by Nick Oldham
He tensed himself, then almost jumped out of his skin when the muzzle of the firearm was poked into the back of his neck, just below his right ear.
‘You’re a pretty resourceful guy,’ Verner complimented Henry. ‘Thanks for letting the tyres down on my car.’
‘Pleasure.’
Verner’s mouth was very close to Henry’s ear. He could feel the hot breath on it. ‘How did you know where to look?’
‘Reflected light.’
‘Ahh . . . mistake number one . . . sunlight on binocular lenses . . . it’s a good job you’re not a martial arts expert, otherwise I’d have been right up the shitter.’
‘You are up the shitter,’ Henry said through clenched teeth. The muzzle, still pressed hard into his neck, was terrifyingly unsettling. He was finding it impossible to breathe properly. The thought of a bullet tearing itself through his brain cortex was sending him close to the edge.
‘How do you work that one out?’
‘There’s cops everywhere looking for you. You’ll never get away.’ Despite the fear he was experiencing, Henry was trying to sound utterly convincing. He knew the reality of the situation was that they’d be lucky to rustle up half a dozen officers. ‘There’s cops and cop-dogs everywhere.’
‘British bobbies. I shit ’em for breakfast.’
Suddenly both men were overpowered by a massive, buffeting sound which rocked them on their feet.
‘And of course the force helicopter!’ Henry yelled as, on cue, there was the beast itself hovering less than a hundred feet above them in the morning sky. The sound of its approach had been effectively muted by the surrounding trees.
‘Stay exactly where you are and drop your weapon,’ a God-like voice boomed down through the 750-watt skyshout PA system attached to the underside of the helicopter. Also, under the nose of the helicopter, was a video camera pointed directly at the two men.
‘As if,’ Verner said.
The helicopter adjusted its position above them and both men swayed with the immense downdraught from the rotor blades.
‘Change of plan,’ Verner shouted above the noise. ‘You can drive me out of this.’
Henry shook his head bravely and said, ‘No.’
Verner spun him round roughly and held the gun to his head, forcing it into the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.
‘Or you can die now, if you like.’
Henry looked down either side of the pistol into Verner’s eyes. He was not kidding and it showed in his pupils. Henry said nothing.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Verner said.
Four
With the very dangerous-looking pistol pointed unwaveringly at Henry’s abdomen, Verner backed away and gestured for Henry to get into the car behind the wheel whilst he slid into the passenger seat alongside his hostage. He tossed the keys back to Henry and said, ‘Get driving.’
Henry started the engine after his dithering hand had only just managed to slot the ignition key in.
‘This isn’t going to happen,’ he insisted. ‘Now the helicopter’s here, you’ll never get away.’
‘In that case, you’ll die and I’ll go to prison,’ Verner responded with indifference. ‘Now drive the car.’ He raised the pistol and levelled it at Henry’s head, ‘or I’ll splatter your nice grey brains all over it.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ Henry said, selecting first with a crunch.
As soon as the vigilant crew – known as the Air Support Unit – of Lancashire Constabulary’s Eurocopter EC135 located Henry Christie’s car and the incident taking place next to it, the observer began a radio commentary. At the same time, video footage was being transmitted by way of the microwave downlink to the comms room at Blackpool and at the force control room at police headquarters, near Preston.
It so happened that this was the first day at work for the newly appointed Chief Constable, who, instead of going into his office, had decided to start the day as he meant to go on: by scaring the staff shitless by turning up early and unexpectedly – which was why he wandered unannounced into the control room, just to see what was going on and to put the wind up people.
The Force Incident Manager – the FIM – the duty inspector in charge of the control room that morning, nearly had heart failure when the new Chief appeared. But he pulled himself together very quickly and briefed him on the events of the morning.
The Chief peered at the downloaded pictures from the hovering helicopter which were as clear as a bell on the FIM’s monitor at his desk. He gasped with the sound a tomato makes when squashed as he saw the figures on the screen.
The FIM stared quizzically at the new boss of the force, whose head was tilted sideways as he looked at the monitor. ‘Surely not,’ the FIM thought he heard the Chief whisper with complete disbelief. ‘Surely not – not on my first day?’
‘Pardon, sir?’
The Chief shook his head. ‘I said, “surely fucking not”!’ He was not known to mince his words.
Jane Roscoe, isolated from events back at the Wickson household, could only listen to what was happening over her personal radio. There was a feeling of utter, empty dread inside her as the ASU observer described in detail the armed man getting into the car with his weapon pointed at Henry.
As Henry’s car moved off with Henry at the wheel, Jane listened intently, her heart thumping loudly, breath short.
The management of the incident in terms of what was now happening on the road was the responsibility of the FIM. It was down to him to take charge, deploy personnel, get tactical firearms advice from the on-call adviser, and also to keep the people informed who needed to be informed. This included the on-call superintendent who took overall strategic command of the incident and the ACC (Operations), who was required to quality-assure the whole thing as it panned out.
Jane felt powerless. All she could do was tell the helicopter crew that the man being held at gunpoint was a colleague, albeit one on suspension, and that he was most definitely acting under duress. She could only then sit back and let it unfold.
