by Nick Oldham
‘ Me too,’ he admitted. ‘I’m sorry… Look, I’m having a day off tomorrow. Perhaps I could come round in the evening; we could talk then.’
‘ The girls would be in the way. I have a better idea.’
‘ Go on.’
‘ I’ll take a day off too. Then we’ll have all day to chat, see how we feel, what we can resolve.’
Henry’s heart leapt.
‘ Yeah, yeah, good idea,’ he said eagerly. ‘What time should I come round?’
‘ Ten?’
‘ I’ll be there.’
The pips started to go.
‘ I love you, Kate,’ he managed to say before the line went dead. He hung the receiver up slowly with a wide smile on his face, juxtaposed with a feeling of trepidation in his guts. At last, he said to himself. At last.
As he turned away from the payphone which was in the Crown Court building, he bumped into Lisa Want who was standing directly behind him. His smile dropped; his face became a mask of contempt. He tried to shoulder past her but she stood her ground.
‘ Look, I’d like to say I’m sorry,’ she told him. ‘I heard you giving evidence — I hadn’t realised what you’d been through, OK?’
He snorted in disbelief. ‘I have no doubt in my mind that you do not have a conscience, and if you ever get the opportunity to shaft someone, you’d do the same thing all over again. Goodbye, Miss Sleaze-bag.’ And he edged carefully around her, as if to avoid contamination, and strode towards the exit.
‘ Ungrateful son of a bitch!’ she uttered, and stamped her feet angrily like a child.
Outside the court building the victorious team of detectives, including FB, but not Donaldson and Karen, were waiting for Henry. They cheered as he appeared. He modestly acknowledged this with a bow, then they all moved off towards the city centre, where it was their intention to take over a pub and get riotously pissed out of their heads.
Just as they reached the prison gates, they encountered a crowd of journalists and sightseers. A buzz of expectation went through them as the prison gates were flung open and the convoy taking Hinksman to Strangeways roared out and sped down the hill.
Some of the detectives gesticulated rudely at the rear of the prison bus.
Henry merely stood there, hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring at the back window. He was sure that Hinksman would be looking at him through the one-way glass. He allowed himself another smile and thought, Goodbye, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell.
Henry had probably smiled more times that day than on any other in the last six months.
The bus and escort were out of sight within seconds, the sirens accompanying them becoming less distinct.
Henry then shivered with a sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. His smile dropped. What was it? He looked up into the sky. The force helicopter clattered overhead, moving with the convoy.
The gang of detectives surged down the road. Henry caught up with them and tapped FB on the shoulder.
‘ Boss?’
‘ Henry, what is it?’
‘ Er… nothing, I hope. It’s just… I’ve suddenly had a very bad feeling. ‘
‘ You’ll be all right,’ said FB, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, you just need a drink inside you. There’s a lot to celebrate.’
‘ Yeah, sure,’ said Henry. But as much as he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of that feeling of impending doom.
Lisa Want watched the detectives strut down the hill like a group of lager louts. She was utterly furious with Henry: it was the first time ever that she’d apologised to anyone for a piece she’d written, and the last.
But she did have to admit that the guy was right: she would do it again. It was in her blood.
A nondescript man approached her.
‘ Lisa Want?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘This is for you.’ He handed her a package; she noticed that he was wearing gloves. ‘The man in it is the Chief Constable of Lancashire. The woman is a hooker. You don’t need to know her name.’
Then he was gone, leaving Lisa holding the tape.
The police convoy — two cars to the front and rear of the caged prison bus containing Hinksman — sped down the hill away from Lancaster Prison and the crowd of onlookers. The traffic-lights at the bottom of the hill next to Waterstone’s bookshop were set on green for them. The convoy should have turned left and gone into the one-way system which rings Lancaster; however, a few minutes before the convoy had left the prison, the last police operation for the trial had come into effect. Officers had stepped into all relevant junctions and stopped all traffic, enabling the convoy to turn right against the flow of traffic.
It worked smoothly.
Within a minute the convoy was travelling south towards Galgate along the A6. Once south of Galgate, the plan was to get onto the M6 and drive like the clappers to Manchester and Strangeways.
A grim-faced Hinksman sat sullenly in the back of the van, subdued and angry. His hands were secured in front of him by rigid handcuffs. The inane chatter of the two officers who sat in the cage with him only served to fuel his anger. Captured by a pathetic detective whom he had grown to hate and vowed to kill, then beaten by British justice, Hinksman was a killer with a grudge.
He rocked back and forth as he thought about his predicament.
Sent to prison for life — and no one had made any attempt to free him. What the hell was going on? What had happened to Corelli, and to Lenny Dakin — the two men who had most benefited from his skills and abilities at causing mayhem and death? Where were they now, he asked himself.
Lenny Dakin was actually parked up in a stolen Jaguar XJS with false number plates on the slip road leading up to Lancaster University.
He was contemplating how easy it had been to snare August. The manager of his casino in Blackpool always kept him abreast of ‘interesting’ people who used the facilities on a regular basis, and August had been a regular for about four months.
