Critical Threat

Four

There was never an easy way to approach a target address, particularly with a gang of cops kitted out like storm troopers. Sneaking up wasn’t really an option and so it had been declared at the briefing that the way in which every property would be hit was through ‘shock and awe and professionalism’. Henry had shuddered at the phrase, not only because it probably meant that somewhere amongst the lurking spooks were Americans; but it also meant fast and furious and hope to hell you were piling into the correct address. As everyone was repeatedly assured that the intel was spot on, there would be no problem on that score unless, it was insinuated, thick bobbies misread door numbers. Henry, who felt he was sitting alone in the naughty thinkers corner, remained to be convinced about anything and the look on his face probably said it all.

But that did not mean he wasn’t enjoying himself and wouldn’t do his best.

The personnel carrier moved off without any undue haste and cruised as quietly as the 3.5 litre diesel engine would allow towards the street on which their target house was situated. It was a terraced house in a row on a steep incline, typical of Accrington. Two-up, two-down, bathroom and toilet upstairs and an extension at the rear which housed the kitchen. The front door opened directly on to the street one side and into the lounge the other. It was the sort of house that had been built over a hundred years earlier for the mill workers in the town and was familiar in style to the millions of viewers glued each week to Coronation Street. Unlike Corrie, though, the white families were long gone and most of the inhabitants of these houses were of Pakistani or Bangladeshi origin.

At the top of the street, the personnel carrier halted to allow three officers to de-bus and jog as silently as their noisy kit would permit, crouched low, to the back of the target house, six houses along. Their job was to cover the back, wait until the front door got caved in, then enter through the kitchen door, which would be opened for them. They were also expected to grab anyone who bolted from the house.

Not that anyone was actually expected to be there. This was supposed to be an empty property in which, the briefing had informed them, it was suspected that illegal meetings had been held by would-be terrorists and extremists to plan their campaigns. It was possible that traces of explosives might be found, maybe other weapons and DNA traces, but no — definitely no — living creatures. It was the task of Henry’s team on that grey, drizzling Accrington dawn to enter, secure it and keep it secure until the arrival of a specially-briefed forensic team. They had been told to touch nothing once inside.

‘That should be easy enough for you,’ the SB superintendent had said to Henry. His name was Greek and he added, ‘Shouldn’t it?’

Henry had ground his teeth, even though he thought that ten bobbies, a driver and a sergeant was perhaps overkill just to secure an empty property. That query had been greeted by a sneer and a ‘Better safe than sorry’ quip. But, judging by the huge number of officers taking part in the operation as a whole, it was apparent that the police were out to make a statement of intent that day.

‘We’re in position,’ Henry’s earpiece crackled — the message coming from one of the officers in the back alley. That meant they were waiting at the backdoor. Henry nodded to the driver, who slammed his right foot down to the metal and set off down the street, unintentionally kangarooing the van and drawing an unrelenting barrage of laughter, complaints and insults from the people in the back as they lurched in their seats.

Another smooth policing operation, Henry thought wryly, as he discarded his flat cap and squeezed his head into a blue riot helmet, squishing his face up, as required by the Health amp; Safety risk assessment. It hurt his ears as he forced it down over his skull, making him suspect that the size of his head had also expanded in line with his body.

Fortunately the journey was over quickly. They stopped outside number twelve. Henry shouted, ‘Go!’ whilst dropping out of the carrier at the same time, closely followed by the sergeant. Henry stood to one side as the well-trained and regimented team descended on the front door. He glanced at the house, only ever having seen photographs of it in the operational order. He took in the door and windows, saw curtains drawn upstairs and down, no lights visible.

The two leading officers brandished sledgehammers, the one behind them wielding a one-man door-opener which was basically a heavy tube of iron with a flattened end and handles used as a mini battering ram. Behind these three officers came the remaining four, all in a disciplined line. Their job, once the door had been battered down, was to tear into the house. Two would go for the stairs and two would go for the ground floor, with their remaining colleagues piling in behind them, just to ensure the house was unoccupied as promised.

