by Nick Oldham
He picked up a beer mat and held it against the cut on his head.
‘Turn him onto his front,’ he told Danny.
She raised a leg and they both heaved Benstead over onto his chest. Danny pulled his hands back and cuffed him with Henry’s handcuffs. Tightly.
‘Here.’ Henry looked round to see Fat Tommy, the barman, holding out a bundle of something towards him. It was a bar-cloth. ‘For your head. It’s clean, don’t worry.’
The detective smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I didn’t know you cared.’
‘I don’t. I just don’t want a copper’s blood all over my carpets.’
Henry dropped the beer mat and pressed the cloth onto his injury. The wound had been cracked open a few times since it had happened. One day, Henry thought, it would need a skin graft to close it, not stitches.
‘Now then,’ Danny said into Benstead’s grubby ear. ‘Let’s see what all this was about.’ She patted him down, went through his pockets. She pulled out the roll of banknotes and handed it to Henry. Conservative estimate, two grand. Then she found the bag.
Benstead moaned.
She stood up and peered into it. Her mouth popped open when she carefully withdrew the driving licence and read the name on it. She held it so Henry could see.
He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh.’ To Benstead he said, ‘Mate - you are under arrest.’
Any further conversation was halted when an urgent message came over the PR in Henry’s pocket.
‘All patrols, all patrols, make to the vicinity of Talbot Square, Royal Bank of Scotland ... believed escaped prisoner Louis Vernon Trent has just attempted to use the cash machine there. I repeat. . .’
Henry and Danny looked at each other, then down at their prisoner. Henry made the decision.
‘You go. I’ll stay and sort out Bollock Brain here.’
Even before he had finished speaking, Danny was out of the door.
Henry turned to Fat Tommy. ‘How about a double whisky?’
The account belonging to the dead ambulanceman was still operating, but because Trent had withdrawn the maximum allowed for the day he was unable to steal any more money from it. He took the opportunity to confirm the present balance - £700. A nice, tidy sum of money which he hoped would be in his hands after midnight.
At the end of the transaction, the machine slid the card back out and Trent reclaimed it.
Feeling pretty buoyant, he strolled to the top of Clifton Street where it joined Abingdon Street. To his right, on Church Street, was the entrance to the Winter Gardens complex. A long queue of people were lined up patiently at the box office, buying tickets for that night’s performance by a well-known TV comedian. He was doing a six-week stint of ‘saucy’ material and songs.
Trent had a sudden fancy to see him. He turned towards the Winter Gardens at the moment the scanner in his pocket picked up the police radio transmission and passed it to the earpiece.
Trent cursed his own foolishness and greed. He should have known the cops would have alerted the bank, who would reverse the process when the account got touched. The fact the account was still open should have been a warning beacon to him.
For a few vital moments he was rooted to the spot, unable to make a decision, even though he knew if he remained there he would very quickly end up in a police cell.
He took a chance, pivoted on his heels and headed quickly down Clifton Street towards the Promenade. Once on the sea-front he reckoned he could easily mingle and disappear, maybe into one of the big stores.
Danny spun out the back door of the pub, ran down onto Market Street where she intended to cut across to Clifton Street which was probably less than 100 yards away.
She zigzagged through crowds of people, thankful she had chosen to wear flat-soled shoes that morning. Part of her mind was still annoyed by Benstead who had caused her to spill her drink all over her fairly new suit, one she quite liked and thought she looked pretty good in. The second outfit in the space of a few days ruined. They would cost a fortune to replace.
As she ran she pulled her PR out and turned the volume up high.
Other patrols were responding to the call, all descending on Clifton Street - until Henry Christie’s impatient voice cut across them all with an instruction for the Comms operator: ‘Get a grip on these deployments, will you? Don’t let everyone race to the scene, otherwise we might miss him. Set up some checkpoints a little distance away. Get the Comms Sergeant to get it organised.’
The voice of the Comms Sergeant replied, slightly chastened, ‘Will do, sir.’
Everybody seemed intent on holding Danny up. She had to dance around four kids, who, hands held, were skipping down the street; she skidded dangerously to avoid a woman laden down with a huge load of shopping who appeared from nowhere in her path; and physically rammed a huge, beer-bellied, T-shirted, drunken individual with a Scottish accent who did his level best to catch her.
Without checking for traffic she legged it across Corporation Street and into Clifton Street. She relayed her position to Comms and learned that she was the first officer on the street. Then she juddered to a stop and surveyed the area, fully aware that more often than not, by the time police receive such calls, ten minutes or more could have elapsed. Trent could easily be a quarter of a mile away now, making Henry’s instructions to Comms a matter of common sense.
Her chest rose and fell, her nostrils dilated, as she panted heavily. She wiped the back of her sticky hand across her forehead, drawing several wide-eyed looks from passers-by. She looked like a scarecrow again.
A tingle of apprehension went down her spine as a sixth sense of perception clicked in.
She knew Trent was nearby. Somewhere close by. Hiding.
Trent slammed himself flat against the side of a parked Ford Transit van when he saw Danny appear at the bottom of the street. He recognised her instantly as a member of that bastard conspiracy of individuals who had sent him to prison.
