Free Judgement Call by Nick Oldham Page B

his fingers at her in a ‘go away’ gesture.
    â€˜Who was that?’ Kate asked.
    â€˜No one … just someone … telling me to get my skates on. I need to pick up a car from Accrington and drop one off.’
    â€˜Mm, OK … anything else?’
    Henry thought he could have told her about being shot at and having lost a rapist but decided that stuff could wait. ‘No … I should be back mid-afternoon tomorrow, but then I’ve got to interview the prisoner … so can we pick up tomorrow night?’
    â€˜Yeah, suppose.’ Kate’s voice had lost all enthusiasm.
    Feeling empty and dishonest, Henry hung up and stared at the phone for a moment before turning his head slowly back to the door where Jo was still to be seen.
    â€˜Are we good to go?’
    Henry nodded, wondering if he would be coming back as a single man again. ‘Bugger,’ he said and rose slowly.

SIX
    A fter a scenes of crime officer had found some shotgun pellets embedded in the bodywork of the Cavalier and dug a few out as evidence, then taken a series of photographs of the wounded car, Henry Sellotaped a plastic carrier bag over the smashed driver’s door window then he and Jo jumped in and drove over to the garage at Accrington police station. Here they left the Cavalier and its shot-damaged tyre to be repaired – Henry guessing it would be mainly a case of body filler and touch-up paint but that a new tyre would have to be bought. Then, having tossed their overnight gear into the boot of their replacement car, an older ex-Task Force Vauxhall Victor, now part of the divisional pool of vehicles, they discovered it needed to be refuelled, the screenwash needed completely refilling and engine oil was just a memory for the dipstick. In other words, the usual scenario for a police car.
    Those problems sorted, including making up a mileage book that hadn’t seen an entry for over a week, the last reading in it almost a thousand miles less than was on the odometer, they began their journey south, with Henry at the wheel.
    Progress was slow, the main motorways, the M6 and M1, being extremely busy.
    They made one stop at Birmingham, then hit the London rush hour at the worst time imaginable: 6.00pm. It took an hour and a half to circumnavigate the capital before dropping down into Kent and driving into Dover just before 9pm. Henry had done all the driving, but he didn’t mind because he could claim that concentrating on the road was the reason for not saying too much. Jo also did not say too much, but sat contentedly in the front passenger seat, watching the world whizz by. Henry was aware that she kept taking sneaky glances at him, but he also had a few peeks at her, too.
    The first port of call was to Dover police station, just to introduce themselves, announce their arrival and make arrangements for the prisoner pick-up next morning. Once that was done they got directions to their bed and breakfast accommodation, which they found quite easily, and booked in.
    As promised, the rooms were separate – but adjacent. There was no en-suite bathroom or toilet, these facilities being across the hallway. It was a fairly dank and dingy establishment and Henry was glad he would only be spending one night in it. Once they had settled in, they went out for some food and beer.
    The evening was still reasonably pleasant and warm. The strong sea-smell of the English Channel invaded Henry’s nostrils, but he thought it was a good aroma. They strolled down the main street, identified a Chinese restaurant that would do very nicely, but decided on a drink first and easily found a decent pub in which they bought a pint of lager each. Henry paid.
    It was quiet and they found a couple of chairs by the bow window and sat opposite each other across a beaten copper-topped table.
    Henry raised his glass and they chinked.
    â€˜Cheers.’
    He took a long draught, his throat dry after the long drive. Jo took a