They crossed the pavement in two strides. They were then at the front door, which they attacked without mercy but with great accuracy, their movements practised and choreographed by months of training and other ‘live’ entries, mainly into drug dealers’ houses.

For a few moments it was sweet to watch.

The sledgehammers swung at the door hinges at the right-hand side of the door, one high, one low. Henry marvelled at the precision and the fact that the officers didn’t smash each other’s heads in; at the same time, the third officer swung the door-opener at the mortise lock. All three implements whammed simultaneously into the flimsy-looking door.

Henry braced himself, expecting the door to burst off its hinges, readying himself to follow the sergeant in. He’d seen it happen dozens of satisfying times.

Except in this case.

The door remained intact. Didn’t even shudder in its casing. From the blows it received, it should have been halfway down the living room, and Henry realized immediately that it must have been reinforced, otherwise it would have been on its way to matchstick city.

Undaunted, the officers raised and aimed their battering tools again.

‘Movement, rear door,’ came a shout into Henry’s earpiece from one of the constables around the back.

A horrible, nauseous dread coursed through Henry, and a feeling of panic.

‘Not good,’ he breathed to himself as the sledgehammers reconnected with the door — and still it held. ‘Situation report,’ he said into the mouthpiece of his PR, which was attached to his helmet.

‘Rear kitchen door opening … one male at the door … Asian,’ the officer said. ‘Pistol in hand — armed!’

Henry whacked the sergeant’s shoulder. She turned and looked at him, her face a mask of consternation.

‘I thought this was supposed to be an empty house,’ she shouted.

Henry did not have time to get into discussion. He yelled, ‘Tell ’em to stop’ — he pointed at the officers by the door — ‘stay here and watch the door and don’t try to go in. I’m going round.’

She nodded and turned to yell some orders.

Henry ran up the road, hearing the word, ‘Shit!’ come through the earpiece from the officer at the backdoor.

His kit was extremely heavy, topped by the riot helmet, and he felt like he was running in slow motion. He skidded at the gable end of the terrace, then into the cobbled back alley, high brick walls either side of him and a paved drainage channel running down the centre. The three officers who had gone to the rear of the house were standing in the alley, looking through the door into the yard of number twelve, their arms raised defensively. Henry hurried towards them.

They glanced round worriedly, their faces squeezed tight by their helmets, their visors in the ‘up’ position. He stopped in his tracks behind them.

There was a dark-skinned Asian youth in the yard, pointing a handgun at the cops. He was dressed in T-shirt, jeans and trainers. Henry put him around the twenty mark. He was small, thin, with a droopy moustache and, young as he was, the old adage came into play when facing anyone armed with a weapon — he became a ‘sir’.

There was another youth behind him who Henry could not see properly.

‘Out, out,’ the first youth ordered the police, gesturing with the dangerous end of the gun, which looked heavy and of a high calibre. ‘Back, back,’ he motioned.

The officers took reluctant steps backwards.

‘I will not hesitate to use this weapon,’ the youth said, now framed in the backyard door, the second youth still obscured behind him.

‘OK, OK, that’s fine,’ Henry said over the shoulders of his officers, using soothing hand signals to attempt to calm down any sudden urge to pull the trigger. His team members continued to shuffle backwards and round him and he quickly found himself with no one standing between him and the gun-toting youth. Suddenly he was very isolated and vulnerable. He was wearing the regulation stab vest which might have given him some protection from a knife attack around his vital organs; he was under no illusion that a slug from the pistol now aimed at his chest would travel through the fabric and tear his heart and lungs to bits.

‘We are prepared to die.’

‘I know, I know,’ Henry said, finding it hard to speak. ‘But no one has to die, no one.’

‘I am prepared to take others with me,’ the youth warned, not having taken in Henry’s words.