Not being one to miss out on any opportunity, Dakin had set him up twice with women. If he’d wished, he could have had pictures then, but he hadn’t bothered. He’d simply put August on the back burner for when he really needed to exploit him.
Then it had been very easy indeed.
Dakin sniggered and peered out of the front windscreen of the Jag.
He had a fairly good view from that position up the A6 towards the city. Suddenly the convoy came into view. He glanced up into the air: the chopper was there. A handset from a CB radio was resting in the palm of his hand. He pressed the transmit button and said coolly, ‘We’re on.’
The village of Galgate lies astride the A6, south of Lancaster. There is a set of traffic-lights at a crossroads in the centre of it, where a country road crosses the A6 at right-angles. A pub is situated on one corner, shops on the others.
It is a quiet place, not particularly picturesque and to be honest, not somewhere you’d normally stop for anything.
But it is a place where, with a little thought and planning, a gang of professional criminals who specialise in springing prisoners from custody could ambush a police convoy if they so wished.
Dakin watched the convoy speed by from his position near the University. His heart began to beat quickly and he became very excited. He’d heard about this team, read about their exploits in the newspapers and now — after a great deal of difficulty in actually tracking them down through intermediary after intermediary — had hired them himself. And they didn’t come cheap. He hoped they were worth their fee. He was about to find out.
The traffic-light control box was easy to break into with a small jemmy. The man had done it many times before. It took him only a matter of seconds and no one saw him do it anyway. Not that anyone would have thought much about it, because he was wearing a Lancashire County Council boiler suit and looked official, like he knew what he was doing with that tool bag at his feet.
The control panel was no different nor more complicated than thousands of others. The man lean
ed nonchalantly on the control box, whistling, and cast his eyes up the road.
When the convoy was about 200 metres away, he pressed a button. All the lights at the junction went to red and stayed there. He pulled a ski-mask on, reached into his tool bag and pulled out a light submachine gun.
This was the signal for another man who had been sitting patiently behind the wheel of a large furniture removal van, parked a few metres into the crossroad opposite, with the engine idling. He too pulled a mask on, released the brakes and then let the clutch out in such a stuttering manner that the huge van kangarooed out across the junction at right-angles to the approaching convoy, stalled, and stopped dead.
The convoy screeched to a halt. They had actually slowed down as they’d approached the lights, but weren’t intending to stop.
Behind the last police car in the convoy, two masked men leaped out of the back of a Ford Escort van which was parked up by the roadside. They were dressed in overalls and wore running shoes. One carried a machine gun ready for use; the other an infamous Sa-7, surface-to-air missile in a launcher, a type beloved by guerrilla and terrorist groups around the world. He aimed at the helicopter.
For an instant the police drivers couldn’t be sure whether this was for real or not. Was it an ambush? Or was it just an unfortunate incident?
When the rear door of the furniture van dropped open like a drawbridge, slammed down with a clatter and two men emerged from within, again masked, dressed in overalls and carrying weapons, they knew it was for real.
They reacted as they’d been trained. Screaming into their car-to-car radio, ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ the drivers crunched the gears into reverse. There was chaos. The passengers drew their guns in readiness.
None of the police cars got anywhere to speak of.
The man holding the SAM pulled the trigger. With a deadly whoosh! the rocket streaked towards its target in the sky.
The other man who’d leapt from the stationary van at the back of the convoy had already run the few metres towards the rear police cars. No one saw him coming. He sprinted past the cars, spraying them with bullets which smashed through the windows and bodywork with ease, killing all the occupants within seconds.
It was a similar story with the two leading cars; these were dealt with in the same manner by the two men who’d come running from the rear of the furniture van. The only difference was that one police officer, reacting faster than the rest, opened his door and rolled out and got up into a firing position. Before he could aim properly, however, the man who’d sorted the traffic-lights had virtually cut him in half with a sweep of his machine gun.
The pilot of the helicopter and the crew of police officers didn’t stand a chance. The rocket slammed into the under-belly of the hovering machine and there was a massive explosion of blue and orange flame and black smoke. Literally shot out of the sky, the helicopter twisted towards the ground, plummeting down onto the railway line which ran behind the village.
The driver of the prison bus was petrified — literally. He sat in his seat, numb, his hands tightly holding the steering wheel. The policeman next to him was babbling incoherently into the radio. Fortunately the radio operator at force headquarters was a cool customer who had already dispatched assistance and alerted his supervisors.
The driver of the furniture van raced past the two leading police cars holding a double-barrelled shotgun. He stopped at the front of the prison bus, took aim at the engine block and fired both barrels into the radiator. The engine cranked to a mangled stop.
Inside, Hinksman smiled at his two captors and held out his hands. ‘Beaten, I think,’ he said smugly. ‘I think it’s in your interests to let me go.’
‘ No fuckin’ chance,’ one of the cops said. He reached out and grabbed Hinksman’s handcuffs and twisted them. Hinksman screamed and fell forwards off the bench seat and onto his knees. One of the advantages of the rigid handcuff is that there is total control — via pain — of the prisoner, no matter how big, tough or strong he is. ‘If I’m gonna die,’ the officer hissed into Hinksman’s face, ‘I’m gonna hurt you first.’
