical of cheap rented and furnished accommodation.
‘ Sit down.’
Gallagher sat. Tattersall shook his head and stood next to his boss. Taylor settled himself on the settee and waited.
Gallagher coughed and attempted to come across as fairly uncomfortable, though inside he was completely at ease.
‘ First of all,’ Gallagher began, ‘I want to reassure you that what we say from now on is completely confidential. Nothing will go beyond these walls.’
‘ I’m not sure I can give you that reassurance,’ Taylor said. ‘Mainly because I don’t know why the hell you’re here or what you’re gonna say.’
‘ I appreciate that… but I do ask you to keep it confidential.’
Taylor gave a non-committal twitch of the head.
‘ I’ll come to the point quickly, Sarge. We’re here on behalf of Henry Christie. He’s asked us to come and speak to you to ask for a favour.’
Taylor perked up. He was listening now. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘ You were the Custody Sergeant last Saturday evening when DS Christie allegedly assaulted a youth then stupidly forgot to enter it up on the record.’
Taylor said nothing.
‘ Well, Henry’s looked through the custody record and noticed that you were the last person to make any entries on it up to and including the point where this youth was taken to hospital. There are no entries after that because he was subsequently released from custody and reported for summons for the offence he had committed.’
Taylor watched Gallagher closely, hardly able to believe what was being said.
‘ Henry wondered if you’d do him a favour. See, he’s in a lot of trouble over this — or could be — and it’s hanging over his head and, well, the thing is, without an independent witness to back him up, it looks like he could be in for some rough times ahead.’
‘ Tough. And I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing,’ Taylor said stonily.
‘ OK… but let me finish, please. Henry wondered if you’d be willing to… how shall we say?… amend the custody record in his favour to say you witnessed the whole thing.’
Taylor’s heart, by now, was ramming against his ribs. He almost expected it to break them and splurge out. His face tightened up. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.
Gallagher held his hands up, palms out, defensively. ‘We understand your initial reaction, Sarge.’
‘ Look, you bastards, are you setting me up or something? Are you wired up? I’m an honest cop and this is completely out of order.’ His voice rose as he began to rant. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but as far as I’m concerned you can fuck right off out of my house. I’m going to complain about you both — and Henry Christie! Though I can hardly credit he would have sent you. It’s not like him. For a start, he’d do his own dirty work.’
‘ He’s in trouble, Eric,’ Gallagher said earnestly. ‘A colleague in trouble and he’s asking a friend to do him a favour, that’s all.’
Taylor remained steadfast. ‘No.’
‘ And that’s your final word on the matter?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ I believe you have some money problems, Eric.’
‘ And that’s fuck-all to do with you, pal.’
‘ We are prepared to help you, if you help Henry in return. No, don’t say anything.’ Gallagher reached for the briefcase which he had put down by the chair. He placed it on his knees and flicked the catches, opening it so Taylor could not see into it. He took out an A4 sheet of paper which the Sergeant instantly recognised as a custody record. Gallagher laid this on the smoked-glass coffee table which was between them.
Eric’s anger bubbled. It was the custody record he had filled in last Saturday, one of over fifty that day, but one he remembered well. The name on the top was Shane Mulcahy.
He glared at Gallagher.
‘ Get out,’ he spat.
Gallagher held a finger up. ‘One second,’ he said.
He placed the open briefcase on the coffee table next to the custody record and slowly swivelled it round so
