by Nick Oldham
‘Alpha Seven, also en route.’
‘Patrols stand by,’ the comms operator said coolly. Obviously everybody was eager to get there, particularly as there was a possible link to the murder, but it would be a Keystone Kops type mess if they all descended on the scene like wasps round a can of Coke. Jobs like this needed a firm hand, because bobbies, being bobbies, loved to rush to the action, often losing sight of the bigger picture. Which is where supervision came in.
‘DCI Christie,’ Henry shouted up.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Current position with the PNC check, please?’
‘We’re running the partial number through now. Could take a few minutes.’
‘Roger – please recirculate all you’ve got, for my benefit as much as anything, then get a grip on deployment; two patrols to the scene is enough for now. Everyone else to static points and structured patrol, please. You decide who – and also get on to the motorway and let them know what we’ve got on.’
‘Roger, sir.’
‘Ahh, power,’ Henry cooed, listening to the operator follow his instructions. ‘Obviously none of that applies to me. I’ll go wherever I want.’
Jane raced the car up the promenade, past the tower, jerking as she changed gear, whizzing past horses and carriages. ‘I still need to speak to you,’ she said, niftily pulling in front of a double decker.
‘Right, shall we sort this first?’
‘Alpha Four to Blackpool,’ came a welcome interruption over the radio. It was the officer at the scene.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Some initial details … offender described as white male, fifty years, wearing white shorts and tee shirt. Speaks with local accent, maybe five ten, six feet tall. Brown hair cut short, glasses … and further to the car, it’s grey, could be an Audi … might help refine the PNC search.’
‘Roger – any direction of travel?’
‘Towards the prom from the scene, but that’s all I have.’
‘Roger … all patrols,’ the operator said and relayed the details again for the benefit of everyone.
Jane slowed, to Henry’s relief. ‘What bit do you want to do, boss?’ She glanced at him with irony. They were still on the prom, heading north.
‘I’m feeling lucky … let’s keep going for the time being.’
‘Think it could be our man?’
‘Who knows, but as I said, I feel lucky.’
One hour later there had been no sightings of a possible suspect vehicle. Henry felt dejected, hoping that the breakthrough might have come. He and Jane patrolled as far north as Fleetwood, then criss-crossed their way back, eventually arriving at the home of the young girl who had been approached and almost abducted. He and Jane spent some time with her and her parents, checking the story, soothing them down, before leaving them in the capable hands of a female DC to obtain a statement. More paperwork to add to the growing mountain.
‘Still feel lucky?’ Jane asked.
‘It’s a state of mind, positive mental attitude,’ he said grandly. ‘I’m always feeling lucky.’
‘I need to tell you something,’ she said worryingly.
The atmosphere in the car altered palpably.
‘What would that be?’ he said after a nervous pause, totally aware that his own lips were now pursed like a cat’s behind. He had a horrible premonition that what he was about to hear was not very pleasant. ‘Dave Anger wants to bin me from FMIT? I know that,’ he said, trying to take the lead. ‘You’d like to see the back of me, too. I know that.’
‘Both true,’ she agreed.
‘But you don’t want to tell me those things?’
‘No.’
‘Fire away, then.’
‘I had an argument with my husband. A real humdinger. Said some things I shouldn’t have. Hurtful things, y’know?’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘We’d – I’d – probably had too much to drink.’
‘It’s always the case, isn’t it?’ Henry’s body was turning slowly to ice. It crept up from his feet, up his shins, just about reached his groin and squeezed. A curious sensation. One you get when you know the hammer’s about to fall.
‘Things haven’t really worked out between us,’ she exhaled sadly. ‘The child thing never happened and sometimes I think that was just a ruse by both of us to save a failing relationship. Y’know, have a kid, save the marriage crap?’
Not deliriously happy about the way this was heading, Henry’s left hand sneaked automatically to the door handle, wondering if he could perhaps eject himself at the next junction and run like hell, never to be seen again. Fight or flight, the latter won hands down.
‘I really didn’t want to hurt him,’ she continued, now on a roll, constantly checking on Henry as she drove. Henry braced himself and pointed urgently through the windscreen.
