Judgement Call (20 page)

Most detectives dealt with older offenders and when he became a jack that's what he would do. Eventually he wanted to be engaging with the likes of John Longridge, and get onto the Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, he hoped, he would become a detective who dealt exclusively with murders. At the moment Lancashire did not have such specialists, but Henry knew it was the way forward and would happen one day.

Anyway … that was his vague career plan. But for the moment he would concentrate on kids and take whatever else came his way and try to get over the first hurdle, which was to actually get on CID, an aspiration that seemed to have taken a nosedive for the moment.

So, having become embroiled in Jo Wade's murder and the linked armed robberies and been given the chance to take part in the interview with Longridge, Henry was not going to miss the opportunity.

He would look upon it as a learning process, see how a seasoned detective like FB approached the interview and even though Henry was no psychologist, he was fascinated by what made people like Longridge tick.

Longridge was brought out of his cell by the station duty PC, who also doubled as a gaoler, and taken to the interview room just off the charge office.

Henry and FB followed.

Henry was carrying the paperwork and FB told him he wanted him to take contemporaneous notes of the interview, which FB would later edit – but not to record, FB chuckled as he said it, when the prisoner gets beaten up.

The interview room was cramped and not entirely fit for purpose because it also doubled as the police surgeon's room, with an examination table in one corner that took up far too much space.

Longridge sat alone on one side of the interview table, Henry and FB on the other. He had his arms folded. He was unshaven, reeked of body odour. He looked strong and broad and fit, obviously worked out regularly. His eyes drifted contemptuously from one officer to the other, showing no fear, just hate. He was still dressed in the clothes he had been arrested in.

Prior to going into the interview, FB confided to Henry that nothing of evidential value had been found in Longridge's flat in Manchester but he was working on other possible addresses and premises for him.

‘Sleep OK?' FB asked as he settled his bulk into the plastic chair.

Longridge sniffed up and ignored the question.

‘I'm DI Bayley,' FB said, opting for the abbreviated version of his name to keep things easy. ‘This is PC Christie.'

Longridge glanced at him. Henry gave him a nod which the prisoner also ignored. He wasn't going to be the most affable of people, Henry sussed.

‘You're not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but what you say may be written down and given in evidence,' FB cautioned him as per the Judges' Rules, the guidelines to which the police operated in 1982 concerning the detention and questioning of suspects. Longridge simply looked bored. Henry scribbled away.

‘I'm investigating the brutal murder of a policewoman by a gang of armed robbers, Mr Longridge,' FB declared quite dramatically, then paused for a reaction. Longridge stared all the way though FB, his eyelids half-closed. Nothing came back from him. FB went on, ‘We believe you are either part of this gang or are responsible for planning the robberies or you take a cut from them.'

Longridge's mouth twitched. But he did not speak, which was good from Henry's point of view because he was writing like mad and wished he had shorthand.

‘The policewoman was shot to death by one of the gang, which makes every single one of them responsible for her murder, not just the one who pulled the trigger of the sawn-off shotgun.'

Longridge remained impassive, unimpressed.

FB placed a hand on Henry's right wrist, the gesture meaning, do not write anything at this point. He leaned forward.

‘Let me make this clear, John,' FB said, just above a whisper. ‘I know you are one of the most prolific armed robbers in the north of England. I also know you plan armed robberies … and one thing I do not like is bad guys coming across the border from Manchester into my peaceful little patch, causing mayhem, killing cops and sticking two fingers up at us. I don't like it, which is why I'm going to prove that you are a member of that gang and might even be the one who pulled the trigger and killed an innocent girl. I'm going to do it dirty, yeah? I'm going to fabricate evidence and I'm going to stitch you up. If I have to.'

Henry was transfixed by the pulse on the side of Longridge's neck, which quickened. He also felt his own heart rate increase at FB's threats.

‘You'll have a fuckin' job,' the prisoner said.

‘I know. But I'm good at it,' FB assured him.

‘I had nothing to do with it.'

