Judgement Call (23 page)

‘Do that again, laddie, and you'll be on paper,' he warned Henry in his gruff Scottish timbre. He snatched the keys that were dangling from Henry's forefinger.

Effectively grounded for the time being, Henry – once again – took the opportunity to get his head around his paperwork. Now that Sally was safe he didn't have to worry about Kaminski until next day, when he planned to get a fresh and detailed statement from her, then get her photographed by SOCO and examined by a police surgeon.

If Kaminski was arrested in the meantime, all well and good. If not, Henry would root him out after he had done Sally's paperwork.

He was looking forward to it and was just a bit pleased with himself that he was actually making a difference in someone's life. ‘Freedom from tyranny and fear,' he said grandly to himself like the voice-over to a feature-film trailer. It felt kind of good.

But Henry had been extremely careless. Unwittingly, probably a bit cavalierly, and with the immaturity of age, the last thing he had expected when he loaded Sally Lee and baby into the back of the inspector's Maestro was to be observed – by Vladimir Kaminski and his brother Constantine.

Kaminski had been on his way back to Sally's with Constantine in a stolen Ford Granada fitted with legit number plates, a car stolen to order and which was in line to be used as the stage-two getaway car on the next, imminent armed robbery.

Kaminski had seen the police car driven by Henry – although he didn't know it was Henry at that time – turn onto the estate ahead of him. Not wanting to be spotted, he had dropped back and immediately lost sight of the cop car. He then drove cautiously into the estate and clocked the car parked up outside Sally's house, the front door of which was just closing as the officer was allowed in. Kaminski parked up a short distance away, giving himself a good but restricted view of the house from behind a couple of other vehicles and some bushes in a garden.

When, less than fifteen minutes later, Sally and the cop – who Kaminski now recognized as Henry – emerged from the house, luggage, pushchair and baby in tow, Kaminski's rage fired up instantly.

‘I know him,' Constantine said. ‘He was the cop in Manchester. I should've killed him.'

‘I know him too. He meddles. We follow,' he said grimly to his brother as the police car set off.

He fully expected to tail the car down to Rawtenstall police station, so he was surprised and puzzled when at Queens Square the police car veered off left towards Haslingden.

Keeping his distance, he followed and without much of a problem he saw it pull up outside the three-storey terraced house. Parking up nearby to dash back on foot, dipping behind a wall, he watched Henry deposit Sally and baby Aaron through the front door that was closed firmly in the cop's face.

They saw the officer pause for a few moments, almost with his nose up to the door, then turn away, get into the police car and drive off. Kaminski and his brother drove slowly past the house, noting the sturdy front door and the bars over the ground-floor windows. Other than these features, which were actually fairly subtle, there was nothing really to distinguish it from the houses either side.

‘What is it?' Kaminski wondered out loud, his heavy jaw rotating.

His brother knew instantly. ‘Place of safety. Women's refuge.'

‘Think so?'

‘Is … yes … I'm sure … look at the bars, the door. Not kick that down.'

Kaminski drove past again, then pulled in a little further along the street. He started to get out of the car. ‘I'm going to get that bitch.'

Constantine laid a restraining hand on his brother's arm. ‘No chance. They won't even open the door for you.'

‘Then I kick it down, drag her out.'

‘Again – no chance, like I just said. While you kick, they get the cops. I bet there's an alarm straight to the cop station.'

Kaminski settled back and thought it through. ‘Bitch is going to rat on me.'

‘Looks like it.'

‘I need to stop her.'

Constantine nodded agreement. ‘Yes, but later. We have more important things to do first.'

‘I need to speak to her tonight,' Vladimir insisted.

‘You will not get in there,' Constantine said.

‘Maybe there is a way, a subtle way.'

‘You – subtle?' Constantine laughed harshly.

Vladimir's eyes moved sideways. ‘As subtle as you blasting a woman cop with a shotgun. I am so jealous.'

Both men found this uproariously hysterical.

When they had settled, Vlad decided, ‘I will see her tonight, but I need to do something first.'

Henry ploughed on with his Crown Court files. He actually enjoyed the paperwork side of being a cop – in that he took a great deal of pride in the reports he submitted. If one was ever returned he would be gutted. These files, however, were back with him so he could answer some queries from the barristers, which was OK.

As he worked through them, his mind often wandered to Jo Wade, the image of her last moments in his arms etched vividly in his mind. Once or twice he had to put down his pen and close his eyes whilst he wondered if he could have done anything more for her. In his heart, and in other people's reassurances, he knew he'd done what he could. She had been mortally wounded and would have died anyway, but he could not completely shake off the thought …

After a couple of hours he was done. He dropped the files into the out-tray in the sergeants' office. And his work day was over. He intended being very busy over the next few days but he was going to chill tonight. A pint and a curry with Kate seemed to be the way forwards, maybe watch a video, but not CCTV footage from a shop. He needed to forget work for a few hours and perhaps see if he could perform without agony, as his groin area seemed much less sore than before and his nose didn't hurt quite so much, even if it still looked a mess.

The four lighted cigarettes pushed down between the settee cushions started it. It was an old-fashioned piece of furniture and its innards were not fireproof. They smouldered for quite some time and soon the foam that had been deliberately torn from inside caught fire and once that happened it took only seconds as the flames crackled and roared.

At the same time, the dirty, well-used oil in the chip pan that had been placed on the hob, the gas turned up high, started to bubble and as the heat increased, there was a ‘whoosh' as the oil caught fire and the flames licked the kitchen ceiling and raced along like an angry demon and thick, rancid smoke filled the room.

Two seats of fire were enough. Within minutes the whole house was ablaze. Not long after that, the building was gutted by flame.

