Free Big City Jacks by Nick Oldham Page A

on to this in the hope that they were being told something different. They had to be told it unambiguously.
    â€˜In a collision with a cop car?’
    â€˜No – a taxi.’
    â€˜So the cops were chasing them and now Renata’s dead!’
    â€˜They were in a stolen car,’ Rik Dean interjected quickly, bristling.
    â€˜And the cops killed her,’ Troy said fiercely, brandishing his tub of Pot Noodle.
    â€˜This is a mess.’ The mahogany-coloured Nigerian doctor examined the wound in Bignall’s upper arm. ‘He needs surgery.’
    Pacing up and down behind him, Lynch spun ferociously. ‘I didn’t bring him here for you to tell me that. You’re on the payroll, get him fixed the best you can.’
    Bignall, in a haze of disorientation, was in no position to make any sort of contribution to the debate. He did not know where he was, what was going on, who the hell these people were . . . nothing. All he knew was pain and sickness. He wanted to die.
    â€˜He needs blood . . . he’s lost a lot . . . he needs to be on an operating table . . . I think he could be bleeding internally,’ the doctor said. ‘I can give him something for the pain. I can bandage it up, but he needs a surgeon to look at this.’
    â€˜You do it.’
    â€˜What with – a knife and fork? I have no facilities, don’t you see?’ he pleaded.
    â€˜Sort him,’ Lynch said brutally. ‘Patch him up, drug him up . . .’ He relented a little. ‘Then let’s think about getting him operated on.’
    The doctor paused thoughtfully, then, in a caring way which transgressed his hypocritical oath by 100 per cent, he said, ‘It’ll cost a grand.’
    â€˜Then you’d better do a bloody good job, hadn’t you?’
    Henry had been in this position before. Right in the middle of a grieving Costain family, with lots of wailing, moaning, shouting, cursing and gnashing.
    On hearing the news about Renata, even more family members seemed to appear out of the woodwork. Where they had all been previously secreted mystified Henry. He had once been on safari in Kenya with Kate in the pre-child days (following a massive paycheck during the 1984 miners’ strike) and their tour bus had got stuck in mud in the middle of nowhere. There had not been a soul in sight, just vast plains of emptiness and wild animals. But within minutes the bus was surrounded by kids and adults, all eager to assist for a small consideration. Henry had been astounded and it was rather like that with the Costains. They just appeared from nowhere. He could only guess at what the sleeping arrangements were.
    Eight people of varying age ranges were now in the brass-adorned living room.
    And they were moving en masse to an ugly mood.
    Henry knew it was time to beat a hasty retreat, otherwise there would be trouble. But even there and then, his mind was thinking of the future. The Costains were past masters at whipping up frenzied mobs on the estate and he could already envisage anti-police problems arising unless some pretty swift action was taken with the press and the community.
    The community beat bobbies were going to have their work cut out for a few days, he guessed.
    But in the here and now, he and Rik Dean needed to get out, preferably with Troy in tow, because they needed him to formally identify Renata’s body.
    Henry was attempting to get through to him. The Pot Noodle had been smashed angrily against a wall, the contents slithering down it. Troy was doing some classic ranting and raving, which did not actually quite ring true with Henry. There was something slightly suspect about the whole display.
    â€˜Troy . . .
Troy!
’ Henry shouted above the collective din. ‘You have to come with us, OK, pal?’ Henry played the sympathetic cop. Hand on shoulder. Sad expression. ‘We need you, pal . . . c’mon, we have to do this.’
    Troy slumped into an armchair,