Free Backlash by Nick Oldham Page B

bloody baboon.
    He did not arrive.
    Over an hour gone now.
    Roscoe made her way around the desk and began to pick up the scattered papers from the file – and it was then Henry came into the room as, on her hands and knees, Roscoe was at full cat-like stretch underneath her desk, reaching for that last sheet of paper beyond her fingertips.
    She heard the office door open behind her. She closed her eyes momentarily, an expletive formed silently on her lips. Unsaid but definitely there. She could sense Henry Christie standing behind her, gazing down at her slightly overweight rear end which was stuck up in the air like an offering to the gods. She waited a beat. Waited for the smart-aleck remark which would surely come. She could guess what it was going to be.
    But there was nothing. Silence.
    Roscoe withdrew from under the desk, pushed herself to her feet and brushed herself down. ‘Sorry about that.’ She could feel the prickle of redness in her cheeks.
    â€˜That’s OK,’ Henry said. ‘Costain didn’t show up for the ID parade, so I’ve sent everyone packing. The Khans are waiting for you in the front foyer. I haven’t let on about Mo. Thought I’d leave it for you.’
    â€˜Right, thanks Henry.’
    He gave a short nod and paused briefly before spinning on his heels and leaving.
    Roscoe stood there, lips parted.
    For the second time that evening, Henry Christie had confounded her expectations. Now he really was beginning to irritate her.
    Ten minutes later she was being driven by Dave Seymour to the Shoreside Estate. In the back of the car were Saeed and Naseema Khan. Roscoe was taking them home.
    Immediately after Henry had gone, Roscoe had spoken to the brother and sister in a quiet waiting room and broken the tragic news to them about their father. Saeed had taken it like a stomach punch – badly. Naseema’s grief, if there was any at all, had been more controlled and dignified.
    Roscoe, who had been thinking about her bum sticking up in the air, shook the picture out of her mind and looked over her shoulder at the Khans in the back seat of the CID car. Saeed was doubled over, face in hands, head between his knees, rocking back and forth, uttering guttural howls of anguish. Naseema was sitting staidly next to him, a cool hand resting on his back, patting him.
    Roscoe gave Naseema a wan smile, which she ignored. Roscoe settled down into her seat as Seymour turned the car into Shoreside. She was wondering how the family would take the news of Mo’s death. Unless they already knew, of course. That was a distinct possibility. Her eyes scanned the wet pavements which glistened under the halogen lighting of the few street lamps which were still intact and working. She peered down dark alleyways into the black shadows between houses, but she was not really concentrating on what she was looking at – her mind still stuck on Henry Christie – until she spotted the first unusual movement.
    â€˜Stop, Dave,’ she said quickly, using a chopping motion of the hand to reinforce the order. Seymour pulled in.
    â€˜Back up a few feet. I want to get a look up that alley we just passed. Thought I saw something.’
    Saeed raised his head, his cheeks were smeared with tears. ‘What’s happening?’
    â€˜Don’t know yet. We won’t be a second, then we’ll get you home.’
    Seymour coaxed the unwilling gear lever into reverse and backed up to the entrance to the alley, one of numerous rat-runs which criss-crossed the estate. They were often used by kids to rob other kids of their Reeboks, or grannies of their purses, and to then evade the cops when pursued. Roscoe’s eyes probed through the rain, shaded by her hands cupped over her brow.
    There was a quick flash of torchlight. Some movement. Several people were up there. Doing what?
    Then they were gone.
    â€˜Kids.’ Seymour spat – just another spectrum of society he