Judgement Call (22 page)

‘Which room?'

‘Back bedroom,' she whispered.

Henry looked at FB. ‘My shout, I think.' He turned and strode into the hallway, then stopped at the foot of the stairs. He decided to creep up, although he could see it would be hard to mask any approach because the stairs were uncarpeted and looked ill-fitting and creaky.

He went up slowly, placing his feet on the outer edge of the steps where the footing was firmer and less likely to move. Then he was on the landing. He had been in a lot of similar houses in the last few years, expected to be in many more in years to come. There was a box room and bedroom at the back, further along was a bathroom/toilet and then the main bedroom at the front of the house. Classic council house. He stood, listening.

The box room door was open, the room cluttered with baby things, toys, clothes. The door to the back bedroom was closed. One step and Henry could touch it. His fingertips slid around the orb that was the handle and then gripped it, turning it slowly. His intention was to burst through and catch Jack Bowman, who he imagined would be sitting in there, presumably next to the cot, keeping still and silent, hoping the baby would not start to scream, waiting for the nasty horrible cops to leave.

There was a scuffing noise behind the door, inside the room.

Henry pushed the door but found it would not open, even though it was unlocked. Something was jammed behind it.

Henry cursed, then put his shoulder to it, forcing it and seeing the baby's cot. But it wasn't too difficult to open, so he carefully put his weight to it, pushed and entered, edging sideways through the gap he'd created, seeing the baby still asleep in the cot. Then he poked his head through and looked properly into the room – and saw Jack Bowman, prisoner on the run. He was sitting on the ledge of an open bedroom window, his feet dangling out.

‘Got you,' Henry snarled, forcing his way through the gap, but he had spoken way too early. Bowman glanced over his shoulder, confirmed it was a cop and not his sister coming through the door. Henry shouted, ‘You stop right there, pal.'

But Bowman said, ‘Like fuck,' and launched himself out of the window, disappeared out of sight.

‘Jeez,' Henry said and dashed to the window, half-expecting to see Bowman in a crumpled heap in the back garden, at least one leg broken.

But that was too much to hope for.

He was small, wiry, lithe and light. He hit the ground perfectly, did a forward roll to cushion the drop and dissipate the energy and as Henry's face came to the window, Bowman was back on his feet. He stopped and turned and gave Henry an exaggerated and passionate double ‘V' sign with both hands and shouted, ‘Wanker,' then sprinted across the debris-strewn garden, vaulted over the broken back fence and was gone.

With a distorted look, Henry balled his fists furiously – and behind him, little baby Aaron started to scream.

Henry went back down where FB and Sally waited for him, expectantly.

‘Jumped out the bloody window,' Henry said, explaining the lack of a prisoner in his grip. ‘And your kid's screaming for its mummy.'

Sally smiled, wincing as the pain of doing so hurt her face.

FB simply regarded Henry as if he was a buffoon.

‘Where's the picture frame?' Henry asked Sally. He could tell she was about to protest and demand, ‘Which picture frame?' but Henry stopped that by saying quickly, ‘And don't say you don't know, Sal. The picture frame your bro took from the old woman's house he burgled the other day. I want it back and I want it now and if you don't give it to me straight away, I'll rip this house apart and who knows what the hell else I'll discover.'

‘You can't.'

‘Can.'

She shot a glance at FB, who said, ‘He can and he will, love.'

‘Dining room,' she admitted mutely.

‘Thank you,' Henry said. He went down the hall into the dining room and found the silver picture frame on the fireplace, now displaying a photograph of Sally and baby Aaron, smiling proudly. Henry walked back to the living room, dismantling the frame to extract the photo, which he handed back to Sally, coldly saying, ‘Be thankful I haven't torn up
your
memory.'

Despite a drive around and knocking on a few likely doors and speaking to a few likely characters, the two cops could not unearth Vladimir Kaminski, who had gone to ground, as had the escapee Jack Bowman. Henry and FB returned empty handed to Rawtenstall police station and went their separate ways for the time being.