‘That doesn’t have to be the case.’

Henry saw the lad’s eyes were wild and staring, that he could not remain still, always jumpy and jittery, dancing on the balls of his feet, the gun shaking dangerously in his hand, his finger wrapped, then unwrapped, and dithering around the trigger.

‘Come on, put the gun down.’

The youth sneered and stepped out of the doorway into the alley, giving Henry an uninterrupted view of his companion in the yard behind him.

It was a sight that made him freeze.

The second youth looked much the same as the first, same age, height and facial hair and was similarly attired — jeans, T-shirt, trainers — but there was one exception. Maybe a dozen blocks the size and thickness of large chocolate bars were strapped across his chest and waist and he was holding something that looked like a stubby pencil in his right hand. Henry knew instantly what he was looking at.

A suicide bomber.

In a backstreet in Accrington.

The first youth saw Henry’s expression change — and he smiled.

‘Yes,’ his head nodded, his eyes wide.

Behind him, the explosive-clad youth held up his right hand, showing Henry the plunger switch and the wire running from it, around his back. He had a wild glare in his eyes.

‘Get back, everyone,’ Henry shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s got a bomb.’

They did not need telling twice and very rapidly Henry was truly on his own in the alley facing two people who didn’t care about dying or taking others with them, and there was nowhere for him to go.

The first youth waved the gun at him, holding it parallel to the ground like some hip-hop gangster in a music video. Henry half expected him to start rapping, though with the youth’s ethnic background, he was more likely to spout Bangra.

Henry was thinking fast.

It looked like these two had been disturbed in acts of preparation, meaning there could be others in the house, equally well armed. The whole street could end up being detonated if things went badly.

Neither youth was over five-six in height; both were as skinny as pipe cleaners, no muscle, no weight on them. Unarmed, Henry would have had a go at both, but just at that moment in time the scales were somewhat weighted in their favour.

‘There’s police officers at the front of the house, us here and more on the way,’ Henry said. ‘This is going nowhere,’ he added, hoping they would believe him.

The big Adam’s apple in the skinny throat of the gun-toting youth rose and fell. The gun dithered in his hand, his finger curling and curling again around the trigger. His head rocked and weaved. Sweat rolled down his face. He knew the implications of what he was doing, looked determined to go through with it.

‘Don’t do this,’ Henry said. ‘Nothing is worth this.’

‘You ignorant fool,’ the lad almost spat. He twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder, keeping one eye on Henry. ‘Has there been time?’ he asked the second youth.

‘Yes, brother.’

His head spun forward. ‘It is time.’

He raised the gun, pulling it upright. It was aimed at the centre of Henry’s chest and he knew he would not survive this. He braced himself and in his mind he kind of knew he should be telepathically letting Kate know he loved her, tell her to look after the kids — ha! They weren’t kids any longer. They were now exceptionally beautiful young women, hounded by slavering boys. Yes, a section of his mind knew that this is what should be happening — but the biggest part was shutting everything down, knowing he would be able to watch the bullet leave the end of the muzzle in slow motion, see it fly majestically across the gap like a CGI in a movie and enter his chest, then probably leave through his back whilst making a hole as big as a saucer.

Every muscle in his body tightened, from the stretched sinews in his neck to his calves.

‘Are you ready, brother?’ the youth shouted.

‘Yes …’ The explosive-bound youth raised his right hand, his thumb hovering over the button. Then he looked quickly down at the wire and Henry caught the movement of his eyes and saw what he had seen. ‘Omar!’ the lad gasped.

‘What?’ Omar responded impatiently, brow furrowed. He twisted his head to glance, his eyes momentarily off Henry … at which point, Henry knew he had to act. He had a nanosecond to do so and he pitched himself at the lad, going in low under the gun with a rugby tackle, driving his right shoulder low and hard into the lad’s midriff, flattening him and at the same time grabbing the lad’s wrist. He landed on top of him, completely taking him by surprise, slamming the gun hand down on to the hard ground with as much force as he could. The gun clattered out of his grasp. Immediately Henry reared up and delivered the hardest punch he could find, smacking him on the jaw just below his left temple, knocking him senseless. As a blow it hurt Henry’s knuckles a lot, but there was the satisfying feel of dislocation and breakage in the young man’s face.

