by Nick Oldham
He was quickly running out of options.
Whichever he chose, he knew that if he continued to drive like an idiot, refuse to stop, maybe ram a few more cop cars, and wave the shotgun about, all they would do was follow him at a safe distance. That was their policy. They didn’t like getting people hurt. It tarnished their image.
He needed to make a decision quickly.
He was travelling down the steep hill, Brockholes Brow, away from Preston towards motorway Junction 31.
In his rearview he saw the crunched-up front end of the police car he had rammed on the forecourt, right up there, giving him nothing, pushing him hard.
Seymour had staunched the blood flow from the cut on his head. He dropped his red-drenched hankie on the car floor where it landed with a squelch. He delicately touched the wound again and winced. Blood dribbled out again. He swore and held the sleeve of his jacket over it and pressed.
Henry had drawn up right behind the Range Rover on the steep Brockholes Brow. Only a matter of feet separated them.
Injured though he was, Seymour was full of bright ideas.
‘ If had a pound of sugar,’ he said laconically, ‘I could lean out of the window and put it into his petrol tank. That’d stop him.’ He had noticed the filler cap had not been secured. Petrol had splashed out on a couple of bends.
‘ Just check the glove box,’ Henry said urgently. ‘I think there’s a bag of sugar in there.’
They both cracked up laughing.
‘ I just love chases,’ Seymour said. ‘Such fun.’
Brockholes Brow is a very steep hill about a mile long with a speed restriction of 30 m.p.h. They were touching eighty in their descent, whilst dangerously overtaking, cutting in, braking, accelerating. Only just missing other cars, leaving a trail of chaos behind.
Henry stuck with it all the way, as if he was being towed.
He didn’t hold out much hope of this bastard being stopped by fair means. The man was obviously — and quite rightly — desperate to get away. He’d shot a cop and God knows what’d happened to the passenger. Henry couldn’t begin to comprehend that. It was like a nightmare.
No, he thought. There were only two ways to stop this guy: if he ran out of petrol, or if the police employed foul means.
Another traffic car joined in behind Henry. There was one positioned at the foot of the hill, ready to pull out in front of the speeding Range Rover.
As the tons of hurtling machinery hit the flat, the driver of that waiting police car saw what was coming. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He wanted to get home for tea, so he sat there and let them all fly past. He tagged on behind.
The pursuit was taking on the appearance of Death Race 2000.
For a January Sunday in the north-west of England it had been an excellent day. Warm, sunny, still. One of those special winter’s days — but a winter’s day nonetheless.
And daylight does not last long in winter, however good the day has been.
By 4.50 p.m. as the chase approached the motorway, the night was drawing in. quickly.
Street-lights were flickering on. Car headlights had been on for a while.
The darkening day was the reason why, at the last moment, Dundaven chose to take the motorway as a route to freedom. Maybe the cops wouldn’t have it all their own way, he thought. Once he got on the motorway he would keep his lights off and drive blind. He knew that a good long stretch of the M61 was unlit and this would be to his advantage. Even with the helicopter and its searchlight up above.
He hardly reduced his speed on the approach to the first roundabout which forms Junction 31, keeping in as straight a line as possible on the wide, newly constructed road. He raced underneath the M6 bridge, with the River Ribble to his left, negotiated the second roundabout and picked up the M6 south.
He was feeling pretty confident when he came off the slip road and entered the motorway proper, easily overtaking the police Range Rover which was lying in wait for him.
Henry switched on his headlights, hardly expecting them to work. He was mildly surprised when both lit up, even the offside one which had been damaged in the collision. It shone at a very acute upwards angle, lighting up the spare wheel on the back door of the Range Rover.
‘ Handy if the Luftwaffe appears,’ Seymour said.
They both started giggling again.
Each had settled into the pursuit now and were enjoying it, in spite of its dangers and the obvious lunatic they were after.
The traffic car behind Henry now flexed its muscles, pulled out, easily overtook him and cruised alongside Dundaven.
Silly manoeuvre.
Or as Seymour put it, ‘The stupid prat.’
He was not wrong.
Dundaven looked sharply to his right, mouthed something down at the officers, yanked his steering wheel and barged into the side of the traffic car. The driver fought for control but spun spectacularly away, bounced off the central reservation barrier and the car flipped onto its roof. It continued to spin like a top until a car speeding down the outside lane, driven by an unsuspecting member of the public, smashed into it. Then another.
Dundaven in the Range Rover, Henry in the CID car, left this twisted chaos behind.
Seymour peered back but had difficulty making out exactly what had happened in the deepening gloom. He swore grimly and faced front again.
Henry grabbed the PR and shouted, ‘No one is to try and pull this vehicle again. No one! Relay that to all patrols.’
From up in the sky the searchlight which hung on to the underside of the helicopter came on. For good reason the light was known as the ‘Nightsun’. It emitted a light equivalent to 30 million candle-power. The whole light was fully remote, controlled from within the cockpit of the helicopter, and the beam width could be focused tightly onto a target. Which it was on the vehicle below.
