by Bill Rogers
‘Juliet Seven to Silver Command. We have CCTV of the target arriving in the car park at nineteen oh seven, transferring to another vehicle and then leaving. Second vehicle was out of camera shot within twenty seconds.’
‘Details of the vehicle?’ Jo demanded.
He read out the licence number. ‘That’s a white BMW 1 Series, sports hatch.’
Jo gave a silent prayer of thanks. That was one of the two cars registered to Malacott’s company.
Another voice broke in. It was Helen Gates.
‘Silver Command, we have ANPR capture by a Lancashire Force static camera of said vehicle three minutes ago leaving the A56 west of Haslingden, on to the B232 towards Blackburn.’
Gates followed this with the exact coordinates.
Jo tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Go!’ she said.
As he set off, she leaned into the mike. ‘Tango One, Bronze Command, please go immediately to those coordinates and pursue until visual contact with the target vehicle has been established. We will be right behind you. Juliet Seven please secure that CCTV footage as evidence, leave one officer with the abandoned target vehicle, and then follow. All other operational vehicles proceed to the coordinates on your screens. Immediate Priority. I repeat, Immediate Priority. This is a blue light run.’
She sat back and glanced at Max. He smiled grimly and nodded. No words required. She had held her nerve, and now they were back on track.
At speeds touching seventy miles an hour, despite the driving rain, they hurtled up the A56. Way ahead of them they could just make out the flashing blue lights of X-Ray Zebra Sierra, and a mile or so back the convoy of support vehicles. Within three minutes they joined the M66 for a short stretch, where they now touched eighty.
‘I daren’t go any faster, or we may aquaplane,’ the driver told them.
‘Given where the BMW was when it was pinged by that camera, he must be sticking to the limits to avoid attention,’ Max observed. ‘At this rate, we should catch up with him in another ten minutes or so.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Jo.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
She shook her head and began to speak into the mike. ‘Gold Command, this is Silver Command. Please ask the Lancashire Force to instruct all vehicles to report any sightings of the target vehicle, but on no account to stop it. I repeat, on no account are they to stop or follow the target vehicle.’
‘That has already been done, Silver Command,’ came the cool reply. It felt like a rebuke.
‘I should have thought about that straight away,’ Jo muttered as she sat back. ‘It’s textbook.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Jo,’ Max replied. ‘It looks like your bet on Malacott being the unsub has paid off. That’s all that matters.’
‘Finding Sally Warburton safe and sound,’ she said, ‘that’s what really matters. That, and putting him away for good.’
Jo wiped the condensation from the nearside window and peered out. They were now speeding down the slip road towards the B6232. There was a sudden squeal of brakes, and they were all thrown violently forward. The seat belt bit into Jo’s ribs as she braced herself against the back of the seat in front. The driver cursed as he wrestled with the wheel, pumping the brakes as the car aquaplaned in towards a tanker straddling both carriageways. At the last moment, the driver brought it under control, steered it on to the hard shoulder and passed the tanker. They could see the white face of the driver staring down at them as they sped by at close to fifty miles an hour.
‘Sorry about that, Ma’am,’ said the driver. ‘Stupid bastard must have seen our lights at the last moment and decided to change lanes. Realised he’d made a mistake and jammed his brakes on.’
Jo knew from experience that this was one of the inevitable hazards of a pursuit. Civilian drivers thinking they were doing you a favour, and making a stupid manoeuvre. She rubbed her bruised ribs, thankful for the slimline body armour beneath her cagoule.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘no harm done. You did a great job.’
They were now on a single carriageway high up on the moors, with 50mph signs and reminders that this was a stretch with record injuries and deaths from dangerous driving. They had now caught up with Bronze Command, and were travelling six car lengths behind. Less from any danger that they might collide than from the spray thrown up by the other 4x4. Gerry Sarsfield must have spotted them in his mirror.