Henry had to keep moving. He dived for the gun, scooped it up and rolled up on to one knee, coming up with it poised and aimed at the second youth, who was desperately fiddling with the wire from the switch.

‘Stop!’ Henry yelled. ‘Or I’ll fire.’

The lad dropped the switch on the ground and looked pathetically at Henry, now every inch the immature, scared teenager. He raised his hands, a defiant expression on his face.

Henry climbed to his feet, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, knowing he had just cheated a terrible death.

Both lads were quickly pinned down, their wrists cuffed behind their backs, a burly cop standing astride each, baton extended and ready for use.

The one who’d had the gun — Omar — was trussed up in the alley, his face a swelling mess from the punch Henry had laid on him. The other was in the yard, his explosive vest having been carefully peeled from him. They were being kept separate and two vans were on the way to collect the prisoners.

The situation had been radioed in and other assistance was also on the way. The house had yet to be entered and although Henry had been ordered to keep it secure, he was itching to go inside, now that his blood was flowing.

He was not convinced the two lads had been in there by themselves, tooling up for some atrocity or other; they were far too young and inexperienced for that. A team had been disturbed and Henry thought there was a good chance others were still inside, although there had been no signs of movement.

The front door was still intact and Henry intended to leave it that way, three cops guarding it. The rest of his team, with the personnel carrier, were in the back alley and the kitchen door was invitingly open.

‘I’m going in,’ he told the sergeant.

She regarded him anxiously. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not — but what the hell? This was supposed to have been a nothing job.’

‘We’ve been told to hang fire, wait until a firearms team has arrived, wait until the circus arrives.’ She was toeing the party line, but Henry could see she, too, was raring to get in.

‘I used to be part of the circus,’ he said. ‘You coming?’

‘Absolutely,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We really do need to check.’

‘But carefully,’ he warned her. ‘Any sign of a gun, we run, any sign of a booby trap, we try not to step on it, OK?’

‘OK.’

Henry’s stab vest had been replaced by a bullet-proof one from the equipment in the carrier.

The sergeant briefed two of her men to stay by the kitchen door, the rest to come in behind her and the chief inspector. Henry poked his head around the door and looked into the kitchen.

‘Police!’ he shouted, though he was pretty sure that if anyone was in there, they had a good idea that the law had arrived. He stepped into the empty room, still dithering from his close-run encounter, but not even starting to think it through. It was just like any other kitchen in this neck of the woods: fitted, fairly modern, functional, large enough for all the mod cons, a small table and four chairs … and on top of the table, three half-drunk mugs of tea, three plates with the remnants of a curry on them, half-eaten naan breads.

‘The three bears,’ he said to the sergeant.

She nodded.

Even with a cursory glance, Henry could see there was no one else in the kitchen, unless they were in the fridge. ‘Room clear,’ he said, then moved across to the inner kitchen door to the threshold of the next room, which was a cheaply furnished lounge: tatty settee, two battered armchairs and a TV. No carpet on the floor, just bare boards, the wallpaper peeling.

Henry ushered a couple of officers in ahead of him and they did a quick search behind the furniture. ‘Clear,’ one said.

There was a road atlas of the UK and a London A-Z on the settee, together with an exercise book, pens and scraps of paper. Two rucksacks leaned against the wall. Henry was tempted to look, but held back because he was pushing his luck by disobeying the instruction he’d received not to enter the property.

‘Touch nothing,’ he said forcefully, and walked slowly across the room to the open door leading to the next room, the front lounge. He looked in and saw there was no furniture in here at all and could say with reasonable certainty that no one was in it. A wooden, open-plan staircase ran up directly opposite the front door.