The pursuit came off the M6 at the next exit, straight onto the M61, no slowing down necessary.
Dundaven increased his speed. Within moments the big vehicle was touching 115 m.p.h., courtesy of its 4.6-litre engine.
By contrast, Henry’s car started to flag. The engine, less than half the size and ten times as worn, tried valiantly, but had extreme difficulty keeping around the 100 m.p.h. mark.
Dundaven hared easily away. The gap increased with each second. There was no escaping the helicopter, however, which had a cruise speed of 125 m.p.h.
Seymour confirmed their position to Control Room, and that he believed their ultimate destination could well be Greater Manchester.
He asked for their patrols to be alerted.
‘ Unless we get him stopped on the motorway, we’ll lose him,’ Henry concluded. ‘Here, give me the radio again. Perhaps there is something we can do.’
A traffic patrol officer called Sharp sat behind the steering wheel of his pride and joy: a brand new Volvo estate car, kitted out in the new orange, blue and white livery of the Lancashire Police.
He was parked on Anderton Services on the M61, literally only metres from the boundary with Manchester and about six miles south from the current position of the chase which was less than five minutes away from him.
His call sign came up and the Control Room operator asked him a question to which he replied, ‘Yes, one on board.’
He was given authority to use it.
It was his lucky night.
He drove quickly down to the bottom of the services exit road and stopped on the hard shoulder. He turned on every light his car possessed so no one would fail to see him. He scurried around to the tailgate of the Volvo, opened it and pulled out his new piece of kit.
He was shaking with nervous anticipation.
History in the making.
The first officer in Lancashire to use ‘The Stinger’.
Dundaven drove hard down the motorway, leapfrogging as necessary. Overtaking on the inside or hard shoulder. Followed all the while by that fucking helicopter.
Resting on his knee was the shot
gun.
Holding the steering wheel with his right hand and left knee, he deftly broke the weapon with his free hand. The remnants of the two cartridges which had killed McCrory were expelled. Without letting the speed drop, he reached back between the seats and felt under the blanket where the shotguns had been secreted originally. He found a box of cartridges and dumped them out onto the bloodstained passenger seat. He skilfully slotted two into the empty barrels and closed the weapon.
Once loaded, he transferred the steering to his left hand, the shotgun to his right. Then he attempted to do what he always did to people or things which annoyed him.
He leaned out of the window, braced himself against the doorframe, aimed as best he could and wrapped his forefinger around the double triggers.
This was happening as he sped past Anderton Services.
He hardly noticed the place really; vaguely saw the police car with its lights ablaze and thought he might have seen the figure of a cop standing by the car. But that was all. What he was bothered about was getting a good shot at the helicopter.
The Hollow Spike Tyre Deflation System is its technical name. Better known as ‘The Stinger’, it consists of a lightweight plastic frame with metal spikes protruding from it and is designed, in manufacturer’s parlance, ‘to safely resolve pursuit situations’. By rolling out the frame like a red carpet across the path of a vehicle, the hollow spikes imbed themselves in one or more of the tyres. Gradual deflation and subsequent loss of speed follow. That’s the theory.
The Stinger had been used in several police forces with a good deal of success, though vehicles had been known not to pick up spikes in their tyres. Lancashire had eventually bought a large number of the systems.
This was the first time one had been deployed.
Sharp was ecstatic as he watched the fleeing Range Rover bump over it. He yanked it back in and bundled it into the back of the Volvo.
Had it done the trick, was the next question.
Dundaven fired both barrels upwards, remembering to keep hold of the weapon. At the same time he felt a dull ‘thu-dud’ when the wheels went over something in the carriageway. A hump or something. Maybe raised tarmac over a repair. Nothing really.
The observer in the helicopter saw Dundaven’s head and right shoulder leaning out of the window and the shotgun aimed at them. He informed the pilot and both of them said, ‘What a wanker he must be if he thinks he’s going to even come close.’ They stayed exactly where they were on station above him.
He missed completely, all of the shot eventually falling harmlessly away.
‘ That’ll show the fuckers,’ Dundaven said with satisfaction.
He dropped the shotgun onto the passenger seat and returned his concentration to driving. Not that far to go now.
The Range Rover slewed to the right.
He corrected the steering, thinking nothing of it. A gust of wind.
It happened again.
‘ Wooaw,’ he gasped. The wheel almost ripped itself out of his grip. This time it was a little harder to control at 117 m.p.h. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ he demanded out loud. Puncture, maybe?
It veered to the right again. Dundaven held tightly to the wheel, trying to keep the speed up but finding it increasingly difficult. With each second the vehicle became more and more unstable. Next it went left. Something was very definitely wrong.
With a flash he remembered the cop on the motorway.
And the bump on the road.
He groaned angrily and reached for the shotgun.
‘ The Stinger!’ he hissed.
Sharp, the traffic officer, had caught up with Dundaven in less than two minutes. The speed was now lower than fifty and dropping.
