The collision with the front of the van reverberates through its entire structure. The two prison officers brace themselves against the handlebars of their seats. Henry is thrown against the iron bars that separate his seating area from the guards’. The pain in his shoulder is searing, his mind takes him straight back to another van, to the explosion that marked his descent into hell. The walkie-talkie has fallen to the floor; it buzzes like a wounded insect – someone is calling urgently.
One of the guards grabs it.
“Is he hurt? I’ll go and check.”
“We shouldn’t open the door until we’re inside Belmarsh,” the younger guard says, agitated.
“I need to check whether we killed this guy. Right, right.”
Henry collects himself. His mind throws up images he does not want to see. He smells gasoline. He smells fire. He looks around in anguish but there are no flames to see.
The door of the van opens and shuts. People have congregated outside it seems: Henry can hear voices. The young guard is verging on panic. He stands up and peers through the protected windows. He cranes his neck but cannot see what he is looking for.
Banging on the door, the walkie-talkie crackles again.
“OK.” He hesitates. More banging at the door again, not insistent; just a come-on-open-up-it’s-only-me type of knock.
He complies and the cross of the M4 carbine strikes him square in the face. He has no time to pick himself up from the floor; the second blow crashes over his skull.
The older officer who went to check the incident has come back, his weapon in his right hand. He takes his keys and starts unbolting the door keeping Henry locked up. Henry looks at him, numb. He has been thinking about this moment for months and now he cannot move. The sound of a police siren yells in the distance. Henry steps away from the door.
The officer moves forward. “Cuffs,” he says.
Henry moves in slow motion. He had not expected it to happen this way. He no longer knows what he was expecting. The cuffs are off. The guard turns around and throws a bundle of clothes at him. “Put these on.” A dark hoodie, a pair of black waterproof trousers and jacket, a black helmet.
Henry’s head is held in a vice. He could say no. He looks at the young man on the floor, blood already coagulating on his head wound. Who is he kidding – there is no turning back. A few final images and he knows – Liam, Nancy, his father.
He is putting the clothes on quickly now, hoodie, waterproofs. The guard is impatient, even suspicious. The look of fanatical hatred smacks Henry in the face. Hesitation has been swept away from him. He puts on the helmet and gets down from the van.
Outside, the motorbike that had slid under the front of the vehicle is still there. Two other men are pointing M249 sub-machine guns at the driver. Even locked in his armoured vehicle, the metal is no match for the penetration power of the ammunition. The driver is holding his hands up over his head. Two motorbikes are parked either side of the van. There is no traffic in this side road they diverted into. One car has driven past, accelerating. It seems that in the middle of Deptford no one wants to know about a police van under attack. The guard fires up one of the bikes. A loud moan comes out of the van.
Impossible.
Henry snaps his fingers in the direction of the gun that sticks out of the belt of one of the bikers. The guard hesitates. Henry snaps up the visor, his face has grown cold. What is he waiting for? Henry grabs the gun the guard has handed to him, walks back to the van.
Two loud firearm discharges and Henry straddles the bike that is waiting for him.
* * *
Nancy was still on her call to Marissa. Pole was on his way to his office. He knew what was coming next. Assailed by doubts, he could not bring himself to speak to Andy who had received yet another call from Ferguson’s team. Henry had been gone barely an hour when a text pinged on Pole’s burner phone. Pole closed the door of his office and leaned against it.
Call me now.
He felt the urge to throw the phone against the wall.
He pressed the call button instead.
“Crowne is out.”
Pole remained silent, his throat dry, incapable of speech.
“Are you there?”
Pole grunted. “Casualties?”
“Not sure but you need to be on your way to the scene.”
“Marsh?”
“I’ll deal with him.”
“Ferguson?”
“Ditto.”
“I’ll call you when I’m there.”
“Good.”
Pole’s siren let him blaze through the traffic, the longest twenty-minute drive of his career. He had just let an ambulance overtake him.
He parked his car in the middle of the road and walked quickly towards the officers already on the scene. He showed his badge. “Any casualties?”
One of the officers moved his head towards the van without a word. Pole’s gut tightened as he looked inside.
“Hello Sir. What’s your name? Can you hear me, Sir?”
Pole recognised the young man who had been so keen to take Henry back to Belmarsh. His face had started turning blue and the force of the impact had no doubt crushed some bones.
“I need to speak to him please.” Pole flashed his ID again.
“And I need to assess him first.” The paramedic held her ground. The tall woman had turned back to the patient.
“We may have some extremely dangerous people on the run and an abduction.”
She hesitated. Her colleague had kept asking questions and the young man was coming around. He recognised Pole.
“Where is Crowne?”
“Gone.”
“The other guard?”
“Gone.”
The young man closed his eyes and for a moment Pole thought he had passed out. The paramedics moved Pole out of the way but the young man fluttered his eyelashes in an effort to focus.
