by Nick Oldham
The bedroom door was closed, but even so, he could feel the terrific heat from the fire which was fiercely taking over the house. Smoke was creeping frighteningly underneath the door.
He knew there was little time.
But Kate wasn’t in the bedroom.
He shouted her name as he strode to the door. Surely she hadn’t gone on to the landing?
‘Kate!’ he bellowed again.
Then the door of the walk-in dressing room opened slightly. She had retreated in there for safety.
‘Karl,’ she uttered, throwing open the door when she saw him. She raced toward him.
‘C’mon,’ he said, his big arms encircling her slim waist and urging her in the direction of the window.
‘How did you get in?’ she began.
‘You’ll see.’
They reached the window. Behind them was the sound like a dragon breathing. Flames now licked under the bedroom door.
‘There’s no one else in the house?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
A police car tore down the cul-de-sac.
A lumbering fire engine came behind it.
Donaldson checked over his shoulder again. There was no time to wait for ladders. Somehow he had to get Kate out and on to the roof of the Jeep, then he had to follow, quickly.
‘How?’ she said, looking down at the Jeep, which seemed a long way away, but was perhaps only three feet from the wall of the house and directly under the window.
‘I’ll hold you … we’ve no choice.’
The dragon was now at the door, roaring angrily, trying to burst through.
Both turned and looked at the same time, horror on their faces.
‘No time, either,’ Donaldson added.
Kate peered out of the window. It seemed so far.
‘I don’t know if I can,’ she pleaded.
Outside, two cops were on the front lawn. The fire engine had stopped, its occupants disgorging, equipment being deployed.
‘Sit on the window frame, twist, hold on to my arms and I’ll ease you down. You have to do it.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I’m in that club, too.’
Below, one of the cops climbed on to the roof of the Jeep, steadied himself and opened his arms. Kate clambered on to the window and sat, legs dangling. She twisted her body around, then began to lower herself towards the Jeep. Donaldson clamped his big, powerful fingers around her forearms, held tight, eased her down.
‘I can’t do it,’ she screamed.
Donaldson, his face muscles straining like steel rope with the effort, steadied himself, then swung her out towards the waiting policeman. She dropped out of Donaldson’s hands with a scream and fell backwards the last few feet, arms flailing.
The cop grabbed her, then lost his footing, but somehow righted himself, held on to Kate, then both lost their balance and fell backwards off the roof of the Jeep – but into the massed, waiting clutches of the other policeman and three fire fighters, who caught them raggedly, but safely.
Donaldson watched it all helplessly.
Behind him, with a roar of contempt, the dragon that was the fire blew out the bedroom door with a heave of power and burst into the bedroom.
There was a moment of silence. Only a moment, though it felt like a lifetime.
Henry took a breath, steadying himself.
Suddenly Ingram’s head popped up from the pit as though he was taking a quick peek over a wall.
He saw Henry with the gun, ducked quickly back down.
Henry ran across the six feet or so to the edge of the pit, but did not reach it quickly enough. By the time he got there, Ingram had grabbed Gina, twisted her round and held her against him like a shield. His left forearm was slotted across her neck, making her gurgle and struggle, and his right hand held his gun to her face, pushing into her cheek.
The gun in Henry’s hand was raised, aimed at both of them.
Ingram laughed.
‘You’re at one big fuckin’ disadvantage,’ Ingram cackled maniacally. ‘Drop the gun or I blow her fuckin’ head right off.’
Henry’s eyes took in the girl. Her face was a ghastly mess, but her eyes were still open, appealing for help and defiant.
Ingram tightened his grip across her throat. His forearm must have been like an iron bar. She gagged, fighting for breath, her fingers pulling at the limb. She kicked out pathetically, but Ingram held her securely, not giving one inch.
Henry kept the gun aimed at least for the moment but he wasn’t sure of his ability with a firearm these days, so having a go was out of the question.
Ingram’s feral eyes looked beyond Henry at the prostrate figure of his partner in crime.
