Backlash by Nick Oldham Page B

face, jaded already. Not much more than an hour into the shift and he was having to look to his morals now . . . morals he had often hung out to dry when he had been a detective, just to get that result.
    â€˜Right, this is how it stands, Jane: we haven’t had this conversation; I don’t know that Mo Khan is dead; you haven’t told me a thing, OK? But the minute this ID parade is over, I want to know. Get me?’
    â€˜Thanks, Henry.’ Roscoe sighed with relief. Henry was pleased to hear her words were not tinged with triumph. However, he was highly annoyed with himself for being swayed from what he knew was the right course of action.
    â€˜By the way,’ Roscoe said. ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’
    Henry spun quickly away without responding and headed towards the identification suite, hoping that his decision would not be one which would come back like a crocodile and bite his arse. It was 7.15 p.m.
    â€˜How much longer are we going to give him?’ The question from Sergeant Dermot Byrne was directed at Henry Christie.
    It was three minutes before eight and Joey Costain had not yet answered his bail. He was almost three-quarters of an hour late. Restlessness was beginning to creep in. The pool of ten stooges – the volunteers rounded up to make up the numbers on the parade and paid the paltry sum of £10 for all their hanging around – were becoming bored. The novelty value of the experience was wearing dangerously thin.
    Saeed Khan was becoming increasingly obnoxious, muttering and ranting about ill treatment and racism.
    Joey Costain’s solicitor, one of Blackpool’s best-known defenders of criminals, much despised by police officers, was also agitated. He had arrived at ten past seven, having arranged to meet his client in the public foyer of the police station.
    Henry turned to the solicitor, a man by the name of Keith Dasher. He knew Dasher well and had developed a tolerably good working relationship with the guy over the years. Henry sighed. ‘He definitely said he was coming, yeah?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜When did you last speak to him?’
    â€˜Earlier this afternoon, by phone. He was going to come, definitely.’
    Henry raised his eyebrows and wondered why solicitors believed their clients.
    â€˜I could’ve told you he wouldn’t turn up,’ Dermot Byrne said. Henry’s eyes moved to him quizzically. ‘Because people like him don’t,’ Byrne said, responding to Henry’s expression. ‘I don’t know why we give people like him the chance,’ he added, looking challengingly at Dasher, anticipating a reaction but getting none.
    Dasher looked extremely indignant about the whole situation. It was evident that Joey Costain’s non-appearance was irritating him immensely. Even Dasher had better things to do in the evening than wait around in a cop shop. His problem was that the Costain family paid him good money, well over and above the normal rate, to represent them, so keeping them sweet was a necessity.
    â€˜Perhaps you could give him a ring now and see where he is,’ suggested Henry. ‘If he’s not here by 8.15, he’ll be circulated as wanted.’
    Dasher opened his briefcase and pulled out his mobile phone. He left the ID suite, punching a number into it.
    Byrne said, ‘I find it hard to be civil to people like him. Really annoys the life out of me.’
    â€˜It’s just business, isn’t it? He’s got a job to do and so have we. The catalyst is our prisoners.’
    â€˜Suppose you’re right,’ Byrne said grudgingly. He did not look terribly convinced by Henry’s liberal viewpoint. In his turn, Henry was not too surprised by Byrne’s attitude. A lot of cops thought in very clearly defined terms of right and wrong, them and us, and often lost sight of the overall picture – a tableau which Henry knew was very murky