He shuffled along the side of the van until he was in a position to peep around the back of it. From there he could see Danny across the street, speaking into her PR. Trent could hear every word she spoke through his earpiece.
A surge of uncontrollable loathing, almost like a demon in his soul, coursed through his veins at the sight of the smug, arrogant bitch who had played such a pivotal role in consigning him to the torture of the last nine years. Danny Fucking Furness.
His lips drew back into a snarl.
At exactly the same moment these feelings surged through him, he saw a visible change in Danny’s body language. She stood upright, stopped talking into the radio, cocked her head to one side. Suddenly she was ultra-alert, almost as if she knew where he was hiding. Yet he was certain she had not seen him.
Trent froze. Godamnit, she fucking knows I’m here.
Her face turned towards him. Trent pinned himself against the van, desperation rising. His earpiece told him two foot-patrol officers and two double-manned police cars were only literally seconds away. One of the cars was an armed response vehicle.
He would be trapped if he didn’t move now.
The shop he found himself looking at was an estate agent’s.
Her senses alive, fear making every nerve-ending electric, Danny started to walk towards the Transit van parked across the street. She held her PR as if it was a hammer.
He was there. She knew it.
Suddenly he appeared, turned his face fleetingly towards her, and ran into the estate agency.
‘He’s gone into Lordson’s,’ Danny yelled into her PR. ‘In through the front door of Lordson’s.’
A middle-aged man and his wife browsed in the agency. Two female assistants typed away at their desks behind the counter.
No one even looked at Trent when he came through the door - until he drew the knife from his sleeve and slashed it across the man’s neck as he ran past.
It was a lucky, but well-aimed stroke, slicing the carotid artery. Trent did not wait to see the effect, but leapt ove
r the counter, plunged his knife into the shoulder of one of the women, withdrew it and made for the door at the rear of the shop.
He had torn through the shop in a matter of seconds with the effect of an out-of-control death-star. Behind him he had left a trail of bloody chaos, people screaming, confusion, injury, everyone wondering what the hell had hit them and what they had done to deserve this.
The Staff Only door was flimsy. He crashed through it to find himself in a small kitchen. Beyond was the back door of the premises; he headed straight for it.
Danny ran into the shop seconds behind him. She stopped and took everything in.
The man who had been slashed in the throat had collapsed to the floor, dragging some display boards down with him. He gagged and coughed blood in a fine spray, losing his false teeth as well. His fingers clutched the big vein in his neck which pumped blood. It was like trying to plug a damaged hosepipe on full flow. His wife stood next to him, helpless. Her hands covered her mouth whilst she screamed hysterically.
The woman who had been stabbed in the shoulder screamed in tremendous agony coupled with terror as she watched the fast-spreading stain around her shoulder.
The other employee sat transfixed by the horror. Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, eyes wide, staring with disbelief, her whole frame immobile as a perfect still-life. She had been frozen into a statue by the flash of violence which had streaked by her.
‘Get an ambulance to Lordson’s,’ Danny said into her PR. ‘Two people down, injured, one very serious. Knife injuries. . .’ She did not stay to tend the wounded, but vaulted over the counter in Trent’s tracks.
By this time he was out of the back door, hurtling down the service alley which ran behind the shops.
Danny skidded out after him, losing her balance momentarily. ‘Down Cheapside, heading towards Corporation Street,’ she relayed over the PR. ‘Armed with a knife, prepared to use it. Be careful.’
Trent stopped abruptly some twenty yards ahead of her.
Danny stopped too, puzzled, cautious.
Then she saw the reason why. A uniformed PC was walking up towards Trent, side-handled baton drawn.
A wave of euphoria hit Danny.
They had caught the bastard.
Trent crouched, left arm extended, hand palm outwards. His right arm was also extended but this hand held the knife in readiness to strike.
It was a slim knife, Danny saw. Blood dripped from it.
There was blood on his hand and partway up his sleeve.
He slashed the air menacingly, the message clear.
Danny and the PC circled him cautiously, just beyond reach of an attack thrust. The PC slapped the extended portion of his baton provocatively into the palm of his left hand. The officer’s message was pretty clear too: ‘You are going to get the full force of this right across your head.’
‘Come on, Louis, put the knife down,’ Danny said reasonably. ‘This place will be crawling with cops in a matter of seconds. You don’t have a cat in hell’s chance, so just put the knife down. No one else needs to get hurt.’
Trent watched them both suspiciously. His gaze flickered from one to the other, his eyes afire.
The sense of Danny’s words seemed to permeate through to him. He stood upright, let his arms fall to his side. A submissive, resigned expression crossed his face and he nodded. His shoulders drooped, he exhaled a long deep sigh. Beaten.
Danny knew better than to trust Trent ... but the PC did not. She was about to tell Trent to drop the knife, kick it away, assume the position, and all that crap, when without warning the PC stepped confidently into the danger zone. His eagerness blocked all common sense. This was going to be one hell of an arrest.
Before Danny could yell out a warning, he was too close to Trent for her to do anything.
The escaped prisoner blurred into life, as fast and as deadly as a bolt of forked lightning.
