Judgement Call by Nick Oldham Page B

healthy that was for the force but he did know one thing – none of that made him want to be a detective any less. He was just certain that if he ever became one, he would be different. He would treat the uniform branch with respect, not disdain; he would share knowledge and information.
    â€˜Anyway, that said,’ the DI continued, ‘I can see a spark of something in you. I think you have a bit of work to do on your reasoning and your obvious dislike of being told what to do, but you’ve got a bit of an instinct in here.’ He tapped his own forehead. ‘So maybe one day you might make a jack … but you cannot go about raising your hackles to your superiors, nor can you go about
not
following orders. Get that?’
    â€˜Even if it means almost catching a violent gang?’
    â€˜Even if it means that … but, well done. It could have come out a lot worse, but you’re still here to tell the tale. Not many of us have that sort of experience.’
    â€˜Not sure I want it again.’
    â€˜Sometimes it comes with the territory.’
    Henry picked up his mug and sipped his tea, now going cold and unpalatable.
    â€˜Fancy a job?’ Fanshaw-Bayley asked. ‘Bit of a jolly?’
    â€˜Suppose so. What job?’ he asked with caution at the sudden change of subject.
    â€˜Wait here … I’ll get back to you.’ He pushed himself up, but then leaned over Henry, who could smell garlic on his breath and see a crumb in his moustache. ‘Do you know people call me “FB” for short?’
    â€˜I didn’t – but it makes sense.’
    â€˜Fanshaw-Bayley being a bit of a mouthful?’
    â€˜Uh, yeah, suppose.’
    â€˜Wrong. Think about it.’ He stood upright. ‘Hang on here.’
    Henry went to find another teabag – he had discovered somebody’s secret stash at the back of a cupboard in the tiny galley kitchen – and made himself another mug, using someone else’s milk also. Then he went to settle himself down on a settee in the lounge area where his intention was to savour his drink in silence, then get back out on the streets. He knew that the DI – ‘FB’ – had mustered a few cops and was getting them to do a house-to-house in Crawshawbooth, whilst Henry wanted to get down to the industrial area at the bottom of Holme Lane and do some of his own enquiries around there to see if anyone saw the Rover being parked there before the robbery, and then if anyone saw the actual getaway car, the Vauxhall Ventora, being dumped and torched there, and the transfer of the offenders from car to car.
    Whatever plans FB had for him, Henry was determined to get as involved as possible in the hunt for this very bad set of villains (‘villains’ was a word he loved) because he knew that if they weren’t stopped – and soon – someone was going to get in their way and get blown away. They had fired a handgun at the robbery scene, then fired a shotgun at a police officer, even though Henry realized they were really warning shots and he had been lucky that they were feeling lenient today. These guys were well down the violent-crime continuum and in the near future some poor sod, maybe a cop, would get his or her head blown off.
    A fresh shimmer of dread ran through Henry’s body as he re-lived the shotgun moment, his mind’s eye visualizing the gun pressed against the window next to his head. It would only have taken a nervous jerk of the masked man’s finger and Henry would have had no head to speak of.
    He placed his mug of tea down, stood up and on very dithery legs he left the lounge, walked along the corridor and turned into the gents’ toilet. He entered the single cubicle and locked the door.
    Then he knelt down in front of the toilet bowl, hung his head over it and convulsed from his guts upwards.
    Afterwards he washed his very pale face and returned to the lounge to continue