But there was something she could do, she thought firmly: pin John Lloyd Wickson down and demand he tell her what all this was about.
The radio crackled busily as ARVs, a dog patrol and other uniformed officers converged on the scene as they were deployed by the FIM, who, despite having the new Chief hovering over his shoulder like an old woman, was keeping very cool and laid back about the whole thing.
Also trying to keep cool and laid back about the whole thing, but actually fighting back sheer panic which rose up in him like bile, was the man who had been taken hostage, Henry Christie.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Henry asked. His sweating and very slippy hands were having major problems gripping the steering wheel.
‘Head for the motorway,’ said Verner, who definitely was cool and laid back.
Henry shook his head. ‘Bad move.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Verner retorted, impressing and frightening Henry with his attitude. This was a guy who was actually enjoying himself.
Henry worked his way along the country lanes surrounding Poulton-le-Fylde before emerging on to the A585 and picking up the signs for the M55. It was an area he knew well, as he did most of Lancashire. He drove carefully but quickly and the pace seemed to be keeping the kidnapper happy. Overhead they could hear the beating sound of the helicopter, but it remained out of their line of sight, just tailing them.
As Henry motored towards the motorway, the first police car appeared in his rear-view mirror. It was a liveried Ford Galaxy with smoked windows. Henry recognized it immediately as an Armed Response Unit. Two constables would be on board, both, he guessed, having had permission from the FIM for covert arming at the very least.
It slotted in behind, keeping its distance, as Henry expected it would as there were now many tight rules and procedures governing police pursuits and firearms incidents which would be rigorously enforced by the FIM.
The gunman saw the car and
grunted. ‘Company.’
‘You should have laid low in the fields,’ Henry told him.
‘Maybe . . . anyway, shut your fucking face.’ He rammed the gun into Henry’s jaw – hard. Henry emitted a cry of pain when he felt the squidgy inside of his mouth split on a molar and tasted blood. ‘You a cop?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Suspended.’
‘A bent cop . . . my favourite type.’ Verner twisted round and saw that another police car had joined the chase. ‘We got a convoy,’ he smirked. His attention reverted to Henry. ‘What were you doing at the stables?’
‘It’s a long story and I doubt you’ve got time to listen to it. I also doubt you’ll have time to listen to very much, actually.’
Up ahead was a set of traffic lights controlling a junction at which five roads converged on the main road. It was known, unsurprisingly, as Five Lane Ends. The lights were on red. Traffic was starting to build up.
‘Should I stop?’ Henry asked hopefully. He saw Verner’s lips twist.
‘What do you think?’
Henry approached the short queue of traffic up to the lights. He positioned the Mondeo on the outside and put his foot down, whizzing past the stationary line. Oncoming vehicles swerved away, anger and not a little shock on the drivers’ faces. Henry gunned the car towards the lights.
At the junction, a large milk tanker emerged from the side road to Henry’s left, startling him. ‘Shit!’ He spun the wheel, only just managing to keep hold of it with his damp hands. The tanker driver did not see him until the last moment and anchored on, but in so doing sent the rear end of the huge truck jack knifing sideways. Henry veered around the front end of the tanker, certain he was about to be crushed to death. He closed his eyes. They missed connecting by less than the width of a blade of grass and Henry pulled away, eyes now open, with the sound of the tanker’s horn blaring in his ears.
Throughout the manoeuvre, Verner stayed calmly seated, his left hand holding on to the handle in the roof of the car, just above his door, his right hand laid out down his lap, holding the gun.
Once through the hazard he bounced round on his seat. ‘Fucking brilliant,’ he chirped.
The two following police cars had been left behind, their way blocked by the tanker at least for the moment. Obviously the helicopter remained overhead, unshakeable.
‘There’s another set of lights ahead. We need to turn right at them to get to the motorway,’ Henry informed Verner.
‘Do what you have to do to get through them without stopping,’ he was instructed.
They were at the next lights within seconds. Once again they were on red. Henry sped past the line of cars waiting there, going down the wrong side of the road, forcing oncoming cars to get out of his way. He almost lost the Mondeo as he yanked down the wheel and skidded right. The back end snaked as the tyres lost their grip and the wheel spun out of his hands. But then he was back in control, amazed he had made it, relieved to still be in one piece. Now it was a straight, if fairly narrow, road to the motorway which he would join at junction 3.
‘Nice again,’ commented Verner. ‘Keep going fast – I’m a speed merchant and I like it.’
Henry accelerated.
‘So what are they going to do?’ Verner pointed to the car roof, indicating he was talking about the helicopter and the police. ‘Force us off the road?’
‘No. Follow us, maybe try to deflate the tyres with a stinger, but keep following, mainly.’
‘Have you got a police radio?’
‘I’m suspended, remember?’ He concentrated on an overtake in some hatch markings in the middle of the road. They were about two miles from the motorway junction. He swerved in before a head-on with oncoming traffic. ‘They don’t give radios to bent cops.’
