by Nick Oldham
Donaldson had no finesse in his speed, no grace, and he shoved individuals roughly aside. He was taking the direct route and everyone had better get out of his way.
Akram, though, was getting further away. Keeping low, he entered Hounds Hill shopping centre and disappeared into the covered mall. Donaldson cursed as he ran in and found himself faced with a dilemma. The mall was a large, curving semicircle, which split to the left and right. There was no sign of Akram, who could have gone either way and ducked into a shop, then used another exit, or a fire escape.
Donaldson spun on the spot.
Bill Robbins came up behind him.
‘Lost him,’ Donaldson gasped. ‘Is Sadiq still pinned down?’
‘Yes,’ Bill assured him.
‘And has the phone been seized?’
‘Yes,’ Bill repeated.
Two more cops rushed in behind, armed and in uniform, wearing peaked caps with chequered bands, and brandishing H&K machine pistols.
‘Who’s the guy you chased?’ Bill asked.
‘Akram – the guy I was telling you about.’
‘Jamil Akram? Shit,’ Bill blurted.
‘Yeah – and he’s gone to ground here – but he won’t be hiding long. He’ll break cover.’
‘I’ll get more people, get the exits sealed.’
‘Make sure you tell ’em to take care. He’ll be armed,’ Donaldson said. ‘And dangerous,’ he added, not caring if it sounded clichéd.
‘Description?’
Donaldson gave him a glance. ‘I know this sounds racist, but any Asian male, thirty to fifty, in this vicinity needs pulling and slamming down. But he is wearing a black zip-up wind jammer, blue jeans, grey trainers and he’s got a black moustache.’
‘Understood,’ Bill said, and he transmitted this through to comms.
Donaldson indicated to Bill that he was going to start looking and moved into the mall.
He prowled slowly, like a predator, but felt that Akram was now likely to be on the other side of the shopping centre or maybe in a car – at which moment Donaldson spotted a sign pointing to the Hounds Hill multi-storey car park, adjacent to the mall. It was only a guess, but Akram had appeared at the scene having come from the direction of the shopping centre, so maybe he was simply retracing his steps to get back to his escape vehicle.
Donaldson looked back at Bill and the two firearms officers. Bill was still talking urgently into his PR but Donaldson managed to get his attention, pointed at one of the firearms officers and then placed the flat of his hand on the crown of his skull in the old military signal. Come to me.
Bill nodded and shoved one of the officers in Donaldson’s direction, yelling something in his ear. He ran up to the American, who said, ‘I want to check the parking lot.’
The two men headed towards the double doors leading to the car park steps. ‘I’m Karl,’ Donaldson said quickly.
‘Steve. And what are you?’
‘FBI.’
‘And who are we after?’
‘Jamil Akram.’
‘He’s a bad guy, is he?’
‘Ultra bad.’
Steve, the firearms officer, pushed through the double doors and the two men stepped into a concrete stairwell.
‘Where from here?’
Donaldson thought quickly. ‘First level, then up through the parking lot, one level at a time.’
The firearms officer was kitted out in overalls, boots, a Kevlar vest, a utility belt holding handcuffs and a holster (in which was a Glock 17), the MP5 across his chest. He was weighted down like a storm trooper but he went quickly up the first two flights of stairs to level one. As they stepped out on to the concrete a Ford Fiesta shot out from a parking space, tyres screeching on the shiny floor. It accelerated towards the exit, and therefore in the direction of Donaldson and the firearms officer.
In spite of the reflection on the windscreen, Donaldson saw it was Akram at the wheel. ‘That’s him,’ he shouted.
The car gained speed, the engine revving.
The two men separated and Donaldson saw that Steve was already having doubts. What had this man actually done? What are his intentions? Is my life at risk? Are others in immediate peril? What happens if I shoot and kill? Am I out of a job? Goodbye pension. All questions that needed answers.
Donaldson had no such qualms. Problem was, he wasn’t armed.