‘Good to have you with us, Silver Command,’ he said. ‘The target must be on the outskirts of Blackburn by now. If we don’t catch up with him soon, we could easily lose him once he gets into the city.’
‘I agree, X-Ray Zebra Sierra,’ said Jo. ‘But there will be more cameras and more patrol cars, therefore more chance of him being sighted.’
‘I think we should cancel our blues and twos now,’ he said. ‘Just in case he’s closer than we think.’
‘Agreed, Bronze Control,’ she replied.
It was eerie up here without the flashing blue lights. Clouds the colour of slate obliterated the tops of the moors. A north-westerly wind drove the rain hard against the windscreen, forcing the wipers to battle incessant swathes of water. It was pitch black outside, apart from glimpses of the rear red lights of X-Ray Zebra Sierra, and sudden blinding flashes of halogen headlights as cars sped by on the other side.
The excitement that had come with the reported sighting of the BMW had slowly evaporated, and Jo sensed an air of despondency settling over the operation. It was Christmas Eve, and there were forty-two officers and civilian staff out here wondering if this woman from the NCA had brought them on a wild goose chase. She knew that she ought to say something to energise them. Someone beat her to it.
‘Silver Command, this is Gold Command. Target vehicle sighted at the Blackburn Beehive Roundabout, entering the Walker Industrial Estate in Guide. Coordinates fifty-three degrees forty-three minutes forty seconds north, two degrees twenty-six minutes fifty-five seconds west.’
Jo stared at the map on the screen in front of her.
‘Two miles straight ahead of us,’ said the driver.
Max pointed with his finger. ‘Just beyond where we cross the M65 roundabout. Where’s he headed?’
‘The industrial estate? The Shadworth estate?’ Jo said. ‘It must be one of the two, or he’d have used the motorway.’
‘Gold Command,’ she said. ‘How was the target vehicle sighted?’
‘Silver Command, by a North West Motorway Patrol car parked in The Willows pub restaurant car park, watching cars enter and leave the roundabout.’
‘One minute to go,’ said the driver.
‘This is Silver Command,’ said Jo. ‘Bronze Command, please pull in and wait for us in The Willows car park. All marked cars maintain a discreet distance from Quebec One until further notice.’
She turned to Max. ‘I don’t want him seeing a convoy on his tail.’
‘I get that,’ he replied. ‘But if he’s holed up in there somewhere, we may need them to flush him out.’
‘It’s not about flushing him out,’ she told him. ‘It’s about locating Sally Warburton.’
Max grunted and stared straight ahead. The tension had ramped up again. Everybody, she realised, would be getting edgy. It was her job to keep them focused.
‘Gold Command,’ she said, ‘what is the current status of India Nine Nine?’
She had her reply in less than fifteen seconds.
‘India Nine Nine is still on station. Expected time of departure ten minutes.’
Including a flying time of twelve minutes, that meant it would be at least twenty-two minutes before it arrived.
They were approaching the roundabout over the motorway. The rain had eased a little, and she guessed that the wind must have dropped. The traffic was slower now and bunching up. It was tempting to use the lights and siren, but far too risky.
‘There’s the traffic car,’ said the Comms officer, pointing.
The Willows stood on a bend between the two roundabouts. A BMW est
ate car was parked close to the exit, its distinctive blue and yellow paintwork bright in their headlights. Gerry Sarsfield’s unmarked 4x4 was parked beside it.
‘Pull in,’ Jo commanded.
The Motorway Patrol officer was standing by the rear passenger window of the Bronze Command vehicle talking to Gerry Sarsfield. Jo pulled up her hood, opened her door and went to join them.
‘Well spotted,’ she said. ‘Do you think he saw you?’
The officer shrugged.
‘I didn’t notice him look at me – he was concentrating on the roundabout ahead. And it was raining harder than this. But I’d be surprised if he didn’t see me. After all, this car is hardly inconspicuous, is it? One of the reasons we park here is to remind them to slow when they come off the motorway.’