FB leaned further forward. ‘I don't fucking care.' Then he leaned back and he and Longridge had a staring competition. Longridge lost and Henry knew FB had the balance of power.

‘What was your part in it?' FB asked, and tapped Henry's wrist: start again.

Longridge remained silent, which didn't surprise Henry. Most prisoners did, even the kids he dealt with. It was like prising open oysters sometimes. No one talked or confessed willingly.

‘Tell you what, let's start simple. Who was the guy in your flat when the cops called yesterday?'

‘There was nobody else in.'

‘Wrong answer. Who was he?'

‘And to be frank, I'm glad the bitch cop is dead …'

The thing about FB, Henry thought later, was that he might have been round and overweight, but when he moved, he moved like a striking cobra and he somehow channelled the power of his body mass all the way through to his fist.

Before Longridge finished his sentence, FB had risen, drawn back his fist and smashed it into the prisoner's face. A superbly delivered blow, catching the side of his head, twisting it round and knocking him backwards off his chair.

FB was up and around at him, dragging him up by his shirt front.

Henry watched in open-mouthed awe – and not a little fear – as FB spoke into Longridge's face, spittle coming from his mouth. ‘I don't give a fuck who you are, or what you think you are, Johnny Longridge. To me, you're just a piece of shit on my shoe, a nothing, but that was a decent girl who lost her life and you are nothing in comparison to her – nothing!'

He dragged a stunned Longridge back up, picked up his chair and repositioned both of them back down.

He patted Longridge's cheek and said, ‘Now we know where we stand, don't we? Who was in your flat?'

‘I don't know,' he answered. ‘Nobody.'

Even as he spoke, Henry could see the side of his face swelling redly.

‘When the cops knocked, somebody appeared on your balcony and shimmied down the outside of the flats. I watched him, you idiot. Who was it?'

Longridge cupped the side of his face, rotating his jaw delicately, glaring at FB. ‘I can't tell you.'

‘Can't or won't?'

‘Whichever. You choose.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because whatever you think I am, a blagger or a fence or whatever, I ain't stupid. I don't deal in names, not of these people, anyway. They're fuckin' nuts. They're off their heads and they went out to kill. If it hadn't been a cop, it would've been some other poor sod. They're just glad it was a cop that walked in. Made their day. No guilt there. So knock the living shit out of me if you want, I'm saying nothing.'

Henry had been writing his words down, more or less as spoken, and he put a full stop to the speech.

‘If I tell you, I'm dead. They're in business, these guys, and they don't take kindly to people grassing on them.'

‘I thought you were the big “I am” in Manchester,' FB said with unhidden contempt and disbelief.

‘Even the mighty fall,' Longridge admitted.

‘Where were you on Tuesday morning?' FB said. That was the day of the robbery.

‘Home. Flat.'

‘Who with?'

‘All alone – having a wank, watching porn.' His eyes hooded over as he looked at FB. Henry looked up from his scribing and in that expression he saw the depth of the man's criminality and corruption. ‘And just one thing, Mr big-shot Detective, if you touch me again, I'll come for you. You might be the ruler in this place' – he gestured with his fingers – ‘but not when you step into the outside world.' Then he looked at Henry. ‘You can write that down if you want, son, but I'll deny it and there's no way I'm going to sign anything.' His gaze returned slowly to FB, who looked far from intimidated.

‘Look forward to it,' he said. ‘Interview terminated.'

Henry silently gathered his paperwork together, then they led Longridge back to the cells. At his cell door, he turned on FB.

‘You gonna beat me up in the cells, fat man?'

There was no doubt that Longridge was the bigger, but fitter man.

In reply, FB punched him very, very hard and accurately in the solar plexus. The wind whooshed out of Longridge as he doubled over. FB propelled him hard into the cell. He staggered backwards and as his knees hit the bench, they gave way and he sat down involuntarily with a thump. His face angled up at FB, bearing a twisted, menacing look.

FB stepped into the cell, saying, ‘Make yourself scarce,' to Henry.

‘You OK, boss?'