The car sped between them, Akram’s head low over the wheel. As he passed Steve, he dinked the car purposely at him and caught his right leg with a glancing blow, sending him spinning away. But at the moment of impact, the officer had managed to smack the stock of the MP5 into the windscreen, cracking it like a spider’s web across its width. The weapon, though, flew out of his grasp and clattered away.
Akram sped on.
Donaldson rushed across to Steve, who was on the floor, gripping his injured leg. Without hesitation, Donaldson expertly flicked the restraining loop on the officer’s holster and released the Glock. Donaldson was familiar with the weapon, had used one many times in the range. He pivoted on his haunches and fired two shots at the back of the Ford as the car veered down the exit ramp.
Certain he’d put at least one bullet into Akram, Donaldson turned back to Steve who writhed in pain on the concrete floor, gripping his leg tightly with blood-soaked hands. Donaldson prised the hands away, wincing when he saw the misshapen thigh bone. He grabbed the officer’s PR and spoke coolly into it.
SIX
That transmission was the one picked up by Rik Dean, sitting alone in the KFC whilst Henry had gone to check whether Mark Carter had done a runner out back. Up to that point in the day, neither detective had his PR on and Rik had only switched his on for . . . well, boredom, really. He was instantly transported into a foot chase in Blackpool town centre, consisting of various hurried and worried transmissions, others more measured and calming, and he recognized the gruff but controlled tones of Bill Robbins in amongst them. There were many exchanges between mobile and foot patrols descending on an incident – one which Rik did not immediately understand – and then came the ‘Officer down’ message, at which point he had rushed out to Henry, thinking he would want to know about this.
He found him around the back of the KFC talking to Mark – who had, as Rik guessed, tried to slip out and disappear. Henry was holding Mark’s sleeve and it looked as though the pair were having a few moments of tension. But Rik knew what was important and that he and Henry might be needed elsewhere p.d.q. Mark Carter could be picked up as and when, so it didn’t concern Rik too much when Mark saw his chance and fled.
The two detectives raced to Henry’s car and jumped in. Henry reversed out of the space and screeched on to the road, turning up to the traffic lights on Preston New Road. From there, a left turn would take them towards Blackpool, right to the motorway roundabout at Marton Circle, the M55. The lights were on red.
‘What’s the situation?’ Henry demanded.
‘Not entirely sure,’ Rik admitted, looking at his PR which was alive with traffic and some pretty panicked voices.
‘Find out,’ Henry said.
Rik hesitated slightly, waiting for an appropriate gap in transmissions into which he could dive. Impatient, Henry snatched the PR and said, ‘Superintendent Christie interrupting.’ From what little he had heard he could tell it was very confusing and, for a short time, no one seemed to be taking proper control. Part of the problem was that patrols were on radio talk-thru, meaning everyone could hear everything being said and could interrupt without permission. On big incidents, this wasn’t always a good thing and sometimes the radio operator needed to take a firm grip, switch off talk-thru and assume total control. Which is exactly what Henry ordered the comms operator, who sounded out of his depth, to do. Maybe it was a new guy. At Henry’s instigation the man took a deep breath, became more authoritative, and cancelled talk-thru. Henry asked him then to recirculate brief details of the incident, offender and vehicle.
The lights changed to green.
/> Henry stuffed the PR back into Rik’s hands, considered his position, zipped across a lane, cutting up another driver, and headed towards the motorway junction. His feeling was that enough people were already at the scene, so he thought that a few minutes sat at the motorway junction could be fruitful. Maybe. A traffic car was en route to do just that, but was ten minutes away at least, so Henry decided to plug that gap for a while. Patrols covering checkpoints such as motorway junctions was pretty standard procedure anyway, basic coppering that sometimes got overlooked in the heat of an exciting incident. Escape routes had to be covered and sometimes it paid off.
All this was in Henry’s mind when Rik said, ‘We’re not going to the scene, then?’
Henry gunned the Mercedes, feeling the smooth surge of power at his light touch. God, it felt good. ‘No.’
‘But . . .?’
‘I know there’s no guarantee, but a Ford Fiesta with a cracked windscreen might just come sailing past.’
‘And pigs might fly.’
