Judgement Call

Table of Contents

Cover

Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

BACKLASH

SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

DEAD HEAT

BIG CITY JACKS

PSYCHO ALLEY

CRITICAL THREAT

CRUNCH TIME

THE NOTHING JOB

SEIZURE

HIDDEN WITNESS

FACING JUSTICE

INSTINCT

FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD

BAD TIDINGS

JUDGEMENT CALL

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First published in Great Britain 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

First published in the USA 2014 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

110 East 59
^th
Street New York, N. Y. 10022

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2013 by Nick Oldham.

The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Oldham, Nick, 1956- author.

Judgement call. – (A Henry Christie mystery; 20)

1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Police–England–Blackpool–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8333-9 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-476-8 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

To my former partners in the pursuit of crime:

Dave Briggs (RIP), Ian Carney, Graham Street and Greg Plummer.

‘S
eriously, I don't want much,' Henry Christie mumbled to himself. ‘All I want is a job, one measly deployment … anything'll do … sheep straying … sheep-rustling … sheep-shagging … a murder, even,' he said hopefully. ‘Literally anything, please.'

He was at the wheel of the unmarked dark-blue Mark 1 Vauxhall Cavalier, one of the two crime cars that worked the Rossendale Valley, and he was alone, so no one heard his mutterings. His usual partner in pursuit of crime had reported in sick that morning – from over-indulgence, Henry knew – so twenty-three-year-old PC Henry Christie was out on solo patrol on the steep streets of the valley in one of Lancashire's far-flung corners. And so far, over two hours into his shift, nothing of great interest had come his way. Unlike in Blackburn, that incredibly busy industrial town a few miles west, where Henry had just had a short and bitter-sweet secondment as a CID aide, which was a place where every cop was run ragged from start of their shift to finish, whatever time of day. Here in the sleepy valley, by comparison, jobs were few and far between – or at least that's how it seemed to Henry, who champed at the bit for something to get his teeth into.

And, to add insult to injury, he was back in uniform.

He'd been cruising the town centre and council estate streets of Rawtenstall and Haslingden, covering the western half of the Rossendale Valley, the side he had been allocated to patrol that day with the call sign Hotel Romeo Seven – ‘HR7'. He'd come on duty at eight o'clock that morning and after having attended a couple of burglaries first thing, other than being roped into the fiasco that was the court run – escorting overnight and remand prisoners from the police station to Rossendale Magistrates' Court – he'd had nothing. He'd been so bored that he'd randomly pulled two cars and issued the drivers with HORT1s – document ‘producers' – requiring them to take their driving documents to a police station of their own choice within five days.

Both drivers had whinged and asked why they'd been stopped and the young PC had snarled, ‘Because I can,' a claim which in law was totally valid, though not really an excuse to stop/check people because of feeling mean. He had also stopped and checked a prolific valley criminal he'd spotted sauntering innocently along the main shopping street in Rawtenstall, got the man to empty his pockets and patted him down, but found nothing of interest. He did manage to wind the guy up, though, which was quite satisfying.

And now he found himself in the slipstream of a tatty flat-back Transit van, stacked with scrap household goods, driven by Lancashire rednecks, certain the only way he was going to uncover anything of interest that morning was by self-initiated work.

The van coughed out plumes of purple diesel exhaust as it dropped down a gear and the whole load on the back shifted dangerously.

Henry's right forefinger slid into the key ring dangling just above the side window which was attached by a thin cable running underneath the roof lining to the ‘police-stop' pop-up sign hinged face down along the back parcel shelf. A not very hi-tech contraption, requiring the driver to pull the key ring (which often, mysteriously, got stuck) and draw the stop sign upright, hook the key ring around the protruding head of a screw that had been driven into the door stanchion, then flick the switch on the dashboard to, hopefully, illuminate the sign, which sometimes didn't work.

Henry pulled up the sign, looped the key ring around the screw head. His intention was to overtake the Transit van at an appropriate place, pull it and see what transpired. Vans and lorries carrying scrap were always worth a tug any time of night or day as theft of metal was still rife in the valley.

He waited for a break in the approaching traffic and eased the nose of the Cavalier out for an overtake … at which moment the half-brick sized Burndept personal radio slung on a harness around his neck, tucked under the front of his tunic, came to life.