“But – did not.” His mouth was dry and the paramedics helped him with a damp tissue. His eyes moved towards the side of the van.
“Did not – kill —”
“They did not kill you?” Pole asked.
The young guard batted his eyelids, yes. “Crow —”
“They did not kill Crowne?”
Frustration flashed in his eyes. “Me, me.”
“That’s enough Inspector. I need to take him to hospital.”
Pole let the paramedics do their job. He moved to the side of the road. The driver of the van was wrapped in a blanket, sitting sideways in the police car that had arrived first on the scene.
“Are you OK?” Pole asked. He meant it.
“Fine. I didn’t see it coming.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
The driver took a sip from a water bottle and started his story. He did his best to give a fair account and Pole did his best to take coherent notes.
“I thought he was dead – the boy,” he finished.
“You mean because of the beating?”
“No because of the gunshots – two of them. I thought that’s it.”
“He was shot at?”
“As I said two shots.”
Pole finished taking notes and headed back to the van.
He bent forward in the direction the young guard had indicated. Two bullets had penetrated the metal. Pole stood up, hands on hips, thinking the unthinkable.
Someone had fired two shots at the young guard at point-blank range and missed.
The paramedics were loading the stretcher onto the ambulance. Pole ran to them. He lunged forward for one last question.
“Who shot at you?”
“Crowne.”
The woman was about to be rude to him but Pole managed to add, “Crowne missed you?”
A look of relief went through the young ma
n’s eyes. He had delivered his message. He moved his head slightly and the stretcher disappeared into the van. The female paramedic closed the door forcefully in Pole’s face.
Pole walked away from the scene and found the recessed entrance of a small building. Harris had to know.
“You’re certain?” Harris asked after Pole had told him what he knew.
“Certain, I checked the van – two bullet holes. He could not have missed him, not unless he did it on purpose.”
Harris grunted. “Why the fuck did he have to get involved?”
“To save a life,” Pole shot back.
Harris did not reply immediately but Pole sensed he was holding his tongue.
“Leave it with me. Send me the names of all the people on the scene: police, paramedics —”
“Got that already,” Pole replied irritated. Who the hell did he think he was?
“Good man – shoot me a text. We need to make sure the story that comes out on the news is the right one.”
“What else do you need from me?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Pole sent the text and replaced the burner phone in his inside pocket.
His sole consolation for the events of the day was that Harris would soon be dealing with Henry directly.
Henry Crowne had not gained the reputation of being the smartest of arses for nothing as Harris was about to find out.
* * *
The bike was using the back streets of Deptford. The other bike had disappeared. No doubt to avoid identification.
The bike stopped. Another man, also dressed in black, visor down, was waiting for them in a small alleyway.
“Ahmed is going to take you to where you need to go.”
Henry nodded. Ahmed pointed to a bag on the floor. “You need to change clothes.”
Henry slammed the visor up. “On the side of the road? Why?”
“It’s good enough here.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Henry glanced at the two men. There was no way he could make a run for it. And to go where? He removed his helmet, moved to the back of the alley and stripped out of his Belmarsh jogging pants. He grabbed what was in the sports bag. Another set of dark clothes.
“Underwear.”
“No fucking way,” Henry said. He had already put on the trousers and was not going to expose his manhood to these two in the middle of the street. He put on the jumper with ferocious determination.
The officer and Ahmed exchanged a few words in what Henry knew was Arabic. Ahmed relented, unhappy. Henry had already made a friend.
The ride continued through an area Henry knew nothing about. They hit a main road that seemed to be going towards the river. The weather was overcast and a few droplets of rain started hitting Henry’s helmet. The downpour came in a wave of unexpected strength. It was pelting down on Henry’s shoulders, seeping through to his back like a glacial drip. People were hurrying out of the way. The bike stopped at a set of traffic lights. Henry cursed. He wanted to be somewhere dry. In the distance he thought he recognised the skyline. When the bike turned left he knew where he was – the Cutty Sark. They were near the Thames but Henry could not recall a bridge over the water in that direction. The bike turned again into an open space. Henry was about to tap the driver on the shoulder when they stopped in front of a strange construction. It looked last century, round and squat – similar to the Greenwich Observatory. Ahmed and Henry alighted. Ahmed made his way towards a set of lifts, pushing the bike. Henry read the name Greenwich Foot Tunnel. The lift was empty. Ahmed pushed the bike into it and they rode to the bottom of the tunnel. Ahmed fired up the engine again and they started their journey underground and underwater. The noise of the bike was deafening, bouncing off the walls of the tunnel. Henry looked back. But there was no one coming out of the lifts.
Minutes later the bike had reached the other side. Ahmed loaded the bike yet again into the lift and when they emerged on the other side Henry recognised the unmistakable shape of Canary Wharf. A cold piece of ice dropped into his stomach – his old life was gone forever. He straddled the bike again. They made their way north.