Henry grunted like one. But he knew that being a lucky cop was often about diligence and doing routine things . . . and patience. He said, ‘Sometimes it happens, especially if an offender is panicking leaving a scene because they haven’t worked out an escape route properly, one that avoids main roads. Sounds like the guy in the Ford was surprised and maybe he didn’t even think he’d need an escape plan.’
‘Mm, whatever.’ Rik would most definitely have preferred to be charging to the scene. Those emotive words ‘Officer down’ drew in cops automatically. They always felt the need to be there, even if they ended up acting like headless chickens. Henry, too, felt the urge to be at the scene, but he knew a wider perspective was needed – which is why he was a superintendent. That was his argument, anyway.
His mobile phone rang and he answered it by pressing a button on the dash which linked to the handset via Bluetooth and also switched the call to speakerphone. Henry grinned, amazed at how he had embraced the technology.
‘Henry Christie.’
‘Henry – it’s Karl. I heard your voice on the radio, barking orders like some sort of mini Hitler.’
‘Karl – you at the scene?’ Henry asked, ignoring the remark.
‘Right at it,’ Donaldson confirmed.
‘Tell me,’ Henry said. Donaldson did so, succinctly.
He ended by saying ‘The cop he clipped looks pretty bad – big thigh injury. He did well to crack the windshield with his gun, though.’
‘Are things being controlled now?’
‘Yeah. There’s a uniformed cop with a lot of bird shit on his collar at the scene, ambulance just arriving, bomb squad, too. I think we’re OK. The initial scene down by the Tower entrance is sealed, I think, and that guy’s been neutralized. But Akram’s on the loose. Hell, if we could take him, that would be . . .’ Donaldson was lost for words.
‘OK, pal. I’ll have to leave you with it. Unfortunately it’s not my job, but I’ll sit on the motorway checkpoint until the traffic car deigns to turn up, then I’ll have to resume my day job.’
‘Gotcha.’
‘Oh, Karl – you planning on staying up here tonight, or going home?’
‘Hadn’t given it a thought.’
‘Spare room at the Christie household if necessary,’ Henry invited him. ‘Just turn up if you need it. Cheaper than a Premier Inn.’
‘Roger that.’
Henry drew the Mercedes on to the forecourt of the petrol station situated just five hundred metres before the motorway junction and parked up close to the exit ramp. An ideal position from which to view passing traffic. The two officers picked up their just-warm meals.
‘I knew Karl would be involved somewhere,’ Henry smirked, then sat back in the comfortable leather seat, watching traffic, not hopeful for a result. ‘Suicide bomber in Blackpool,’ he murmured, taking a bite from his chicken burger.
‘Why bloody Blackpool?’ Rik said, disgusted.
Henry shrugged. ‘Terrorists terrorize. Hitting a target like Blackpool makes the whole country feel unsafe. Up to now, if you don’t live in London you feel pretty secure strolling around your own town. Remember the IRA?’
‘Mm.’ It was a bitter murmur from Rik’s throat.
‘Surprised they don’t do it all the time – make everybody feel threatened all the time. Provincial towns . . . middle England . . . low-class places . . .’
‘I get your point,’ Rik said uncomfortably.
‘I’m sure they have the resources and the willing bodies,’ Henry pressed on relentlessly.
Rik raised his hands in defeat. ‘I get you.’
Henry grinned.
‘So, come on then,’ Rik demanded, making his point with a chicken leg. ‘Have you ever actually sat at a checkpoint after a job and actually seen the offending vehicle drive by?’
‘Twice, actually.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘True. Once, when I was on the crime car and a taxi driver got robbed at gunpoint, the offenders stole his cab and came sailing past ten minutes later. That was a good lock-up,’ Henry remembered with pride. ‘Other time was after a post office robbery . . . that got a bit messy, but it was a good result.’
‘OK – so twice in thirty years?’
‘You’ve got to cover all avenues.’ And to confirm it, the comms operator informed all patrols that all checkpoints in the division were now covered by static patrols and adjoining divisions were doing the same.
‘So if he tries to get out of Blackpool by main road, we might get lucky,’ Rik said cynically. ‘There’s loads of other ways out.’