‘Are you local?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Jo pointed towards the industrial estate.
‘What’s it like in there?’
‘Modern industrial units, warehouses, some manufacture – plastics, drugs, food. There are a couple of empty properties. At the far end, there’s a sports centre, the local primary school, school fields, some empty land and then the council estate. Two thousand people. Part tenants, part right to buy. A pub, a small shopping precinct, some lock-ups. It’s got a reputation for being one of the most deprived in the country. There are some good people on there, community-minded. But they’ve got more than their fair share of drug-dealing, alcohol abuse and antisocial behaviour to contend with.’
The radio in Sarsfield’s car crackled. It was Helen Gates.
‘Bronze Command, Silver Command, where have you both gone? I’d appreciate a sitrep please.’
‘This is Bronze Command,’ said Sarsfield. ‘We’re both parked up by the Beehive Roundabout. Will have a response for you imminently.’
He looked up at Jo and raised his eyebrows.
‘Your call,’ he said.
‘Our call,’ she told him, conscious of the loggist in the back of Sarsfield’s car. ‘I want your agreement on this.’
He frowned.
‘On what?’
She took a deep breath.
‘I propose that we box off all of the exits from the industrial estate and the housing estate. If he’s in there, we’ll find him. If she’s in there, we’ll find her.’
‘I agree,’ said Naeem Khan. ‘The empty buildings and the lock-ups should be the first priority.’
‘That will require a minimum of eight vehicles, Ma’am,’ said the traffic officer.
‘We’ll have none left over to search for his car,’ Sarsfield pointed out. ‘They’ll have to do it on foot. That could take forever.’
‘I’ll watch this roundabout,’ said the traffic officer. ‘And I’m sure Division will be willing to spare a couple of cars and a motorcyclist if your Boss asks them nicely.’
Jo leaned into the open window and spoke across Sarsfield to the man sat between him and the loggist.
‘That drone,’ she said, ‘can you fly it in this?’
‘The rain is not the problem, Ma’am,’ he replied. ‘The wind may be. I can’t operate it over forty mph, or if it’s gusting over fifty-five mph, but I can soon tell you.’
‘Do that,’ she said.
She watched as the flight operator exited the vehicle and went round to open the trunk. She joined him and sheltered beneath the trunk lid as he slid a black metal case towards him. Inside was a narrow brown rucksack. From this he eased out what looked like a white metal spider with folded legs. Beside it was a small device, which he switched on, holding it above his head into the wind.
‘This is a portable anemometer,’ he told her. ‘It won’t tell me what’s going on at a thousand feet, but it’s better than nothing.’
Jo found herself crossing her fingers as he lowered the device and held it close to his face. He turned, and looked at her.
‘It’s close, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’m prepared to give it a try. However, I have to warn you that if I do fly this, you won’t be able to call up a helicopter until we’ve effected a safe recovery.’
‘I understand,’ she said.
Jo turned to look across at the industrial estate. Flashes of light from passing cars speeding past the huge silver dome on the roundabout lit the underside of menacing clouds. In her mind’s eye, she could see Sally Warburton’s pretty face, Susanne Hadrix’s twisted body and the mask that Sally’s abductor had worn. Jo wiped the rain from her face and turned to face the flight operator.
‘We don’t have time to wait,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’
Chapter 55
Jo watched as the flight operator huddled over the tablet. It had two split screens, one of which he used to guide the SkyRanger by touch across the map, while the other provided a constant stream of flight data. He wore headphones connecting him with the command station in Manchester to which telemetry information was being beamed. Outside the vehicle stood an observer making sure that there were no obstructions or potential dangers to human life or property. Jo didn’t understand any of it. All she cared about was the incredibly crisp video footage from the eyeball camera slung beneath the UAV.
The operator had been searching zonally for nine minutes now, from a height of one thousand feet. It was five hundred feet below the approved minimum height, he told her, but the cloud cover was so low it would have been pointless otherwise. She had seen the loggist recording the exchange. If anything went wrong, her decision would come back to haunt her.
