Free Critical Threat by Nick Oldham Page A

tasked to run projects no one wanted to touch.
    Henry knew the writing had been on the wall for some time. Now it was confirmed: his career as a detective was over.
    â€˜Fuck ’em,’ he said out loud, drawing looks of apprehension from other customers, several of whom made space for a bloke who was obviously deranged, a prime example of the social mistake that was ‘care in the community’.
    Special Projects wasn’t so bad for anyone who enjoyed sloshing around in the ‘corporate pool’ – that sad bunch of people who had been shelved by the force. He was given a refurbished office in one corner of an otherwise open-plan office on the top floor of headquarters with no windows and lots of artificial light. From his enclave he could observe his new team. They consisted of a mixed bag who had, for various reasons (none positive), been thrown together after having been batted round from department to department and were generally, and often unfairly, referred to as ‘the sick, lame, lazy and loony’.
    He tried not to compare them to the characters in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, because he felt tarred with the same brush.
    Their work consisted of steering various projects from conception to completion – mostly tedious, unsexy ones, all about as dry as birdseed – as well as quality assuring operational orders.
    As far as Henry was concerned, there was one saving grace: being a headquarters ‘shiny-arsed bastard’, he made sure his name was on as many call-out rotas for weekends as possible, which meant he could still keep in touch with the real world of policing and detectives.
    Which was how he had ended up sitting in an increasingly stuffy personnel carrier at an unearthly hour in Accrington, waiting to raid a property which might, or might not, have some loose connection with terrorism.
    He had received the phone call at 8 p.m. the previous evening. Knowing he was on the rota for that weekend, he had not drunk anything for almost forty-eight hours and was experiencing some dithery withdrawal symptoms as he sat down with Kate to watch the typical mind-numbing Sunday evening TV fare. That she was on her third glass of Blossom Hill red, and it looked like the bottle was going to be demolished and she was showing signs of becoming frisky, did not help matters. But he knew it would be the next evening before he could even think about having a drink. Sex, on the other hand, was a possibility.
    In truth, the call-out was not totally unexpected. There had been rumours of a big Special Branch op, but as Henry was no longer part of the inner sanctum, that’s how they remained to him – just rumours.
    The SB detective superintendent had telephoned to turn him out. The tone of the man’s voice made it clear to Henry that he was only making up numbers. ‘Someone’s gone sick, someone else is unobtainable and you’re the only one left, so you’ll have to do,’ the guy might as well have said.
    But what the hell? It ensured he did not have to sit through a double helping of
Coronation Street
followed by some Sunday evening romantic drama that would have made him want to commit suicide.
    An hour later he was at Blackburn Police Station, ill-fitting uniform, overalls and all, watching an SB briefing and trying to work out who the shady figures were lurking in the background. Spooks, he realized. MI5, MI6: the taskmasters of the Special Branch. When they cracked the whip, SB jumped.
    Henry listened hard and critically and as much as it kicked his already bruised ego, he was glad he had been given a nothing job in the scheme of things.
    â€˜
Control to Echo Echo Two-Zero
,’ the earpiece burst to life, making Henry jump awake. The call sign of his team.
    â€˜Receiving.’ Everyone in the van stiffened with anticipation.
    â€˜
Green light, I repeat, green light. Understood?
’
    â€˜Understood – responding.’ Henry turned