Backlash by Nick Oldham Page A

one who had decided that Naseema and Saeed Khan should not be informed about their father’s death before the ID parade took place.
    â€˜Despite that,’ Roscoe said stubbornly, ‘I still don’t think we should tell them. That way no pressure is put on the girl – at least no more pressure than she’s already under. If we drag a hysterical, sobbing female down a line of stooges, it’s more than likely she will not perform.’
    â€˜Perform to our standards, you mean, by picking Joey Costain out of the line-up?’
    Henry saw he had momentarily hit a nerve before the DI spoke again. ‘What I mean is that she needs to be able to think straight, keep her head together and pick the little shit out.’
    â€˜If she wants to pick him out,’ Henry observed.
    â€˜Yeah, well, there is that to it,’ Roscoe conceded. ‘Rumour has it they’re shagging each other.’
    There was a beat of silence between the two officers. They were discussing this delicate matter in a corridor – a location often used to conduct police business – both trying not to raise their voices. The atmosphere between them was fragile to start with, but when Dave Seymour had told Henry that Roscoe did not want the relatives informed of Mo Khan’s death until after the ID parade, it had smacked Henry’s ‘ethical’ button. He had immediately stormed up to the CID office and confronted Roscoe. There was a degree of devilment involved too, because he knew that if he had been in Roscoe’s position, he would probably have pushed for the same thing: a nice, clean parade at which the suspect was identified – then arrested for murder.
    But he wasn’t in Roscoe’s position and the last thing Henry needed was to be the subject of a complaint, which if attached to the ‘race card’ could be very uncomfortable. As much as anything, he was watching his own back. He had enough complications in his life without taking on any further grief.
    â€˜No easy answer,’ Roscoe admitted. She looked thoughtfully down at her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger, while making a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘I could really do with a quick result and, to be honest, I know that if we did tell them about Mo’s death, Joey Costain would probably have to be re-bailed and I’d’ve lost the element of surprise. I intended to drop it on his toes tonight, because he won’t know Mo Khan has died.’ She was pensive. Henry watched her face carefully. ‘And that estate they live on is buzzing with tension. If Joey Costain was out of the picture, the place would be a lot calmer. He’s a real shit stirrer. A riot up there – and that’s not an exaggeration – is the last thing the town needs this week with the conference starting tomorrow.’
    Henry let her ramble on, while he remained tight-lipped. His problem was the here and now: how to deal properly and sympathetically with the brother and sister. Yet he could appreciate where Roscoe was coming from, even though she had not expressed it in so many words. She was new to the job. This was her first big case here in Blackpool and there was a good chance Roscoe and her crew could bottom it without help from the headquarters SIO team. And if they did, her credibility rating would soar with her team of detectives, predominantly made up of white males lying in wait for women officers to trip up and show their fannies.
    â€˜So what are you going to do? I know you probably don’t like me very much because I’ve got your job, even though we hardly know each other. I can understand if you don’t feel inclined to help me, but the end might justify the means in this case . . . for the greater good.’ She obviously had more to say, but shut up there and let the words hang around, knowingly playing on Henry’s instincts as a jack . . . former jack, that is.
    He rubbed his