Henry looked at him and shook his head sadly, then returned his attention to the traffic flowing by. He could not help but feel a pulse of excitement in his veins. A murder and a suicide bomber in one day. He thought about his ‘Intention to Retire’ report sitting on his computer’s hard drive, waiting to be printed off. Days like this meant it could wait a little longer. Kate’s illness and death had certainly taken the sheen off police work for Henry, but that had been the fault of the circumstances as much as anything. A loved one dying took the shine off everything. However, there was no doubt about it, he still got a serious buzz from coppering, even if he’d had a mental hiccup earlier at the murder scene. But that was something he’d occasionally witnessed in other colleagues when they’d been affected by personal trauma. He just never thought it would get to him on the job, thought he was immune to it.
‘So Carter did a runner?’ Rik said. ‘Think he’s guilty?’
Henry screwed up his nose. ‘Famous last words, but no, I don’t think he did it. He’s a decent lad, really.’
‘You go all soft around him,’ Rik said.
‘He’s had a tough life.’
‘He’s a little shit and I wouldn’t put it past him.’ Rik was very unforgiving, never able to accept that an individual’s upbringing or situation was any excuse for criminal behaviour. It was a point of view Henry knew well.
‘Take your freakin’ blinkers off,’ Henry whined – a slightly ironic statement as at that exact moment a Ford Fiesta with a cracked windscreen drove past them on the main road in the direction of the motorway, one Asian male on board.
Henry’s adrenaline spurted into his already fast-pumping blood flow as he bagged his food and clicked the Mercedes into drive. He moved smoothly off the forecourt, slotting in three cars behind the Fiesta which was in the nearside lane.
‘See,’ Henry said. ‘You get lucky if you do the work.’
Rik glowered, stuffed his uneaten meal back into its package then picked up his PR.
The Fiesta peeled left on to the M55, picking up speed but not excessively so. This made Henry frown slightly. He hung back as cars in front of him moved out to overtake the Fiesta leaving a sixty metre gap between himself and the Ford. The speed edged slowly upwards to the seventy mark as Rik relayed the position to comms. The force control room at headquarters then muscled in and took over the running of the ‘follow’, diverting and de
ploying traffic and motorway patrols. The FIM made the decision that if the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, a rolling road block would be instigated to box it in and bring it to a halt on an appropriate stretch of hard shoulder when enough patrols were there, together with armed officers.
Henry was instructed to keep his distance, simply report progress, and not to get involved directly.
First to join was a big Volvo traffic car, overtaking Henry and dropping into the space between his Merc and the Fiesta. The speed was still around the seventy mark.
‘Doesn’t really give the impression of a desperate man,’ Henry commented dryly.
‘The Fiesta isn’t a fast car, especially a shit heap like that one,’ Rik said.
‘Granted . . . but . . .’
‘Yeah, I know . . . I’ve been in a car chase with a Reliant Robin three-wheeler going faster than that.’
Another traffic car tore up alongside Henry, then moved ahead so that it was abreast with the first one in the nearside and middle lanes of the motorway, both still hanging back from the Ford. Control room said that other traffic cars were a few miles ahead of them on the motorway, waiting.
Henry’s mobile rang.
‘Henry – it’s Karl.’
‘Yeah – we’re with the Fiesta,’ Henry said. ‘Something odd, though.’ Henry explained the lack of urgency in the demeanour of the supposedly fleeing felon who’d knocked over a cop and been back-up for a suicide bomber. ‘He’s just trolling along at seventy, no evasive tactics, dangerous driving, attempts to force cop cars off the road or anything.’
‘Did you get a look at the driver?’
‘Not a good one,’ Henry admitted, and arched his eyebrows at Rik, who shook his head: he didn’t get a good look either. ‘Just enough to see an Asian male.’
‘Tell them all to take care,’ Donaldson said. ‘Could be a set-up – oh, and by the way, I shot the driver.’
‘You what?’ Henry blurted, but Donaldson ended the call on that note. ‘Shit,’ Henry said.