‘Lights!’ he said, the word emitting strained from his constricted throat. Not only did he not like what he was hearing, they might be the last words he ever heard unless she concentrated on her driving.
She slammed the brakes on. Henry jerked forwards, his hands slapping the dash, seatbelt ratcheting on.
The screech to a halt did not seem to affect Jane’s verbal momentum. ‘Oh God, Henry,’ she blabbed on, ‘it was an awful row, one of those you never want to have. He was mortified.’
‘Right.’
‘I couldn’t stop myself.’ She inhaled, then exhaled heavily, a huge sigh, shaking her head. ‘I was so wound up. Too much to drink, tired, pissed off, unhappy,’ she concluded softly, and looked Henry in the eyes again, peering straight into his soul, terrifying the life out of him with a stare that made him quiver. Here it was again, he thought: emotion. The thing I do not do any more.
‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said inadequately, then pointed urgently ahead again. Traffic had started to move, and Jane was oblivious to the fact. She was fast becoming a hazard.
‘I wish I hadn’t said it, honestly I do.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’
This time Henry stared at her, waiting for the bombshell. ‘No,’ he squeaked.
‘It just came out.’ Henry saw a tear form on the lip of her eye, then tumble down her cheek. ‘But I was so unhappy … and all because of you,’ she accused him.
He scratched his forehead, feeling as inadequate as Stan Laurel.
‘I told him about us,’ she announced.
‘You did what?’ he spluttered, though he suspected this was what was coming.
‘Told him we had an affair.’
Suddenly he felt emptier than the Gobi desert – and frightened – but before he could respond in any meaningful way, two things happened, one immediately following the other.
They were approaching the roundabout at Gynn Square from the north. Jane slowed, her attention veering from Henry, as she waited for his reaction, and the road ahead, a split of about eighty/twenty in favour of Henry.
‘Blackpool to all patrols … regarding the earlier incident of attempted abduction, the PNC check run against the partial number plate has come up with one possible match with a grey Audi A4, no current keeper, previously registered to a male from the Manchester area. The full registered number is …’ The operator reeled off the number. ‘A further PNC check reveals that the driver of this vehicle is suspected of indecency offences in the Greater Manchester area. Details of stop-checks to be forwarded to CID in Rochdale.’
‘Ooh, could be our man,’ Henry said.
‘Could be,’ Jane said with disinterest.
Henry looked up. ‘Slow down, we’re coming to a roundabout.’
‘I am doing, I am doing,’ she cried, and slammed on the brakes.
‘And my lord, there it is,’ Henry said, pointing to a grey Audi saloon ahead of them, pulling off the roundabout and heading down Dickson Road towards town, one occupant on board. ‘Yep, I’m sure it is,’ he confirmed, ‘before you ask.’
‘Shit,’ she uttered, and sp
ed after the vehicle.
‘DCI Christie to Blackpool,’ Henry said into his PR. ‘Regarding the circulation, this vehicle is now heading along Dickson Road towards the town centre, just passing the rear of the Imperial Hotel.’ He ended the transmission, then said to Jane, ‘Come on, speed up, lass.’
She emitted a snarly growl and jammed her foot on the gas.
Henry gave an update: ‘Passing Claremont Community Centre.’
The comms operator was deploying patrols to the area.
In a few seconds the car would be in the one-way system which threaded around the old cinema which was now Funny Girls nightclub.
Henry rubbed his hands excitedly. ‘Told you I was feeling lucky.’
‘After what I’ve just told you. You must be nuts.’
‘Mm, OK, not lucky in that respect.’ Once again Jane looked square-on at him. ‘Watch the bleeding road,’ he yelled.
‘Sorry.’
The Audi drove round on to Talbot Road, stopping at the red lights by the bus station, Henry and Jane two cars behind. Henry updated comms whilst peering through the windows of the car ahead in an effort to get a better view of the Audi driver. He was speaking into his PR when he saw that the driver of the Audi was adjusting his rear view mirror. The lights were still on red, one car between them. The Audi driver adjusted his mirror again.