Henry went back into the report-writing room to finish his Crown Court files whilst he had chance. He intended to go hunting for Kaminski and Bowman later. They were a bit like lions, only came out at sunset.

At the desk he placed the thick files down but before opening them he reached into his jacket and came out with the torn-up photograph that he had saved from Sally Lee's kitchen bin.

He let the jagged pieces fall onto the desk, then began to reassemble them like a jigsaw until he had an almost complete photograph again.

It was a black-and-white photograph, faded, of a man and a woman on their wedding day.

When Henry had automatically glanced down when Sally Lee had dropped the teabag into the kitchen bin he had glimpsed a torn piece of the photograph and that had been of a woman's face and in that instant he had immediately recognized it as a very much younger version of the old woman whose house had been burgled. Mrs Fudge.

At least he had recovered the picture frame, the one Jack Bowman had unsuccessfully attempted to sell at Fat Jack's second-hand shop. That was now in the police ‘other property' store (as opposed to found property) and Henry was going to return it to the old lady sooner rather than later.

The photograph troubled him, for emotional and sentimental reasons.

It was all well and good getting the silver frame back, but what the old lady really wanted was the photograph, the only one in existence of her wedding day. The one that Sally and her brother had callously torn to shreds and replaced in the frame with one of their own.

The one now in scraps in front of Henry. He certainly didn't have the skills to reassemble it decently. He sighed heavily as he looked at it, seeing the ecstatic faces of two young people in love on the best day of their lives. She was extremely pretty and he very handsome and it reminded Henry of the old photos of his parents on their wedding day. Except his parents were still alive, still married, and Mrs Fudge had lost her husband not long after the wedding, when he went to war and never came back.

‘Hey!' FB leaned unexpectedly into the room, interrupting Henry's thoughts.

‘Boss.'

‘Forgot to say – well spotted re the photo … maybe we should've dragged Sally in for handling stolen goods or harbouring a wanted crim?'

Henry screwed up his face. ‘Nah – too much like hard work for not much result.'

‘Ahh,' FB said knowingly, ‘I see you're beginning to look at the bigger picture. You don't need to lock everyone up every time.'

‘Mm,' Henry muttered dubiously.

‘Anyway, well done, PC Christie … What's this?' FB looked over Henry's shoulder.

‘Wondering if it's salvageable or not. It'd be nice to get it back to the old lady in one piece, somehow.'

FB slapped Henry's back. ‘Best of luck with that, soft-arse,' he said and was gone.

‘You're so compassionate,' Henry mumbled, his brow creased. Then he had a thought, gathered the pieces of the photograph together and scooped them into an envelope, and left the police station.

As much as Sally Lee had tried to hide the fact that Jack Bowman was hiding up in her back bedroom and was happy to handle stolen property, Henry was still concerned about her welfare. On his return to the nick after his little errand, he sought out the woman police sergeant who ran the Juvenile Bureau, had a quick chat and got an unlisted phone number from her.

After that he snaffled another set of car keys – this time for the patrol inspector's Maestro – without permission and set off back up to the estate to see Sally once more.

He parked outside and knocked. She answered sullenly, her child slung over her shoulder. She was clearly not impressed to have Henry on her threshold.

‘You again? Neither of 'em's here.'

‘It's you I've come to see,' he said. She one-eyed him suspiciously. ‘You going to let me in?'

Reluctantly she let go of the front door and trudged back into the living room and laid the sleeping child out on the settee, tucked in and safe by a cushion.

‘What do you want?' She found her cigarettes again, pushed down between the cushions of the settee, tapped one out and lit it, blowing smoke up to the ceiling.

‘I want to know how long you're going to take this for?' he said.

‘Take what?' she asked, but knew exactly what he was talking about.

‘The abuse. The beatings. The rapes.'

‘Henry – you're effin' dim, aren't you? I'll take it till I'm dead, I suppose. You twats won't do anything, I don't have anywhere to go, I've no friggin' money and I've got that!' She jabbed the nicotine-stained first and second fingers of her right hand, between which she held a crumpled cigarette, at the sleeping child. ‘I'm trapped,' she said slowly, then arched her eyebrows for him to understand. ‘Anyway, we've been through this.'