He twisted the cuffs again. They bit into the flesh and nerve endings of Hinksman’s wrists. A little more pressure and the bones would break.
The traffic-light man sprinted to the rear of the bus and efficiently clamped six tiny explosive charges to the doors — one at each hinge and two near the lock and handle. Then he retreated a few metres.
The two officers who were trapped in the space between the inner cage where Hinksman was held and the back doors cowered. They had their guns in their hands.
The charges all detonated together, blowing the doors cleanly off their hinges. The noise ricocheted around the interior of the bus, like thunder in a confined space, deafening and disorientating everyone.
The officers were uninjured by the blast but were winded by the explosion and overcome with smoke. They tumbled out of the back of the bus into the open air, gasping, choking, coughing and confused. They were shown no mercy. As their feet touched the tarmac they were mown down.
All that remained was to get the inner cage door open.
The traffic-light man stepped up into the back of the bus, a small chain saw in his hands. Within seconds he had removed the door. He flung it, complete, out of the back of the bus onto the road with the assistance of one of his colleagues.
Throughout all this, the officer who had decided to inflict as much pain as possible on Hinksman had more or less hung onto his man. When faced with overwhelming odds he sensibly let go of the cuffs.
Hinksman held out his damaged hands. The saw neatly parted the cuffs.
‘ Give me a gun,’ he said to one of the masked men.
He was immediately handed a pistol.
He turned on his captor and held the gun to the officer’s head.
‘ No one gets away with causing me pain and aggravation,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘No one.’ He pulled the trigger twice and most of the back of the man’s head splattered through the cage onto the driver, passenger and windscreen.
Then he turned on the other officer who had also been his gaoler. ‘Just remember what I’ve said — and pass it onto Henry Christie.’ He shot the man twice in the lower stomach, figuring that he would stay alive long enough to tell the story.
‘ C’mon,’ the traffic-light man said, tugging at Hinksman’s sleeve. Hinksman nodded and jumped out behind him. They ran towards the traffic-lights and turned right where their transport awaited — a huge, powerful motorcycle with no rear number plate.
Hinksman was handed a crash helmet. Moments later, as the backseat passenger, he and the traffic-light man were accelerating away from the scene down winding country roads.
The rest of the ambush team had gone too. No one who saw the incident — and there were many witnesses — could exactly say where to. The men had gone, disappeared like ghosts, their shock tactics having had the desired effect.
Only two police officers were uninjured — the ones in the front of the prison bus. They climbed slowly out when they thought it was safe, both covered in the contents of their fellow officer’s skull. One of them looked around at the carnage, sank down to his knees at the kerbside and allowed his head to flop into his hands. He was too numbed to cry. The other wandered up and down the road, peering into the cars, knowing that he could do nothing. He sat down on a wall, and lit a cigarette. In the distance was the sound of approaching sirens.
One hundred metres further back, Lenny Dakin got into his XJS which he’d parked on a side street.
That had been fantastic, he thought proudly. Fucking fan-tas-tic. Money well spent. Worth every fucking penny. The most exhilarating two minutes three seconds he had ever experienced.
And Hinksman was free.
‘ He has to die.’
‘ I know, Joe, I know. I just don’t know if I can do it.’
‘ It’s not a case of can, it’s a case of must. Don’t worry, you’ll be protected. I’ll be there — I�
��ll see you’re OK. Trust me.’
‘ I don’t know… ‘
‘ Don’t you trust me?’
‘ Yes, I do, Joe.’
‘ Don’t I give you everything you need? Don’t I feed your habit?’
‘ Yes, yes, yes.’
‘ So what’s the problem? I’ll look after you, Laura. He needs to die and we need to do it. He’s the enemy. The destroyer. The user. Every other way of dealing with him has been tried, but justice has failed. It’s failed you badly, it’s failed me badly. Now we’re going to administer the justice… you and me… you and me… you.’
‘ Yes, but-’
‘ What’s he done for you? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He used Whisper, then killed him. He used you and you almost died. There are thousands more like you, thousands who need justice… and just think what’ll happen when it’s over. You’ll get your baby back! The Social Services have promised me. And you’ll be free… and that’s everything you want, isn’t it?’
‘ Yes, Joe. Me and my baby.’
‘ And all the dope you need.’
‘ Yes, yes… have you got some?’
‘ Only if you kill him.’
‘ I will.’
‘ Promise?’
‘ Yes. When? How?’
‘ Soon. Very soon, I promise.’
‘ Here, take this.’
It was a small plastic sachet containing white crystals of crack, one of the most addictive drugs known. And she was addicted. It wasn’t her baby she wanted, not really. It was crack. She would do anything to satisfy her need for it. Murder included.
Henry had just taken a sip of his second pint of lager. It tasted good, as had the previous one. He was looking forward to the next ones. He felt good and was going to enjoy the celebration first and worry about getting back to the flat thirty miles away in Blackpool second. He glanced around the pub. It was small and narrow with a bar in the centre of the room. The atmosphere reminded Henry of pubs he’d visited in London. Most congenial.
