Free Dead Heat by Nick Oldham Page A

Superintendent would say hello. The main thing would be that he would have a tattered reputation to repair and to do so would be an uphill struggle of massive proportions. After all, who wanted to work for a supervisor whose judgement had been deemed very, very suspect?
    He parked his car on the secure police-rented level of the multi-storey car park adjacent to Blackpool Central Police Station and climbed out, ensuring he locked it. He walked to the door which opened out on to the public mezzanine which stretched between the front of Blackpool Magistrates’ Court and the front entrance of the police station. Once through the door, he paused for a moment to savour the ever present chilled sea breeze. He looked upwards at the monstrosity that was the cop shop. Eight floors of concrete ugliness. He had spent many years of his police service here and was returning after an enforced absence – a suspension from duty, actually – having lost his temporary rank of Detective Chief Inspector, back to Detective Inspector – and also his coveted role as a Senior Investigating Officer based at Headquarters in the team responsible for investigating murders and other serious crimes. It had been his ideal job.
    To his left he glanced at the steps leading up to the court. A few early arrivals for the day’s proceedings had gathered in a motley group, smoking roll-ups, hunched miserably together. They peered up from their huddle and scowled at Henry, who recognized each and every one of the little toerags.
    He waved and smiled at them.
    They did not respond. Not one of them was brave enough to give him a middle finger or even a lazy ‘V’.
    â€˜Shitbags,’ Henry mumbled to himself. ‘Nice to see the faces haven’t changed.’ He walked to the police station, feeling eight sets of eyes burning into his back.
    A few very depressed and grey-looking people were waiting at the enquiry desk.
    Henry slid his swipe card through the scanner, half expecting it not to work. But it did. He pushed open the door which led into the innards of the station. With a certain degree of trepidation, he stepped across the threshold and let the door click shut behind him.
    It was the first time he had set foot in a police station in four months. It gave him a strange, queasy feeling. He had been to Headquarters on several occasions recently, the last time being for the full hearing into his disciplinary case when he was cleared of any wrongdoing. But other than on those closely supervised visits when he had been treated like a terrorist, he had not been allowed on police property.
    But now he was back with a warrant card, swipe card and full police powers.
    He allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile. Then the enormity of the situation hit him like a sock full of pennies. He blew out his cheeks and, avoiding the elevator because he wasn’t going to risk getting trapped in a confined space with possibly someone he did not want to be with, began to climb the stairs . . .
    â€˜. . . Daddy, Daddy!’ The harsh shrieking voice cut sharply into Henry Christie’s daydream. He had been well immersed in his thoughts, so deep he had totally lost track of everything in his pipe dream of returning to work totally exonerated by the disciplinary panel. He shook his head and twisted in the direction of his youngest daughter, Leanne. She was standing at the conservatory door, her body language expressing complete impatience with him.
    â€˜Oh, OK, love . . . are you ready to make tracks?’
    â€˜Dad, I have been so ready for an age. I couldn’t find you.’
    â€˜I’ve been sitting here, reading the papers like I do every Sunday, while I wait for you to get ready.’
    â€˜Dad,’ Leanne said pointedly, ‘you weren’t reading the papers, you were in a trance . . . and now it’s time to go or we’ll be late.’
    â€˜OK.’ He pushed himself out of the low cane sofa and