The knife shot up.
Danny, standing side-on, saw the point of the blade touch the PC’s blue shirt, then disappear up to the hilt behind the officer’s ribs and into his heart. Trent rammed it home, stepped in close to his victim, grabbed the officer’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him even further forwards onto the knife-blade. He screwed and twisted the knife all the way, doing maximum damage. At the same time he turned and laughed at the horror-stricken Danny, throwing his head back like a maniac. He gave the knife one more massive - flamboyant - jerk before withdrawing it like a magician.
He stepped to one side, pulled the PC round and pushed him towards Danny.
She could not begin to describe the look on the young officer’s face. Pain? Shock? Disbelief? Whatever, it was a face she would remember for the rest of her life.
The PC staggered towards her, walking with the misco-ordination of an infant learning to toddle. He stared down at his shirt and the very fast-spreading stain. Danny opened her arms to catch him.
He stumbled, dropped his baton which clattered uselessly on the ground and went heavily onto one knee. He placed the palms of both hands over his heart, lifted his face pleadingly to Danny. He looked like he was proposing to her.
Then he toppled over and died at her feet.
Danny tore her eyes away.
Trent had gone.
Other police officers swarmed towards her from the top of the alley.
She lurched to a doorway, sank to her knees.
‘Just tell me this, Henry - why is it that everything you seem to get involved in ends up with police officers being killed? Are you fucking jinxed, or what?’
The questions were asked by Fanshaw-Bayley. He was pacing up and down on the already thin carpet in front of Henry’s desk, a return journey of no more than six feet. Henry watched him and decided not to respond. Instead, he pressed the paper towel against his temple. The cut appeared to have more or less stopped bleeding and maybe did not need re-stitching after all.
FB stopped mid-journey. ‘Eh? Come on, Henry - why?’
Henry shrugged and remained impassive. It was hardly true, but he did not want to get into an argument. FB was very upset that an officer had died, murdered on duty. He had every right to be, and was simply venting some of his emotions on Henry whose shoulders were big and wide enough to take any rot FB cared to dish out.
‘So, c’mon tell me what happened. What the fuck went wrong? No, don’t.’ FB held up his hands and shook them dismissively. ‘It’s okay, Henry, don’t tell me. It wasn’t your fault the stupid young fool went out without his stab-vest on; it was his decision and unfortunately he died for it.’ FB ruffled his own hair frustratedly, scratched his head, flattened his hair and eventually sat down. ‘This man is a fucking mobile killing-machine. What the hell’s our next move?’
Henry blew out his cheeks, glad they had returned to practicalities. ‘It better be quick,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I doubt he’ll hang round town now.’
‘Come on then, brainbox . . . what do we do?’
‘Chances are he’s in a guest-house. What we need to do is increase the numbers of people on house-to-house, quarter the town and visit every guest-house physically. And I also think we should get a big switchboard installed and actually phone every guest-house and hotel too.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while to get that up and running.’ ‘How many phones are there in this police station?’ FB asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘Dozens.’ Henry immediately caught on.
‘There’s your answer. Get the people you want in now. Sit’ em next to a phone each with a copy of Yellow Pages and an unlimited supply of coffee or tea, and get them phoning.’
There was a sharp knock at the door. A Detective Sergeant came in without waiting and handed a sheet of paper of Henry.
Henry’s eyes closed despairingly after he’d read it. Without looking up, he handed the paper to FB.
Absently Danny picked up the Missing from Home report which was on the top of the pile of junk on her desk. She sat down slowly, read the name on top, and tosse
d it back. Claire Lilton could wait.
She leaned forwards and dropped her head into her hands.
Inside, everything was in turmoil. Guts, vital organs, brain ... churning with a sensation never before experienced.
She had a terrible unshakable belief that she was totally responsible for everything that had happened. In particular the tragic death of the Police Constable, skewered and slaughtered right in front of her eyes. All because she had been too slow, had not shouted out a warning, had not pulled him away.
‘Oh God,’ she mumbled desperately. Tears formed in her eyes. She rubbed them angrily away as she tried to control herself. Not here, she instructed herself. You will not break down here. You will hold yourself with dignity and you will convey yourself home. Then, and only then, will you allow yourself the indulgence of turning into a slobbering, self-pitying jelly.
But not here.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. She jumped and landed back on earth.
‘Danny, how are you?’ Henry Christie.
‘Not good,’ she admitted. ‘Dithering, almost on the verge of collapse. You know - woman stuff. What a bloody day!’ She gave a short laugh and wiped the new tears away with a snuffle. Her nose had started to run. She blew it, making a very unladylike trumpeting sound. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hell, what a mess.’
‘It’s okay,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s understandable.’ He did not patronise her with sympathy or empathy, even though he had been in similar circumstances himself previously. Danny knew this.
‘How the hell do you deal with it, Henry?’ She opened her arms and flopped them down in a gesture conveying complete loss. ‘It’s so damned awful and I just can’t get my head round it at all. All I can see is that poor boy staggering towards me . . . his face. . . I feel so responsible. What do I do?’
Her eyes pleaded with him.
‘You’ve been there,’ she added.