Henry pulled on his jacket as he walked out of the door of the nick. He'd parked his car on a car park behind a row of shops at the back of the station, a walk of a couple of hundred yards, maybe.

His mind had switched off as the door closed behind him and was geared to the evening ahead. Working it all out: straight to Kate's to pick her up, back to his place for a shower and some canoodling (sex), then out for a pint. He fancied driving to the Deerplay pub out on the moors between Bacup and Burnley, one of his regular haunts. Then a takeaway and back to his with a video to watch Clint blow away a few bad guys.

A perfect evening.

He drove off the car park and a few moments later was at the traffic lights at Queens Square. They changed to green and he moved through but had to slam on as two fire engines bore down on him from the right, hurtling along Burnley Road from the fire station.

They jumped the red lights without even slowing down. If they had broadsided Henry, he and his car would have been mangled. As it was he stopped in time to see the two huge red beasts thunder past safely.

And, being curious, he wondered where they were going.

His instinct was to drop into their slipstream and follow. Had he been on duty he would have done so without a second's hesitation. Fire engines and ambulances were always worth checking out.

He held himself back, and turned slowly onto the roundabout and cut over the bridge behind ASDA. He saw them turn up towards the council estate and raising his eyes slightly, he saw the plume of smoke rising in the air from what was more than likely their destination.

Something nasty quivered through him.

He went after the fire engines.

2
a.m.: a good time to go burgling.

Not just because all right-minded people would be fast asleep but because this was the traditional changeover time for cops, when they would most likely be in the station, either coming in for refreshments or turning out, or finishing a tour of duty. And everyone knows that cops dawdle in police stations.

As did the burglar and, knowing it, always slotted his illicit night-time visits into this timeframe, which, even in the height of summer when the days were long and the nights were short, gave him the cover of darkness.

It helped that he was small, slim and could move unseen. A wispy ghost, dressed from head to toe in black, moving from shadow to shadow, keeping to the darkness even on well-lighted streets. He knew how to keep himself invisible by considering every move, every dash, stopping, listening, checking, not rushing. He knew his job.

Tonight was slightly different, though.

It was a break-in, but also a let-in.

He was on the street of the target house, just a normal East Lancashire street adjacent to an unremarkable small town centre. Terraced houses, nothing special.

He stood opposite, merged into the shadow in the doorway of a house, unseen by anyone passing in a car; even on foot a passer-by would have to stare hard to make him out.

His eyes roved the house, looking for a weakness.

Nothing.

So he moved and moments later he was in the alley running directly behind the house he was going to enter. Then he was at the high back wall of the property, at the door fitted within the wall that opened into the back yard. It was a solid, well-locked door. Still, he tried it, put his shoulder to it but it didn't even budge. As he had expected.

He looked up the wall, which was about eight feet high, two and a half feet higher than he was. Stretched across the top of it were strands of security wire with razor-like sections to it. Nothing he hadn't tackled before. Further down the alley he found a dustbin which he picked up and carried noiselessly to the wall.

He placed it down and climbed carefully onto it. He was light and it took his weight easily and now he could peer over the wall through the wire, into the back yard and the house. He immediately spotted a motion-activated security light fitted high on the back wall.

As good as he was at moving without being seen by the human eye, he knew he could not take the chance of the light coming on, so it had to be disabled.

Which was why he carried an air pistol. It was already loaded with a heavy, homemade lead pellet.

He pulled it out of the waistband of his black jeans and took aim at the lens of the security light, which was about six inches square, an easy target from about twenty feet.

Even in the dark he was confident he could smash the bulb. In his hands, the pistol was accurate up to about fifty feet.

There was a little bit of recoil because the airgun was quite powerful, but was also virtually silent, except for the muted ‘phut' and then the sharp crack as the lens and bulb broke.

He took no chances at that point, though. He ducked back down, squatting on the dustbin, waiting patiently for any reaction, such as lights or voices.

Nothing.

He rose cautiously, slipping the gun back into his waistband, then from his self-modified builder's utility belt he reached for his next burglar's tools, a pair of protective gloves and some wire cutters no bigger than pliers.

In moments he had snipped the security wires and folded them carefully backwards to form a gap just wide enough for him to slide through without snagging himself, a stupid thing to do that could cause problems. The thought of being hooked there for the cops to find in the morning was something that made him even more careful.

He dropped silently into the rear yard, keeping to the shadow of the wall and pausing once more to check. Burgling well was a game of patience.

Then he crossed swiftly to the back door which was sturdy and, he assumed, alarmed. High up on the wall and out of reach to even him, unless he'd brought a thirty-foot ladder, was a covered alarm bell. If it had been in reach he would have ensured its silence by spraying it with hard-setting foam from the can he always carried with him. Which meant that forcing the back door was not an option, nor was entering through any of the ground-floor windows either side, which were covered by steel bars.

However, the first- and second-floor windows were not afforded such protection.

A thick soil pipe descended the outside wall. It was an old one, made of clay, but it was sturdy and pulling at it he could tell it was well fixed to the brickwork. Secure enough for him. Using a cord he also carried for such eventualities he slipped it around the pipe, wrapped the ends around his wrists and fists, then, like a man shimmying up a palm tree, he went upwards one foot at a time until he was alongside a first-floor window. He reached out with his leg and placed a foot on the window ledge and wedged himself between the pipe and the window like a mountaineer. He could now see through the window as there was no curtain and as he suspected, this was the first-floor landing, off which were three doors.

His eight-inch steel jemmy was the next tool from his belt and he used this to begin to prise right through the window frame, which started to crumble with rot as he worked the tool. He wasn't surprised by the poor state of the window. A place like this, run on hardly any money, mostly charitable donations, couldn't usually afford new windows.

But for the burglar this was the noisy and precarious part, wedged nine feet up and riving away at the window.