Seizure by Nick Oldham Page B

ankles, reading a newspaper on the toilet.
    When the first uniformed cop booted open the toilet door, the suspect merely looked at him over the top of his paper and said coolly, ‘You’ll have to wait your turn, pal, I’m constipated.’
    His name was Richard Last – inevitably Tricky Dicky – and during the course of his relatively short life (he was twenty-seven) he’d become one of the north-west’s most feared armed robbers. Even so, such villains had stomach problems from time to time. And it was fortunate he was stuck on the toilet because, as his house was searched, two firearms were discovered in the attic and one under his mattress. The latter was a fully loaded automatic pistol, probably kept there for the occasions when someone unannounced came bursting through his door.
    He smelled of sleep, sweat and cigarette smoke. He needed a shower and two hours after his arrest, having been conveyed directly to Blackpool nick instead of via Rochdale, he still needed to crap.
    â€˜I’m answering none of your questions,’ he stated categorically to Henry and Rik in interview room number one. ‘Not till I’ve seen a doctor, been given a shit-pill, and then I’ve seen my solicitor.’ The prisoner was now wearing a white forensic suit, commonly called a zoot suit, and sat squirming in the chair, very uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t shitted for days and I feel like I’m going to burst, only it won’t come. So don’t even bother asking me anything until I have done.’
    The two detectives, however, remained unmoved by the plight of Tricky Dicky’s bowels.
    Henry knew that the arrests of Richard Last and his running mate, Jack Sumner – locked up during a simultaneous raid and ensconced in another cell out of earshot of Last, and without either of them knowing the other had been arrested – were acts of hope.
    They were two violent robbers who fitted the bill nicely and he guessed their arrests would probably be the first of many fishing expeditions – cloaked by layers of solid intelligence, obviously, just to appease the defence solicitors who would become involved along the way. Henry knew everything had to look above board. Actually he wasn’t too concerned by the heavy-handed nature of these tactics. Even if these guys weren’t ultimately involved in the supermarket murder, something else – such as other offences or intelligence – was usually thrown up by similar arrests.
    Which was the case with Richard Last and Jack Sumner.
    Henry knew he would struggle to put either of them at the scene of the robbery. If they were involved, they were very cute forensically and so far, neither the CCTV footage, witnesses nor intelligence had come up with anything useful.
    And on top of that, Henry was beginning to suspect that neither man was involved anyway.
    So the discovery of firearms at Last’s house and a massive wodge of cocaine at Sumner’s hidden under floorboards, did help matters. It gave the cops a toehold.
    â€˜I’ve done nowt,’ Last said cockily, and not for the first time. He was feeling better. His bowels had been evacuated and he’d had a chat with his solicitor, a sly, deep-eyed brief from Manchester, who sat back and watched the interview proceed with cold detachment.
    â€˜I want to know where you were yesterday, what you did, who you saw, who you spoke to, which car you used,’ Rik Dean insisted. ‘Then after I’ve followed all that up and spoken to the people concerned, I might believe you.’
    Last took a slightly hesitant breath and his eyes flicked to his solicitor. It was an insignificant movement, but Henry saw it and hoped it would be captured on the videotape recording of the interview. He swallowed and his nostrils flared with the scent. Perhaps his earlier assumptions had been wrong. Maybe Last was involved.
    â€˜I was at home all day.’
    Up to that point,