Bad Tidings Read Free

then speaking.
    â€˜Henry Christie . . .’ His voice was nervy as he wondered which of the two matters this could be. He didn’t really want it to be either, but there was slight relief when the voice at the other end announced, ‘Mr Christie, this is Inspector Howard, force control room . . .’
    Henry juddered a short breath. No, he didn’t want either call . . . what he wanted was a full night and a long morning in bed for once, and for nothing to happen . . . but the Force Incident Manager’s voice made this one infinitely more preferable to the call he could have got. The FIM was calling from Lancashire Constabulary’s HQ Communications Room at Hutton, four miles south of Preston. It was the FIM who managed the call-out rotas for the force, deciding which specialist, if any, needed to be turned out to deal with an incident.
    Not that Henry was even on a rota that week.
    That week – the week between Christmas and New Year – he was technically off duty. Nevertheless he had been out and about all week, from Christmas Eve all the way through to New Year’s Eve. He had been involved in a series of incidents that meant what should have been a week of rest and relaxation had been completely ruined by both work and personal business. He’d had less sleep than ten fingers, he claimed . . . at least it felt that way. And he had been waiting for a call each night, and now, on New Year’s Day morning at 3.48 a.m., it had come.
    Henry listened. Very fleetingly he wondered if the FIM was visualizing him. Did she see a man too quickly approaching his mid-fifties, standing in a chilly shower room, goosebumps all over his naked body, jotting down notes on the writing pad he’d purposely left on the toilet cistern? Probably not . . . the FIM was far too busy to allow such trivial thoughts to enter her head, Henry guessed.
    Henry asked questions, clarified any possible misunderstandings, asked her to repeat the location twice. Then he gave some specific instructions to the FIM, who very professionally reconfirmed them, and Henry gave her his estimated time of arrival.
    Call over, Henry turned on the shower and stepped into it for a two-minute freshen up, then a shave.
    His clothes were already hanging on the door of the en suite in anticipation of the call. It wasn’t formal wear – jeans, a shirt, a sweater and leather jacket (with a tie rolled up in the pocket, just in case a degree of formality was required at some stage), thick socks and practical footwear, a cross between trainers and walking shoes.
    When fully dressed, he emerged from the room.
    He had hoped not to disturb Alison Marsh, his lady friend, but she was fully awake and propped up on one elbow, bedside light on a low setting. She had a concerned look on her face. Henry felt bad about waking her. She had only been in bed two hours and he knew she was as exhausted as he was by the previous week.
    â€˜Sorry. Thought I was being quiet.’
    â€˜And I thought a gorilla had broken in and was smashing the place up.’
    â€˜Sorry . . . I need to go, love.’
    â€˜Which one is it?’ she asked quietly.
    â€˜Work.’
    She exhaled. ‘Take care.’
    He walked to her side of the bed and kissed her cheek.
    Henry made his way through the pub, grabbing his Karrimor Chatsworth jacket as he went, knowing it would be cold outside. He let himself out through the front door into the icy blast of the morning in the north Lancashire village of Kendleton. Up until a couple of hours before the place had been heaving with festivities and the pub, the Tawny Owl, being the only hostelry in town, had been the centre of it. And very well it had performed.
    Now it was eerily silent. The only visible remnants of the celebrations were streamers, party poppers spider-webbed out across the car park and several of the cars and a few balloons tied to wing mirrors. On the