‘You took Mitch down.’
‘He was easy – glass jaw.’
‘You won’t get me, cop.’
‘I’m not a cop,’ Henry insisted. ‘You’re wrong …’
‘Then we can talk.’
‘Sure we can, but only when the girl goes … I don’t mind a bit of porn, but not like you like it. She goes,’ he insisted.
‘Nah,’ Ingram sneered. ‘Not a chance.’ He moved his left arm down across her chest. ‘Fuckin’ ripe for the picking.’
Henry went sick with disgust. ‘Let her go, you perverted bastard.’ His gun wavered.
Ingram jammed the muzzle of his gun further into Gina’s cheek, forcing a squeal of pain to be emitted. ‘Drop the gun, Frank, or whatever you’re called. I will kill her,’ he finished simply.
‘And how many more have you killed?’
‘Plenty.’
On the floor behind Henry, Mitch groaned.
Shit, Henry thought. He knew he would have to put his weapon down, knew that his chance had passed unsuccessfully. Although Ingram was standing in the pit, he had the power. What would Frank Jagger do? he thought.
But maybe that wasn’t the burning question.
Maybe the question was, What is Ingram going to do?
Henry knew the answer – carry on as before. He would kill Frank Jagger because he didn’t trust him, kill the girl, and run.
Even if Henry gave up his weapon, he would still be a dead man.
A win–lose situation, in Ingram’s favour. ‘You’ll kill me, whatever,’ he said.
‘Didn’t take you long to figure that one out.’ Ingram took the gun out of Gina’s face and levelled it at Henry.
Gina went completely still, almost relaxed.
She looked imploringly at Henry. Save me. Please.
Henry tensed.
Suddenly, as if poleaxed, Gina’s knees gave way and she collapsed purposely. Ingram’s arm wasn’t at her throat, it was still across her chest, and her movement caught him by surprise and she slid out of his grasp as though she had been greased, exposing Ingram’s upper body above the edge of the pit. His gun wavered unsteadily as he tried to grab her, but he’d lost his hold.
Henry could not hesitate.
Now, less than six feet away from him was an easy target.
He double-tapped him, the slugs driving into Ingram’s chest and chucking him back against the pit wall with their force. His arms flew upwards and his right hand released the gun, which went skittering across the garage floor. He slithered down on to his arse, his eyes never once leaving Henry’s.
Gina was on her feet instantly, scrambling out of the pit. She raced to Henry and clamped her arms around him, clinging tightly, his wrists still taped together and the gun in his hands, pointing down at the floor.
Henry’s breathing was harsh, rasping. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK … let’s get my wrists undone.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything more we can do for him,’ Henry said. He stood up and looked at his bloodstained hands, then at the body of Ryan Ingram, who, despite two holes in the upper right quadrant of his chest, was still alive – barely. He was on the floor of the inspection pit with kitchen towels stacked on to the wounds, which were clogged with blood.
Henry raised his eyes and look
ed floor level across to Mitch who, with a big, swollen head, drifted in and out of consciousness. Even so, just to be on the safe side, Henry had taped up his hands and ankles. The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with that raging monster again.
Gina sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the pit. She was very battered and sore, her head a real mess from the pistol-whipping Ingram had vested on her. Henry admired her spirit. She was unputdownable, a real fighter.
‘How you doing?’ he asked her.
‘Not good, been better.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘You are bloody fantastic,’ he told her, coming up the steps out of the pit and parking his backside next to hers. He put an arm around her shoulders.
‘When will they be here?’
‘Not long, now.’
Outside it was daylight.
‘Why have you looked after him?’ she asked, confused.
‘Good question … I don’t like people dying, I suppose.’
She turned her smashed-up face to him. ‘You are a policeman, aren’t you?’
He gave her a sardonic look. ‘Yeah,’ he said tiredly, ‘I guess I am.’