* * *
Nancy and Andy were reading the news that had started rolling onto Andy’s screen when Pole arrived. Her body no longer showed a relaxed nonchalance but complete tension. Nancy was fidgeting with one of the buttons of her jacket. Pole could not hear what she was saying but Andy had turned his face towards her and looked concerned.
Nancy’s face was pale and her eyes shone with the fever of anxiety.
Had Henry been taken?
“Guv – did you get my call?”
“I did.”
Andy looked puzzled. A question was forming on his lips but Pole cut it short.
“Speak to Ferguson; matters might have changed.”
“Let’s go into my office.” He tried to sound reassuring. Nancy had not uttered a word. “How come —”
“I was called as soon as the van hold-up was reported.” That was not entirely wrong. Nancy sat heavily in the chair in front of Pole’s desk.
“Wasn’t there anyone closer?”
“We are talking Henry Crowne.”
“But still?” She lifted her head towards him. “Can’t you tell me?”
Pole breathed in. “A couple of police cars had arrived before me but I am The Met contact.”
No, he could not tell her.
Nancy grew even paler.
“The van was held up. They took Henry. Whoever they are.”
Nancy’s focus on him was a mixture of fear and scrutiny. Her almond eyes had changed shape, a little narrower perhaps. It could not be the whole story and she knew it. Pole ached. He wanted to tell her all he had seen, to use her skills openly and comfort him he had made the right decision … but he wanted to protect her too.
Nancy bent forward unexpectedly, placing her head in her hands.
“I need to speak to you about a letter,” Nancy said slowly. She hesitated and lifted her head. She was looking straight ahead, to the place where Pole should be sitting. A sense of unease had settled in the room. She was working out how best to explain. Her face told him so. He had seen the same line of her eyebrows and the frown on her forehead before. But today he was not certain he liked her need to gather herself before speaking to him.
“Is it about Henry?”
“Who else but Henry Crowne,” Nancy’s tone had an edge Pole did not recognise. “Henry gave me a letter. She was still looking at Pole’s empty chair. “Not a letter really, more like a note, handwritten – when he was last allowed out of Belmarsh.”
“You mean after the Bank of England hostage situation?” Pole’s voice was incredulous.
“That’s right. I don’t know when he wrote it but he gave it to me just before he left for Belmarsh.”
Pole stayed where he was, leaning against the wall and its large window. He could not bring himself to sit on his chair, behind his desk – too official.
“It was a strange sort of note. I mean the tone was strange.” Nancy shook her head. “I’m not describing this right.” Her hand tightened, frustrated. “It felt out of character; someone who had had a revelation. I took it seriously but perhaps not seriously enough.” The words were excruciating.
“Did he mention escaping?” Pole cursed his bluntness.
“No, of course not,” Nancy had finally turned to face him. Her protestation felt unconvincing.
“But it was implied?” Pole was surprised by his own calm. Perhaps aided by the fact that he too already knew.
“It was – a possibility.” Nancy agreed. She had turned paler again. Her hand had risen to her throat in a protective gesture. “I’m sorry, Jonathan.” Nancy’s eyes had lost a little of their spark.
Pole left the window and came to lean against his desk close to Nancy’s chair. He pushed his h
and through his hair and left it there for a moment.
“Why did you not say?” Pole’s gaze rested on her hands.
“Because it looked impossible – HSU Belmarsh – and he needed some hope. I thought it would all dissipate eventually.”
“Is that all?”
Nancy pulled a quizzical face. “You mean I’m his legal brief – that too of course.”
Pole did not reply and Nancy looked stunned. “You don’t think …?” Her voice wobbled. “He is a friend, maybe a bad choice …”
“And what am I? A friend too?”
“Jonathan you are much more, so much more than that —”
The buzzing noise of a mobile phone interrupted. Pole’s BlackBerry was still on his desk where he had left it. Pole pressed his hand to his jacket pocket.
“I must take this.”
He walked out of the office and through the open-plan space in long strides, finding a small corner where people went to have coffee.
“Spoken to Ferguson – they have the go-ahead to mount an assault.” Harris was uncommonly serious.
“Where is Henry?”
“Just been delivered there.”
“What do you mean – the address Andy mapped?”
“I know what you are thinking,” Harris carried on. “But it will work and also get Ferguson off my back.”
“Does he know?”
“That Crowne is there? No – and it will stay that way.”
“How?”
“That’s my business.” Harris shot back. “Ferguson will ask you to be there; act surprised.”
Pole stood in the corner, burner phone still in hand. A few people had tried to join Pole but his glare had told them to find another spot.
What was the idiot doing? Catching Henry again after his escape. For what – sending him back to Belmarsh with a more credible story.
No Turning Back Page 27
