Bad Tidings Read Free Page B

him nauseous.
    Because of their shared history – weighted mainly in favour of FB – Henry could have made a stand against the rotund chief. He had done so often, though he rarely gained any advantage from it. He could have said ‘No’ on this occasion, but FB had the trump card: murder.
    They were in FB’s office on the middle floor of police headquarters at Hutton, overlooking the sports pitches and the huge building – known as the Pavilion – that housed the Major Crime Unit, and beyond that the wooded campus in which the force Training Centre was located.
    â€˜Sit, sit,’ FB purred, gesturing towards the leather settee on the other side of his office, positioned against the wall underneath a big, formal portrait of the Queen.
    Bristling at his own weakness – and checking his watch tetchily (it was 6.17 p.m. on Christmas Eve) – Henry slouched round-shouldered over to the settee and dropped miserably onto it. FB rose from the dark wood, leather-bound office chair behind his expansive leather inlaid desk – two pieces of furniture that would not have looked out of place in the captain’s cabin of the
Cutty Sark
. Scooping up two fat folders, he followed Henry but sat down directly opposite him on one of the armchairs on the other side of a glass-topped coffee table with an ancient map of the world beneath the glass.
    Peevishly, Henry folded his arms, his mouth twitching. He had been grinding away full tilt for the last six months and had booked annual leave for the week ahead. He was looking forward to helping Alison, unofficially, at the Tawny Owl, spending a happy week with her and her daughter Ginny, and maybe inviting his daughters, Jenny and Leanne, to spend a couple of nights at the Owl, too. A bit of a ‘get-to-know-you’ thing.
    The two files in FB’s arms meant that Henry’s plans were about to change, but neither man could have imagined just how much. And, although he didn’t know it just then, something else totally unrelated to work was about to happen that would also screw up his week.
    FB gave him his most understanding smile as he placed the files on the table. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea?’
    Henry blinked at the offer.
FB doing something for me?
But then he realized it was after six and all of FB’s support staff had gone, and there were no lackeys to whip into shape. Christmas Eve meant an early dart for all the HQ office staff. The place was like the
Mary Celeste
.
    â€˜Coffee would be good.’ Though Henry loved his coffee, he rarely drank it after 3 p.m. unless he needed to keep going. Something in FB’s eyes led him to believe that he might have to keep running tonight.
    FB stood up and poured two mugs from the filter machine on top of the dark panelled sideboard. He handed one to Henry, then reseated himself opposite.
    â€˜We know why it was half a job, don’t we?’ FB said.
    â€˜Uh – because he got himself in deep criminal shit and investigating murder wasn’t his top priority, even though he was an SIO?’ Henry answered what he knew had been a rhetorical question.
    â€˜That’s it in a nutshell,’ FB agreed.
    They were talking about Detective Superintendent Joe Speakman, a former colleague of Henry’s on FMIT – the Force Major Investigation Team – who had become embroiled in various criminal schemes that had ended tragically for him and his family. After stumbling on Speakman’s death, Henry had uncovered organized activities stretching from Lancashire to Cyprus and up into Russia. It turned into a complex, wide-ranging investigation that, six months down the line, was still ongoing for a small, dedicated team of detectives headed by Henry. People were still on the run, arrests still had to be made.
    FB placed his coffee on the table, then laid his hands flat on the files.
    Henry eyed them, fully aware of their contents.
    A beat of silence passed, then FB