Seventeen
‘What the hell do you think I’m going to do, leave the country?’ Henry glared at the SS-bespectacled Dave Anger in disbelief. ‘Some things are more important than effing crime scenes!’
‘Listen you, you … fucker, despite me not liking you one jot, I’ve pulled out my tripe on your behalf and I expect a bit of cooperation in return.’
It had degenerated into a contest to see who could insert the ‘f’ word in as many places as possible in the dialogue, from which no one was going to emerge smelling of roses. This, however, did not stop Henry from ranting.
‘My fucking house has been burned down by a maniac, my wife’s in hospital and you expect me to stay here and then go to a nick with you to be questioned? Not a fucking chance in hell, you fucking, unfeeling twat.’
Anger adjusted his glasses. His face was scarlet with the argument.
‘Henry’ – he coughed to clear his throat – ‘Henry, there’s a guy been double-tapped in the chest, by you; there’s another been kicked unconscious, by you,’ he pointed out, not unreasonably.
‘Hey – stop right there, right now,’ Henry commanded.
The altercation between the two fractious officers was taking place very publicly at the front door of the farmhouse owned by Ingram.
Andrea Makin watched, agog.
Other cops, medics, gathered and ogled from a respectful distance.
‘I’ll give you the gist again. They were going to kill me and they were going to rape that little girl Ingram had abducted.’ His eyes were wide, mad looking, lots of white showing. ‘I acted in self-defence, end of story, details to follow later. That’s all you need to know. The crime scene itself is pure, too.’
He stared threateningly at Anger.
‘Someone let Ingram know I was a cop,’ he then added, not for the first time, either. It was like a steel wire was constricting his chest, being pulled tighter, like some medieval form of torture. His teeth ground together. He leaned towards Anger. ‘Either fucking arrest me, or let me go home.’
The fucking contest was over.
‘OK, love?’
Gina nodded, took hold of Henry’s hand. Together they walked towards the Lancashire force helicopter, India 99, the mode of transport scrambled to enable Makin and Anger and two armed officers to make the journey right across Lancashire once Henry’s position had been triangulated by means of the mobile phone pulse.
An air ambulance had also been, and gone, having conveyed the two casualties, plus armed officers to guard them, to hospital.
She squeezed his hand, making him feel like the weak one.
‘Was that your boss?’ she asked.
‘Sort of.’
‘He doesn’t like you much,’ she said. ‘Have you done something to upset him?’
‘Not recently,’ Henry reflected.
The helicopter had landed in a field in front of the farmhouse. As he and Gina walked to it, he glanced back at the police/ambulance activity. It was frantic, but he was curiously detached from it. What had happened there was, for the moment, strange and unreal.
‘I’ve never been in a helicopter,’ Gina said. ‘Have you?’
‘Once or twice,’ he responded absently, but didn’t add that it wasn’t his most favourite form of transport. It gave him the willies. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sore and still scared,’ she answered.
‘Me too.’
‘Henry!’
Andrea Makin was running towards him. She braked as she got close. ‘Can we have a quick word?’
Henry detached himself from Gina’s grip and walked a few steps away.
‘Can’t it wait?’ he asked irritably.
‘Look,’ she said apologetically, ‘sorry for getting you into this mess.’
‘It was my choice. I could’ve refused, but no, I wanted action and adventure and ended up with … shit!’
‘I’m sorry, but we do need to have a talk sooner rather than later.’
‘I know … but …’ He gestured towards the helicopter.
‘You need to get back to Kate. I understand.’
‘And to get this little lass back to Mum and Dad.’
Arrangements had already been made to kill two birds with one stone. Although the paramedics at the scene had treated Gina for the injuries she’d sustained from Ingram’s beating, they had still insisted she needed to go to hospital to be thoroughly checked over. The compromise reached, with Gina’s consent, was that the police helicopter would take her back across the country to be reunited with her parents at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. That also meant Henry could link up with Kate and Karl Donaldson who were there, too, and get checked over himself. A double reunion.