The search had begun at the centre of the area covered by the industrial park and council estate, and was working outwards. Her eyes hurt from straining to identify white vehicles that might be the target car. Each time one was spotted, the camera zoomed in. So far they had had five hits, all of them negative. The radio crackled into life.
‘Quebec One, this is Gold Command. India Nine Nine has left station and is proceeding to your coordinates. ETA seven minutes. Please advise.’
Jo tapped the flight operator on the shoulder, and mimed for him to lift his headphones.
‘Did you get that?’ she asked.
He nodded, his eyes still glued to the tablet.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘There’s not a lot to choose between this and the helicopter,’ he replied. ‘They have a loudspeaker system and a thermal imager, but on the other hand, this has the advantage of stealth. As soon as the helicopter turns up, you’ll have lost the element of surprise. He’ll be able to hear it even from inside those buildings, whereas this . . .’ He didn’t need to elaborate.
She looked across at Gerry Sarsfield who, having exchanged his seat in his 4x4 with Max, was outside, leaning into the open passenger window and listening in.
‘What do you think, Bronze Command?’ she asked.
He shrugged.
‘It’s a close call, Ma’am.’
It was the Ma’am that did it. The insinuation of seniority when he knew full well they were of equal rank, and that it was as much his call as hers. She looked at Naeem Khan. He was shaking his head. She gritted her teeth.
‘Gold Command, this is Silver Command. Please ask India Nine Nine to hold off, circle out of visible and audible range from our coordinates and await instructions.’
There was a pause.
‘Are you sure about this, Silver Command?’ said Gates. ‘India Nine Nine reports only twenty-seven minutes available flight time before it’ll have to return to base to refuel.’
‘Understood,’ said Jo. ‘I am sure, Gold Command, and I will be sure to advise of any change in the situation in good time.’
She heard Gerry Sarsfield suck air in between his teeth, in a far too obvious expression of dissent. Presumably for the sake of both the loggist and Helen Gates.
‘Do you have a problem with that, Bronze Command?’ she said, staring straight at him.
Sarsfield shook his head sheepishly.
‘For the record,’ Jo said, ‘Bronze Command is shaking his head.’
‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to a white dot in the top left of the screen.
The flight operator touched the screen with his index finger, and then used two fingers to zoom in. The rear half of a white hatchback protruded from beneath the canopy of a small industrial building.
‘Can you get the licence number?’ Jo asked, her heart beginning to pump hard.
She watched with bated breath as the drone swooped low, and the operator continued to zoom. Even before the number plate filled the screen, she knew that it was the car from the garden centre car park.
‘This is Silver Command,’ she said, struggling not to shout. ‘Target vehicle located, I repeat, target vehicle located. Stand by!’ She turned to the flight operator. ‘Can you back up a bit so that we can see the whole of the complex? What is it, anyway?’
‘It looks like a series of large industrial locks-ups,’ he replied. ‘Big enough to take a small container.’
A plan of action took shape in Jo’s head. She would need the Tactical Aid Search and Entry team, the paramedic and the forensics nurse, the CSI team, and at least two cars, one at each end of the row of lock-ups. The rest would have to watch the exits from the industrial park in case he tried to escape. Assuming he was still there.
There was a shout and someone banged on the roof. She ducked her head to look beyond the loggist and out of the offside window. It was the UAV observer. He was pointing into the sky, away to the east, talking into his throat mike. She could not see anything, but she could hear it. The growl of an engine. The sound of blades beating the air into submission. India 99. Coming closer. Threatening to ruin everything.
Chapter 56
‘Gold Command,’ Jo shouted. ‘This is Silver Command. Please instruct India 99 to abort, I repeat, India 99 to abort, immediately.’
‘Too late,’ said the flight operator, pointing to the screen. ‘I’m going to have to abort. I can’t risk fouling that helicopter.’