Then, lights still on red, the Audi surged through them.
‘He’s clocked us,’ Henry snapped.
Jane recovered some of her composure, her cop instincts slotting back into place. She pulled out and sped past the car in front, coming up behind the Audi, which swerved through another red light, left into King Street, then a tight right, followed by a right-angled left into Edward Street, shooting past the Post Office into Cedar Square. Without stopping, the Audi screeched across the very congested thoroughfare that was Church Street, angling across into Leopold Grove, the massive Winter Gardens complex on the right.
Henry held tight as Jane, now concentrating on her driving – or so Henry thought – pursued the Audi.
‘He’s definitely clocked us,’ Henry confirmed into his PR, giving comms the details of the chase.
‘The pursuit policy must be adhered to,’ the operator warned Henry. ‘You should back off now.’ Which was all very well, but by the time an advanced driver, pursuit trained, in a fully-liveried traffic car appeared on the scene, the Audi would have disappeared.
Henry said, ‘Roger,’ but to Jane he said, ‘Like hell … shit!’ He ducked instinctively as she swerved across Church Street into Leopold Grove, causing a bus to anchor on and two old biddies to call on all their reserves and leap out of the way, using Zimmerframes for purchase.
‘Don’t for a moment think you can forget what we were talking about,’ Jane said through grating teeth. She held the steering wheel tight, foot to the floor, and cornered into Adelaide Street, right up the Audi’s ‘chuffer’, having no regard for the pursuit policy. This was one suspect who wasn’t going to get away because of bureaucracy and Health and Safety.
The Audi was a fast car, sticking to the road well, and pulled away from Jane down the straight stretch which was Adelaide Street.
‘Suspect vehicle, fast speed down Adelaide Street,’ Henry said understatedly to comms. ‘Pursuit policy being adhered to,’ he added, lying through all his teeth.
‘Roger,’ the operator said doubtfully.
Traffic congestion at the next junction with Coronation Street ensured Jane was up behind the Audi again. The driver was all over the place in his seat, head revolving, body jerking as panic swept through him. He went right on to Coronation Street, closely followed by Jane and a cacophony of angry horns from other cars. Then the Audi went left and Henry said, ‘Got him!’ He had turned into Hounds Hill car park, a multi-storey monstrosity built up over a shopping centre. In 1985, during the Conservative Party Conference, Henry had been positioned on the top floor of this car park, where he spent a week freezing, with a bad tummy, wondering when the IRA were going to strike, as this was the conference the year after the Brighton bombing. ‘He’s just driven himself into a dead end,’ Henry said.
The Audi bounced up the ramp and into the first level of the car park, Jane sticking close as he sped along that level and veered into the tight ramp for level two, tyres screaming in complaint. Jane almost smashed her car by overshooting the turn, anchored on, found reverse with a crunch – ‘That’s it, get rid of all them nasty cogs,’ Henry said, getting a snarl from her – finding first and accelerating up. By this time the Audi had reached the far end and had swung up the ramp for level three.
It was abandoned, door open, driver legging it, when Jane and Henry reached three. Jane screeched to a classic Sweeney-style swerving, rubber-burning stop an inch behind the Audi and Henry was out after the suspect who was fleeing toward the stairwell.
Henry’s current level of fitness – low to zero – hit him as he ran, suddenly aware of the extra weight around the middle. Too many crap meals over the last six months had taken their toll. He was breathing heavily within fifty metres, wanting to stop within fifty-one.
But he didn’t. He followed the Audi driver into the stairs, glad to see the guy going down in the direction of the shopping mall. Henry flung himself down the concrete steps four at a time, landing awkwardly at the foot of each flight, jarring his knees, but not stopping, using the wall to propel him onwards whilst breathlessly shouting down his PR.
He was catching up with the guy. If there had been another couple of flights down, he would have leapt on his back. Unfortunately the next stop was ground level and the suspect burst through the doors into the shopping centre, running into a crowd of people.