‘I want to help you. I want to arrest Vladimir and charge him with your rape and the assaults … and screw the system that says I can't … but you have to help me to help yourself. I'll get him off the street into custody and keep him there, but it's you that will make it happen as much as me.'

Sally sat down next to the baby, still smoking. She said nothing, but Henry could see her thought process in action by the look on her face.

‘I'm not prepared to do it, though, unless you promise you'll see it through. If you don't, then it'll all be pointless, you'll stay trapped and you'll get hammered every time he feels like hitting out.'

Her mouth tightened. She wiped her eyes.

Henry had been speechifying whilst standing up. He sat on the edge of the chair opposite, looking at Sally.

‘I know it'll be hard. I
know
that. But it's the only way to break free from him, or you can just let yourself be caught in this vicious circle and one day, the only way it'll be broken is when you die … maybe.' His eyes played over her face, wondering if his harsh words were having any effect.

She took another drag, blew the smoke up high. ‘How would it work?' she asked quietly.

A shimmer of hope skipped through Henry. ‘I took the liberty of contacting a women's refuge on your behalf.' She shot him a look of horror. He held up a hand. ‘No obligation, Sally, but there's a room for you and your baby if you want.'

‘Sounds shit.'

‘It is basic, yeah. Bit like being in a motel, but each room has a bed, cot, settee and a telly and a private bathroom. So yeah, basic, but you'll be safe there and you'll be out of here. Just short term, yeah? I'll get you settled in there tonight, then I'll come and see you in the morning, take a good statement and then arrest Vlad as soon as possible after that. Then he's off the streets and when he's on remand, you come back here and plot your future. How about it?'

‘What about your boss? That little fat bastard?'

‘I'll handle him,' Henry said with a confidence he didn't feel. He was making a lot of ‘can-do' claims to Sally, when he knew for certain he would have to do some of it under the radar that was FB's nose.

Sally thought it through silently, savouring her cigarette. Eventually she drew the smouldering tobacco back as far as the filter, crushed it in an overflowing ashtray on the settee arm, and stood up.

‘What do I need?'

‘What you can pack into a suitcase for a couple of nights for you and the baby. I can come and collect anything else you might need later. I take it you have a suitcase?'

She nodded. ‘I'll get my shit.'

Henry smiled encouragingly. ‘They'll look after you, I promise.'

‘I'll need to take some whisky with me.'

‘That's fine.'

‘Watch the kid,' Sally instructed him and left the room. The child did not move, other than the tiny rise and fall of the chest.

Henry used his PR to call up the woman sergeant in the Juvenile Bureau and confirmed that the ‘offer' had been taken up. The WPS acknowledged this and said she would call ahead with an ETA. They spoke cryptically just in case FB was listening or if someone was scanning the police airwaves illegally.

‘Half an hour,' Henry told her.

There was a thump-thump-thump as Sally came back down the stairs dragging an overloaded suitcase behind her, step by step. She put a duffel coat on. She picked up the baby and wrapped him in a blanket, looked around and picked up her cigarettes. Henry heaved the suitcase and a fold-away pushchair into the police car as Sally climbed into the back seat with the child.

The women's refuge was in Haslingden, a few miles away, and on the journey Henry tried to get some information from Sally about the whereabouts of Vlad and Bowman and what they had been up to, but she claimed not to know.

The refuge was a large old terraced house just on the periphery of the town centre, with nothing externally to identify it. It was discreet, anonymous, for obvious reasons.

They were greeted by a suspicious-eyed woman who peered through a gap in the triple-chained door and demanded that Henry – who was in plain clothes, even though he was driving a marked police car – identify himself. He did, flashing his warrant card, but wasn't allowed in – ‘We don't allow men in here, whoever they might be,' he was told sternly. He gave Sally a quick wave as she entered and the heavy door was slammed firmly shut in his face.

Result.

‘Sorry, boss, mercy mission,' Henry apologized to the portly, red-faced patrol inspector who had been trashing his office in an effort to discover the whereabouts of his car keys.