‘Romeo Seven?' It was the communications room at Rawtenstall calling him up, using the abbreviated form of his call sign.

Henry eased off the gas, dropped back, and pressed the transmit button. ‘Receiving.'

‘You free to attend a job?'

He stifled a guffaw at the stupid question. ‘Yes – go ahead.'

The house was on the largest council estate in Rawtenstall, within walking distance of the town centre. It wasn't the most notorious estate in the valley, though. In fact Henry thought most of the estates in Rossendale were pretty tame in comparison to the ones he had wistfully left behind on his short – and ultimately sour – secondment to the CID in Blackburn.

He found the address and pulled up outside. It was a well-constructed fifties semi-detached in a fairly pleasant setting on a hillside with great views across to the flat-topped hill that was Musberry Tor, Rossendale's mini answer to Table Mountain. But the house had a kicked-down garden fence with the gate still standing uselessly, and a debris-strewn garden.

His mouth twisted sardonically.

He was four years into his police service and in that time had already visited numerous houses like this one, the stock in trade properties that cops regularly found themselves inside, or trying to enter. Henry was not fatigued by this because he was always curious as to what slice of humanity he might find behind the door.

He clambered out of the Cavalier and fitted his chequer-banded flat cap that somehow always seemed to tilt backwards on his head like a joke bus conductor's. He ensured his handcuffs were tucked into his waistband and that his trusty staff – which he'd hit only two people with so far, without much damage – was slotted down the specially sewn-in pocket running down the side of his right thigh, inside his uniform trousers.

So, fully kitted out and with one tug of the hem of his tunic, he walked up to the front door, which opened on his approach.

A young woman stood there, dressed in a baggy, low-cut T-shirt, equally loose-fitting shell-suit bottoms, huge fluffy slippers and nothing else. The usual fashion for young ladies of leisure on the estate. They often also sported black eyes – as did this lady. Hers was accompanied by a matching lip, swollen like an inner tube sticking out of a split bicycle tyre.

‘Sally Lee?' Henry asked, feeling a tremor of rage course through him at the sight of her injuries. Already he wanted to arrest the person responsible … the
man
responsible.

She nodded and dropped her gaze, a bit shamefaced, Henry thought. She stepped aside, opened the door wider and flicked her fingers for Henry to enter the house. He did, removing his cap. She closed the door behind him then slid ahead and led him into the lounge, which was scattered with baby clothes, empty cups, overflowing ashtrays. There was a big-screen TV in the corner, a monstrosity of a thing, and a Betamax video-cassette player underneath it.

‘Sit down if you want.'

Henry moved aside a grey-hooded parka jacket and found space on a ragged armchair whilst Sally Lee sat on the settee amongst child's clothing. It was only then that Henry spotted the actual baby, lying camouflaged by the clothes, sleeping soundly, a dummy in its mouth. He couldn't quite decide what sex it was, but it was very young, a matter of months at most. Henry's eyes flickered to the woman's face, assuming she was the mother – but not taking it for granted. Anything was possible on this estate.

‘You've been assaulted.' He stated the obvious.

‘My boyfriend.'

‘And you want to make a complaint about it?'

Her eyes fell again. ‘Not just about him hitting me,' she muttered.

‘What else?'

She swallowed. ‘He raped me, too.' She eased her hand between two cushions in the settee and came out with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. She shuffled one out with a shaky hand, lit it with a throwaway lighter that she then inserted back into the pack.

‘Do you mind telling me what happened?' Henry said softly. ‘Or if you prefer you can speak to a policewoman.'

‘You'll do … I don't mind … I've just had the kid –
his
kid – four months ago and you know what,' she said defiantly, ‘I don't want sex. Don't feel like it. It hurts. Just don't want it … but he does … He just got angry with me, knocked seven bells out of me.' She tilted her head so Henry could see what he'd already seen. Then her eyes did meet his. ‘And he raped me … here, on the baby clothes … in front of the kid, a kid he doesn't give a monkey's about, anyway.'

Henry nodded as she spoke.

‘You believe me, don't you?'

‘Course I do,' he said, puzzled by the question. He squinted. ‘Look, the best thing would be for you to come down to the nick so we can talk without any interruption. It'll be better if there's just you. Is there anyone who could look after the kiddie for you?'