Judgement Call (A Henry Christie Mystery)
It's 1982 - and Henry is a young cop with a point to prove and an attitude to control. His youthful enthusiasm can sometimes cloud his better judgement. When a series of rash decisions results in disaster, Henry determines to put things right his own way - despite being warned off by his detective inspector. Setting out to smash singlehandedly a dangerous criminal enterprise, Henry's impetuous actions lead to more conflict - and a very real threat to his own life.
and engine oil was just a memory for the dipstick. In other words, the usual scenario for a police car. Those problems sorted, including making up a mileage book that hadn’t seen an entry for over a week, the last reading in it almost a thousand miles less than was on the odometer, they began their journey south, with Henry at the wheel. Progress was slow, the main motorways, the M6 and M1, being extremely busy. They made one stop at Birmingham, then hit the London rush hour at the worst time
say to comms, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ because he had to respond to the radio. This was frustrating, but simply how it was. So when he drove out just after eight that morning, with the intention of putting his game plan together, he wasn’t surprised to be deployed to a burglary at an address on Bury Road, Rawtenstall. Someone had entered an old lady’s house during the night and stolen property whilst she was asleep. Henry was at the house within three minutes, dealing with a frightened,
flourish on the desktop. He extracted a torpedo-shaped fountain pen from his shirt pocket, unscrewed the lid and dipped the nib into the already open bottle of Quink and refilled the pen using the lever on its side. All the while he kept a beady eye on the two people in front of him. He tapped the tip of the nib on the rim of the ink bottle and was now ready to write and record details. ‘Name,’ he said to the prisoner, even though he already knew it. ‘Vladimir Kaminski.’ Once the name, address
through many windows like this, old wooden ones, rotting, splitting. He liked them and he smiled grimly as he forced the jemmy all the way through the frame. Once this was done, he replaced the jemmy with a long-bladed screwdriver, which he inserted through the hole and used it to flick up the catch. He replaced the screwdriver into his belt and carefully pushed open the window, which opened with a faint creak of its hinges. At this point he started to feel the tummy jitters. He swung in and
grimly. ‘I knew I would kill you,’ he said, his face squashed and contorted underneath the stocking mask. Henry saw the finger on the trigger, the single barrel and the rough hacksaw marks across the muzzle. Then the sound of the shot, then a second one. Suddenly Kaminski’s right shoulder jolted forward, then his left shoulder exploded in a splatter of blood. Henry saw a look of total surprise on Kaminski’s face as he slumped down onto his knees and dropped forwards across Henry like a log,