Free Backlash by Nick Oldham Page A

she was on a hiding to nothing and that everything she said and did would be judged by the benchmark of Henry Christie. The man whose job, she overheard one detective remark, Roscoe had ‘fucking nicked’.
    She had rehearsed numerous times for the inevitable meeting with Henry. She had practised nonchalant facial expressions and devil-may-care body language and one or two sharp-tongued phrases which would put him slap-bang in his place. But all her good intentions had deserted her when the moment finally came. She’d become like an overawed dithering schoolgirl unable to think of the words to finish her little speech about the Khans. Then she had been so completely taken aback by Henry’s unexpected reaction she had made that stupid, inane closing comment. Where the hell had that come from? ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’ Jesus. She might as well have rolled over on her back like a submissive puppy and given in there and then. She had been furious with herself, mentally kicking her own arse down the corridor after the meeting and gritting her teeth to stop snarling, because, without trying, Henry had firmly taken the psychological upper hand. And, whether it was true or not, she perceived herself to be in his debt. She owed him one. It was a hole she had unthinkingly dug for herself, fallen into and didn’t know how to climb out of.
    As she waited for Henry to come to her office to give her the result of the ID parade, she fidgeted, wondering how to play it to get back on top, how she should manipulate Henry, what the strategy should be.
    She reached for the Khan/Costain file which contained all the statements taken so far and opened it, plugged in her little travel kettle and made a mug of tea, no sugar, skimmed milk. She switched on her laptop on the desk and slotted an audio CD into the drive, volume low.
    This was how it would be when Christie showed his face: she would be concentrating deeply, reading the evidence, brew in hand, Handel’s ‘Water Music’ just audible, drifting softly out of the tiny speakers. She would be halfway down a page, glance up at him as he entered, show slight annoyance and say, in a friendly way, ‘Just give me a second, will you?’ She would point to a chair and pretend to continue to get to the end of whatever it was she was reading. Then she would close the file, look up at him, having kept him waiting – albeit for a very short time – and allow him to speak. It was a good plan, she thought wickedly.
    But it never came to fruition. Firstly because the waiting was intolerable. She began clock-watching. And a watched clock never damn well moves, does it?
    She finished her tea and re-read the file twice. Then she needed to pee. The urgency to do so increased slowly but inexorably.
    Forty-five minutes. Just what the fuck was going on down there? Her bladder seemed to be bloating to the size and weight of a medicine ball.
    Almost an hour. No sign. Shit.
    She tossed the file back into her in-tray with an angry flick of the wrist. It missed, skittered across the desk, and fell on the floor fanning the contents out across the carpet. She surveyed her handiwork, her right leg shaking rhythmically.
    â€˜He’s getting to you again,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t let him . . . don’t. . .’
    There was just a cold dribble of tea remaining in her cup. She sucked it out with a vulgar slurp, banged the mug back down and stood up abruptly. Suddenly there was an incredible itch on her rib cage underneath her left boob. It screamed out to be scratched. She went for it. Flipped open a button on her blouse and inserted a hand, her fingernails easing the irritation, only to experience another itch, this time at the top of her right leg below the cheek of her backside. Sod’s law, Roscoe thought. No doubt Henry Christie would walk in through the door to find me scratching away like mad, contorted like a