Henry stayed with him, dodging and weaving past happy shoppers, trying to imagine he was back on a rugby pitch. Until, that is, an old woman he was bearing down on panicked, went the same way as him, making him suddenly switch direction, crash into her and send her flying, probably to heaven. He lost his balance, stumbled, shouted, ‘Sorry!’ and executed a spectacular forward roll from which he recovered brilliantly, but which gave the man on the run an extra five metres.
But there was no way in which Henry was going to be outrun by a suspected child abductor. Personal and professional pride saw to that.
He accelerated, everything pumping, closing the gap.
The suspect ran into the revolving doors which opened out on to the main shopping street. Henry managed to squeeze in the door behind him.
‘Got you, you bastard. You’re under arrest.’
In the confined, triangular space, the man turned on Henry, pure hatred in his face. A hand emerged with a screwdriver in it, which flashed as it rose in an upward arc towards Henry’s guts. He blocked it with his radio and bundled himself up close to the man so there was no room to move. They were face to face, sweat to sweat, eye to eye, breath to breath – and then the door got to its opening and they spilled out on to the street, giving Henry the chance to swing with his radio and smack the guy hard across the head.
They fell in an untidy heap, rolling across the paved street. Henry was vaguely aware of shoppers and screams and legs, but acutely aware that the screwdriver was still in the man’s hand: did all these child abusers carry weapons? Before the guy could take advantage of the space, Henry hit him again with the radio, bouncing it off his temple. It had no discernible effect, as once again the screwdriver arced up towards Henry’s face. He saw it had a Philips head. He blocked it, the two men parted, both getting to their feet, completely exhausted by the exertion.
‘As I said,’ Henry panted breathlessly, ‘You’re under arrest and you need to drop that screwdriver – now!’ He finished with a shout. Henry’s hand disappeared under his jacket and emerged holding his CS canister. ‘I’ll CS you if you don’t.’
The man considered his options as people gathered. Henry kept focused on him, aware of the build-up of bodies, which could prove advantageous to the suspect. He spoke into his radio, which he’d swapped to his
left hand, and gave comms his current position.
Still the man kept hold of the screwdriver and maintained a threatening stance, undecided about his course of action.
Suddenly his face contorted with rage and he leapt at Henry, screwdriver raised. He screamed as he bore down on the detective.
Henry didn’t have the time or the inclination to warn him. He simply raised his hand, pointed the CS canister, and pressed. He was always amazed at how weedy and ineffectual the spray looked when it came out. A bit pathetic, really. But the effects were immediate and devastating on the suspect. His scream of anger turned to one of pain as the spray hit him square in the face. The screwdriver went flying and he clawed desperately at his eyes, nose and mouth, which burned fiercely under the acid-like substance.
For good measure, Henry gave him another blast. The suspect went down on to his knees, screaming in agony
Henry rehoused the canister, whipped out his cuffs and got to work on the suspect, careful not to contaminate himself in the process. He grabbed his arms and cuffed him around his back.
‘You fucking bastard,’ the man cried as he shook his head, desperate to claw at his face and rub his eyes to relieve the pain.
Henry knew that this was the worst thing to do, actually. Henry turned him to face the breeze and told him repeatedly to open his eyes. This was the only way in which the CS would dissipate.
‘Try to keep your eyes open … keep blinking … keep your face to the wind … eyes open … I know you want to rub them … that makes it worse … just look into the wind …’
Henry was standing by the kneeling man when Jane pounded on to the scene followed by a lump of hairy-arsed cops, eager to do business.
‘Well?’
It was eight p.m. Another long day … weren’t they all, Henry thought … and now he was face to face with Dave Anger again who, quite rightly, wanted to know where the investigation was up to.
Henry paused for thought.
A girl found dead in a car. The main suspect found murdered. One guy in custody charged with a serious assault on a cop and other serious offences. Another in custody following an attempt abduction. One still outstanding, but a good few days’ work in some respects … yet in others … His mind flitted to the interactions with Debbie Black, Jane Roscoe’s revelations – she’d told her husband! – plus the damage to his car. Henry’s brow furrowed on that point. Could those two things be connected? An embittered husband out for revenge? Maybe it wasn’t some embittered detective from GMP after all.