‘Give me your mobile phone.’
‘Why?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Henry Christie – what’s yours?’
‘Well, Henry Christie, just do as I tell you and don’t answer back. My name you don’t need to know – now gimme the phone.’
Henry tasted the blood on his tongue and for the first time since the journey to hell – or wherever it was going – began, he felt the pain of the knife slash on his side. He glanced down and saw a lot of blood on his tee shirt. He did not like the sight. On other people he did not mind blood, on himself he was not terribly keen.
He eased the phone out of his pocket.
‘I want to contact them,’ Verner said.
‘Dial 999.’
‘Don’t be funny.’
‘I’m not. I don’t know the direct number of the control rooms, but you’ll get through on treble-nine.’
Verner was looking at the display on the phone. ‘Battery’s going,’ he murmured. He tabbed through the menu.
‘Who’s Jane R?’
‘The detective back at the stables,’ said Henry, instantly regretting it.
‘She’ll do.’ Verner called her up.
Jane was entering John Wickson’s house when her phone rang, scaring the jitters out of her when she saw Henry’s name on the display.
‘Henry? Are you all right?’ She heard a hollow laugh in response to the question.
‘He’s all right – at the moment,’ Verner’s voice said.
‘Who is this?’ she demanded.
‘I think you know who I am . . . now listen . . . get them to call off the helicopter and all pursuing vehicles, otherwise Henry is going to suffer a fate called death.’
‘Wha–– ?’
‘I’ll kill him if you don’t pull off all these nasty cops – understand? Have a chat with Henry. I’m sure he’ll confirm everything.’
Verner gave Henry the phone. He held it to his left ear with his left hand whilst driving with his right. He cursed the newer mobile phones, which were now so small it was impossible to wedge them on your shoulder any more, making it more dangerous than ever to use a phone whilst driving, especially travelling at 80mph on a country road.
‘Henry, are you all right?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Does he mean it?’
Henry eyed his captor. ‘Yeah, he means it.’
‘Shall I call the hounds off?’
‘It would suit me . . . so far he hasn’t actually killed anybody, but if he gets pressured, that’ll change, and it’ll be me. I’d rather it wasn’t.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Henry––’
Verner snatched the phone out of Henry’s hand and shouted down it into Jane’s ear. ‘Call the bastards off and he’ll live . . . that’s your choice.’ He ended the phone call and tossed the mobile into the footwell.
The signpost ahead of them told them they were approaching the roundabout at junction 3.
Suddenly a strange sensation came over Henry.
This had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to think about it. He’d been forced into his car, forced to drive – and he had done. He’d stayed cool and kept alive, remained calm and intrepid, at least on the outside, despite having a knife gash down his side (beginning to become a problem) and a gun rammed into his face (blood in mouth tasting horrible).
Now he was getting angry and the last thing he wanted was for this guy to get away. A man who had mutilated horses, caused thousands of pounds worth of damage and taken pot-shots at people. The prospect of him driving the man to some spot where he felt safe enough to escape, where he would probably ditch Henry and bugger off with the Mondeo – if, indeed, he did plan on letting Henry live – did not sit right with Henry at all. All his instincts as a cop, honed over the last quarter of a century, screamed that this man should not be allowed to get away.
Henry wanted to see this guy behind bars. The ‘how’ this was going to be achieved was what eluded him.
He knew it would have to be something drastic, something done whilst other cops wer
e in the vicinity.
But what?
Jane’s hands were shaking, as was her voice, when she spoke into her radio and interrupted a transmission from HQ control room to the helicopter.
‘Are you still in contact?’ the FIM asked her when she had finished.
‘No.’
The FIM sat back in his swivel chair. He had a desk on a raised dais, giving him a commanding view across the control room and the banks of TV monitors relaying pictures from the numerous motorway cameras positioned around Lancashire’s main arteries. He looked at the monitor on his desk which had the downloaded link from the helicopter on it.
The new Chief Constable was standing behind the FIM. He had been joined by the ACC (Operations) and they were in deep discussion.
The FIM leaned forward and spoke into his radio mike.
‘All patrols, including Oscar November 99, to withdraw from the pursuit. I repeat, all patrols, including the helicopter, to withdraw from the pursuit.’
If the Chief wanted to overrule him on that, then he was quite happy. There was no way he wanted blood on his hands.
He looked over his shoulder at the Chief and the ACC, and shrugged.
It was the only decision he could have made in the circumstances. Keeping people alive was his job.
Henry had to slow right down when he hit the motorway junction. There was a lot of early morning traffic on it, none of which knew that a Ford Mondeo, travelling at excessive speed, was coming in their direction, driven by a man with a gun pointed at him. Two police cars were parked ready on the roundabout.
Henry sped down the slip road in the direction of Preston, joining the main carriageway at 70mph. His mind was in turmoil as he grappled with the decision about a course of action.
The mobile phone in the footwell rang. Henry winced slightly at his chosen ring tone, about which he’d had a severe ribbing from his daughters because they said it showed his advancing age: the riff from Jumpin’ Jack Flash.