‘I promise I won’t go on the run.’
‘I know.’ Makin touched Henry’s face tenderly with the palm of her hand and tiptoed up to him, brushing her lips across his cheek. She whispered, ‘I wish you’d killed him.’
‘Dead men tell no tales … and I expect you’d rather get the story out of him than bury him without knowing the truth about your niece and other girls.’
‘In my heart I know the truth.’
Henry walked back to Gina, took her hand and they jogged to the helicopter, ducking down under the rotor blades, then climbing in to the passenger seats behind the pilot and observer.
Immediately the blades began to whump around.
The observer handed them both helmets, which they fitted after strapping themselves in. Henry’s was tight, crushing his ears and cheeks; Gina’s rattled loosely on her small head.
They held each other’s hands as the ungainly machine defied all the laws of physics, built up power and lifted from the ground, tilted forwards, then was up in the sky.
The overnight rain had cleared. It was a fine day for flying.
Fifteen minutes later they landed on the helipad at BVH, a small crowd there to receive them. As Henry and Gina dismounted, her parents broke free from the throng and rushed towards their little girl, arms outstretched, overcome with relief. Gina walked coolly towards them and Henry smiled at her. She had remained so composed, yet he wondered what would happen to her when the reality of the situation struck, which he knew it would.
She was whisked away by her parents, a nurse and a policewoman, leaving Henry to walk away from the helicopter, acknowledging the pilot and observer with a nod of grateful thanks for getting him back alive.
He ducked under the blades and walked towards the big figure of Karl Donaldson, who stood waiting for him, hands on hips and a crooked smile playing on his mouth.
Henry approached him cautiously, squinting at his bulk.
‘H, you look like shit.’
‘And you’re a big, good-looking mother, which really annoys me.’
Pleasantries over, something moved inside each of them and they shared a man
ly hug with lots of shoulder patting. Henry squeaked in pain.
‘I believe I need to thank you.’
Donaldson shrugged modestly. They headed to the hospital, as behind them the helicopter rose into the sky, banked and returned to base at Warton Aerodrome.
Henry limped and groaned. Suddenly, all the adrenalin left him. He sagged down and reached out to grasp Donaldson’s sleeve. The American caught him.
‘Whoa, there.’
‘Sorry, sorry, pal.’ Then he went slightly dizzy. ‘Hell.’
The American slid his arm around Henry’s back, held him upright and assisted him all the way to A&E whilst telling him what had gone on at the house, the fire, Kate, the rescue.
After what seemed like a five-mile trek, they entered the hospital, by which time Henry had regained some of his macho dignity and was walking without aid.
‘I need to see Kate first. She is OK, isn’t she?’
‘She’s fine,’ Donaldson reassured him, and not for the first time. ‘Breathed in some smoke and twisted her ankle when I threw her out of the bedroom window – joke … In fact, she did more damage to my car, dented the goddamned roof, man,’ he mock-whined.
He led Henry through the department to a cubicle in which Kate sat up on a bed with an oxygen mask over her face. Their daughters, Leanne and Jenny, were at her bedside.
As soon as they saw Henry, they all burst into tears as if on cue.
As did Henry.
Karl Donaldson looked away and hid his own tears.
Discharged after a fairly perfunctory examination, Henry sat in the waiting room of the A&E department six hours after having presented himself to the triage nurse. He had a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hands, which tasted just like the material of the cup it was in, and was staring unblinkingly at the tiled floor, still trying to come down.
The pains in his body were great, but now under control with the assistance of good quality analgesics, and though his breathing was uncomfortable – two cracked ribs confirmed by an X-ray – he was feeling better physically, but mentally still fuzzed-up and cracked-out.
‘DCI Christie?’
Henry raised his eyes to see a man standing in front of him. He recognized Gina’s father, an amiable looking gent around the thirty mark. He looked exhausted as he extended his right hand. Henry sat creakily upright and they shook.