The helicopter radioed the apparent success to all patrols.
Within another minute Henry was back in the chase.
Seconds behind him was another traffic car and an Armed Response
Vehicle (ARV) — which was double-manned — each officer armed to the back teeth with a variety of weapons.
Another helicopter appeared in the sky, the one belonging to Greater Manchester Police.
Dundaven saw everything converging on him. He fought to keep the speed up, but could not halt the decline. Having picked up spikes in both front tyres, the Range Rover was proving impossible to control. It seemed to have had enough of him and wanted to stop the whole crazy business. He was powerless, like the rider of a horse which had a mind of its own. He slowed and stopped in the centre lane.
The helicopters hovered above, lights blazing down on him.
There were no other cars about other than cop cars, because three miles back Control Room had activated the overhead matrix signs and brought the motorway to a standstill.
Dundaven fondled the shotgun for a few moments. Deep in thought he tossed it out of the window, sat there and bowed his head.
It was over.
Henry talked Dundaven out, giving him precise instructions through a loud-hailer.
Slowly. No sudden movements.
There are armed officers. Their guns are pointing at you. If you make any sudden movement, or do anything other than what I say, you will be shot. Be in no doubt about that.
Open the door with your right hand. Push it fully open.
Put your hands on your head. Interlock your fingers.
Get out very, very slowly.
Right leg, left leg. Slowly. Get out. Stand up. Face me.
Walk very slowly towards me.
Keep looking at me.
Slowly or you will be shot… that’ s it… another two steps.
Stop there.
Keep facing me… keep looking at me… do as I say.
Keeping your hands on your head, go down onto your right knee.
Now stretch out your arms at shoulder height. Pretend to be Jesus.
Keep your left arm stretched out. Lean forwards and place your right hand on the road. Now your left. Lower yourself to the ground, keep your nose flat to the road, lie face down on the road.
Put your arms out again.
Stay exactly where you are.
An officer will now approach you. He is armed and if you move, he will shoot you in the back.
You must do what this officer tells you… otherwise you’ll be shot.
He was expertly searched. His wrists were secured up his back in rigid handcuffs. He was placed in the rear of a police van which had been called to the scene. Two burly cops climbed inside with him. The back door was locked. Henry instructed them to take him directly to Blackpool.
Henry picked up the shotgun and placed it carefully on the back seat of his car.
He and Seymour looked into the Range Rover, baulking at the sight of the blood and bits of skull and brain splattered all over the passenger side.
Henry opened the back door.
When he lifted the blanket he realised why Dundaven had been so anxious not to get caught.
‘ Looks like we’ve bagged a gun-seller,’ said Seymour.
Chapter Eight
It is claimed that the best job in the FBI is to be stationed at the London office, situated on the fourth floor of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.
Karl Donaldson agreed wholeheartedly with the proposition.
He had been appointed as an assistant to the legal attache some twelve months previously, having fought off fierce competition for the post. Since then he had never been happier in his professional as well as his personal life.
In the last year he had acted as FBI liaison with many British police forces, MI5 and MI6. Thanks to cooperation between himself at the FBI, Scotland Yard and the Spanish police in Madrid, a Colombian-backed money-laundering scam handling billions of dollars of drug-trafficking money between the US, Channel Islands and Isle of Man and a crooked Egyptian finance house, had been smashed and literally dismantled.
Donaldson had recovered and seized over two billion dollars and destroyed a service to the cartels which had probably seen twenty times tha
t amount pass through it in four years. He had also been involved in the investigation of many other international conspiracies, several of which were ongoing, some of which had come to nothing.
The work, he found, was demanding, exciting and fulfilling.
Just as his personal life had proved to be.
Previously having been a resident in Miami, he had moved to England and married Karen Wilde, cop, formerly a Chief Inspector in Lancashire. They had met and fallen in love whilst Donaldson — then a special agent had been investigating mafia connections in the north of England. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and was presently seconded to Bramshill Police College, where she held the rank of Temporary Superintendent.
Without having tried particularly hard, they were expecting their first child.
Life was being very good to them both.
But occasionally there was a downside — which Donaldson was experiencing now.
He was sitting at a window seat on the direct GB Airways flight from London to Madeira. In spite of his destination, that lush green Portuguese island in the Atlantic, Donaldson’s face was set hard, as it had been for the whole of the three-and-a-half-hour journey.
The plane was on its final descent into Santa Catarina Airport on the east coast of the island.
He gazed out across the wing. He could not be said to be taking in the steep banking of the plane, nor the expert manoeuvring, the twisting and dipping, in order to line up with the runway; his aesthetic sense did not appreciate the clear blue sea below, shimmering in the sunshine, nor the tantalising glimpses of the island itself.
Neither did it particularly concern him that the runway is one of the shortest in Europe, the end of which drops literally into the sea.
Normally he would have revelled in everything.
He readjusted his seat belt and braced himself for the landing which he knew would be characterised by extra reverse thrust and sharp braking. It was surprisingly smooth and lurch-free.
