where it landed with a loud crash, the plastic parts splintering all around the room.
The man returned to Shane and tapped him gently a few times on the knee-caps and shins. Shane’s thin legs would have been very easily broken and probably damaged for ever. The baton man let the tip rest against a shin whilst the gunman spoke.
‘ Now then, Shane,’ he said reasonably. ‘Listen very carefully. All you have to do is this: tomorrow morning, you go into Blackpool police station and present yourself very smartly at the front desk, with your solicitor if you like… with me so far?… and be very nice and pleasant and say that you wish to retract the complaint you made against me, Detective Sergeant Christie. Now that’s all you have to do Shane, pal, old buddy, old mate. And don’t even think of mentioning this little get-together here, because if you do…’ His voice sank to a terrifying whisper. ‘Do you understand?’
Shane nodded.
‘ Good.’
The baton man gave Shane a loving tap on his shin.
The gunman stood up.
Both crossed to the baby’s cot, picked it up and between them and threw it against the wall where it disintegrated into matchsticks.
Then they left.
In the hallway outside the flat, they turned right and ran for the rear exit, pulling their hoods off as they went.
Neither one of them saw the figure of John Rider ascending the darkened staircase which led up from the basement flat below.
Chapter Twenty
There was an air of jubilation in the murder incident room next day when Tony Morton announced that all three men arrested yesterday were going to be charged with the murder of Geoff Driffield and the other people in the newsagents. The one they had failed to arrest would be circulated as wanted.
In just one week they had a major result, and all the detectives and uniformed police officers involved in the case were invited to a celebration that evening in the club upstairs. 5 p.m. start. It would be a long, boozy evening.
Henry experienced a certain degree of satisfaction. He had been instrumental in the arrest of the gang leader, Anderson, and had nearly died for his trouble.
As the officers cleared the room, Henry caught sight of Siobhan talking earnestly to Tony Morton, occasionally glancing across at him. She looked upset, on the verge of tears. Henry wondered if she’d had some distressing news or something. He did not even begin to think she could be upset about last night and the coitus interruptus. He had reflected on her behaviour and concluded he did not really blame her
… but on the other hand she had said some nasty things. Threats, almost.
She and Morton walked out of the incident room towards the office he had been allocated for the duration of the investigation.
Henry went to the CID office and sat at his desk where he re-read a photocopy of the post-it note Derek had left for him on the night of his brutal murder. What the hell did he want to see me for? Henry asked himself. Was it the reason why he was murdered? Henry could only speculate. The note was bare and said little…
His mind wandered back to the previous evening when he had called in to see Annie Luton on his way home. She had given him a whole package of work-related stuff that Derek had taken home over a period of time. It was all in a carrier bag.
‘ There’s everything there he ever brought home in relation to work,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve been round the house from top to bottom, gathering all this together. It was all over the show… he was so untidy. I even found some under our bed.’ Her eyes moistened as she talked.
Henry glanced casually at the contents. None of it seemed to be of major importance. Copies of reports, statements… the type of bumf most young officers probably had at home. Henry had been like that years ago. Taking work home. Feeling the need to write up reports off-duty so he could spend more time out on the streets when on-duty. Yeah, he could relate to that.
These days he took nothing home.
He had spent about half an hour with Annie. She was very rational and together, though a desperate and tragic figure. Henry saw resilience in her and guessed that sooner rather than later her life would be back on track.
He left with a hopeful, positive feeling inside him. The carrier bag she had given him was dumped on the back seat of his car, forgotten.
Then he went home to Kate.
He could hardly bring himself to look at her, so ashamed was he of his actions with Siobhan. Did Kate pick up his body language? Could she see right through him? Did she intuitively know that not long before, he had literally been on the verge of making love to another woman?
Henry would not have been surprised.
Wives were so perceptive about their husbands’ every little transgression.
Thankfully she seemed far more concerned with his injuries and getting him into a hot, soothing Radox bath and subsequently to bed. She fussed around him like a mother hen, or at least someone who cared very deeply for him and to whom his wellbeing was her main concern. Inside, he boiled angrily with himself whilst on the outside he revelled in the blue water and the glass of Jack Daniel’s which Kate placed in his hand as he lay back and soaked his soul.
He was beginning to think he had the makings of a serial adulterer, but maybe he was exaggerating the problem.
His daughters, Jenny and Leanne, were another reason for this self loathing. With the soap bubbles covering his rude parts, they sat on their knees next to the bath, whilst Kate took a back seat on the lid of the loo, and listened wide-eyed at the story of his day, culminating in him being shot and the fight in the clothing displays of M amp; S. He proudly displayed his chest-wound for them to see. It had turned the colour of black grapes. He also carefully removed the bandage on his ear to show them how chewed it was.
He was their hero and although he knew the truth — he had been completely terrified most of the time — he never revealed it to them. Their dad. The hero.
The serial adulterer.
Kate ushered them out of the bathroom after the story.
She sat back on the loo, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘I think you’ve got something to tell me.’
The words hit Henry harder than the bullet.
‘ How did you know?’
Were there claw-marks down his back he hadn’t realised Siobhan had inflicted on him? Teeth-marks around his foreskin?
‘ The fact you were in Lancaster for one thing. Then you had a gun. And you were arresting people for that multiple killing job. You’ve already moved onto, what’s it called, North-West Crime something or other?’
‘ North-West Organised Crime Squad,’ he corrected her, trying to cover the relief in his voice. ‘No, I’ve just been helping them out, that’s all, so they can look at me and I can look at them. See if we like each other.’ He went on to explain the possibility of a six-month secondment, followed possibly by a full transfer, and how right he thought the job was for him.
He didn’t mention Siobhan at all.
‘ OK,’ Kate said, tilting her head. ‘If that’s what you want — chasing criminals with guns all over the place, fine by me. If you’re happy at your work, I’ll be behind you. Just please don’t let it get in the way of us this time, Henry. That’s all I ask.’
‘ I won’t,’ he promised meekly.