Breathless, FB lowered himself into the seat next to Henry in the canteen. Henry had made two brews, both with pilfered teabags, milk and sugar. He pushed one of the mugs across to FB, who took it gratefully and had a sip.

‘I'm OK.' He said the words, but really he wasn't.

Henry considered him, not entirely sure of what to make of him as a man. As a cop, he knew FB was a ruthless pursuer of criminals, though not necessarily of truth. Henry had a feeling that whilst justice might get done, it was at the expense of truth.

He could see FB was seething and he suspected that Longridge had suffered that morning not just because a policewoman had been killed but also because FB's nose had been put out of joint and his ego severely bruised by being replaced as head of a murder investigation he'd thought was his. Henry could see that the kudos that went with heading a successful investigation to catch a cold-blooded gang and the murderer of a policewoman could well lay the foundation of a glittering career as a detective. Being usurped by a headquarters boffin must have rankled.

‘You want to talk?'

FB gave a scornful laugh. ‘About what?'

‘About what just happened and why.'

‘You a counsellor now?'

‘No, but I'm someone who witnessed an unprovoked assault that has possibly put me in a vulnerable position.'

FB shook his head. ‘He won't say anything.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because it's all part of the game. He has got some connection to this shite and we'll never be able to prove it because he's too far up the food chain, but he's involved, I'm certain. And he knows that I know. So don't worry, PC Christie. He only got a slap, anyway – and I thought he was going to assault me, so I got the first thump in. At least that's what a judge'll hear if it comes to that.' FB smiled conspiratorially. ‘Won't he?'

Henry said nothing to that. ‘What happened in the cell?'

‘We came to an understanding, and that's all you need to know.'

Henry sipped his tea. ‘And it had nothing to do with you being sidelined from the murder enquiry?'

‘Oh yeah, that as well. A lot. Bastards.'

‘Must suck.'

‘Hey, don't get me wrong, I think murders should be run by superintendents, but the guy who's taken charge is a fast-track arsehole who wouldn't know a murder scene from a fuckin' landscape portrait. It's just grist to his career mill.'

‘Just like it would be yours,' Henry ventured cheekily.

‘Difference is, Henry, I want to make a difference. Yeah I want to be a high-ranking career detective, but I want to bring bad men to book, not show off bird shit on my uniform. So, at the moment, they can all just fuck off.'

Henry nodded. He could see the difference. Just.

Then he sat back smugly. ‘How would you feel if I could prove a connection between Longridge and the gang?' Then, as a rider he added, ‘Possibly.'

FB looked at him curiously.

‘And say,' Henry went on, ‘I could prove that mystical local connection, too? And suppose I knew who Spiderman was – and that Peter Parker is a fully paid-up member of the gang.'

‘Hold on, who's Peter Parker when he's at home?'

‘Spiderman's real name.'

FB screwed up his features. ‘Go on, I'm listening.'

‘I think I know who the other guy was in Longridge's flat, but, but, but,' Henry gabbled, ‘it doesn't actually, really prove anything, except to ID the climber and show that he has a local connection.'

‘What you're saying is, the one who you allowed to escape?'

‘And who told me he'd already killed one cop.'

FB dragged Henry into his office. ‘Why didn't you tell me this before?' he bleated.

‘Didn't have time.'

FB sighed heavily but also looked thoughtful. His flabby jawline tightened as he worked something through, then his expression changed to one of realization, as a penny dropped.

‘Bastard,' he hissed.

And Henry knew exactly what FB had just concluded – that Vladimir Kaminski was the one playing
him
, not vice versa as it should have been.

‘Run me through it again, just so we're singing off the same hymn sheet.'

‘When I locked Kaminski up for raping Sally Lee, I couldn't help but notice his tattoos. His skin's packed with them, but I saw one in particular when I was releasing him back – to reoffend …' Henry paused for effect. FB gave him a pissed-off, ‘get on with it', look. ‘I followed him down the corridor and saw one in particular on the back of his neck – a serpent wrapped around an automatic rifle. Just a crap, macho thing, I thought. So, I thought no more of it.' He shrugged.