He went across the threadbare carpet to the front door, which, as he suspected, had been reinforced. This had been done by an extra skin of hardwood and numerous bolts. But that wasn’t the only thing that caught his eye. The wires leading down from the edge of the door into a small plastic lunchbox made him gasp.

‘Christ!’ the sergeant breathed behind him. ‘A booby trap … if we had managed to put the door in …’ Her thoughts were left unexpressed, although her instructions to the officers behind were as clear as day.

Henry exhaled, not even aware he’d been holding his breath, then turned to the stairs, peering cautiously up through the treads. ‘Starting to get shaky,’ he said.

‘I’m sweating like a horse,’ she said.

‘Too much detail,’ he said, grinning. ‘We need to be very careful here.’

‘I like the obvious statement,’ she came back.

Giving the front door as wide a berth as possible, they eased themselves up the stairs without incident, stepping on to a tiny landing from which the back and front bedrooms and the toilet could be accessed. Henry took his time looking round, thoughtful. ‘Front bedroom, back bedroom, loo,’ he said, pointing at the closed doors. ‘Agreed?’

‘Yep.’

He raised his eyes and saw a loft hatch.

‘So,’ he said hoarsely, ‘if there was a third or fourth person, where have they gone?’ he speculated. ‘And if you were a member of a terrorist cell preparing to commit a crime, using a terraced house as a base, what would be a prerequisite?’

The sergeant looked at him, uncertain. ‘Dunno what you’re getting at.’

‘What would you need just in case the cops came calling to break up the party?’

‘Ahh — an escape route.’

‘Bob on,’ he said, ‘but why didn’t they all use it, if there is one?’

She shrugged.

Henry said, ‘I thought it was a good question and I reckon I know the answer and somehow I don’t think it would be the wisest course of action to go barging into any of these rooms through these doors, just in case.’

‘What? Just in case number three’s behind?’

‘No — in case these are booby trapped, because if there is a third person — and I’d bet my newly enhanced pension on it — he’ll have gone now across the rafters.’ He pointed up to the loft access flap. ‘And any terrorist worth their salt will have probably left a calling card behind the doors and that flap … so this is where we stop …’

‘Boss!’ came an urgent shout from one of the officers downstairs, interrupting Henry’s audible thought process.

‘What?’ he responded doubtfully, hoping he wasn’t going to hear that the two prisoners had escaped, or they’d managed to take cyanide pills. He stepped back down the stairs.

‘There’s a bit of a kafuffle out back — one of the neighbours says he’s just had a nasty experience. Someone’s just dropped into his house from the attic.’

‘OK, be with you in a sec.’ To the sergeant, he said, ‘Before we even turn one of those door knobs, we get our act together. We don’t want blowing to smithereens, or anywhere else for that matter. And this little contraption by the front door’ — he pointed down stairs at the lunchbox — ‘needs paying some respect.’

‘I’ll sort it,’ she said, businesslike.

Two police vans arrived as Henry emerged into the alley behind the officer who had called him about the neighbour. The alley was now alive with people gawping at the police activity and probably had not been this busy since the last cotton mill closed down.

He was introduced to an elderly Asian man called Ali Iqbal who had clearly just risen from his slumbers, was unshaven and a little confused and still dressed in what looked like very loose fitting pyjamas. He was a gnarled gent, probably in his seventies, and was chewing something sweet smelling.

Henry shook his hand. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Christie. I believe you’ve had an unwelcome guest this morning?’

Although Iqbal’s ethnic origin may well have differed significantly from Henry’s, his Lancashire accent was even broader.

‘I’ll bloody say,’ Iqbal said angrily. ‘I were asleep in t’ front room an’ I heard this noise in t’ loft. I thawt it were burds or summat. I turns over in bed — me wife’s nexta me, by the way, snorin’ her fat ’ead off — an’ I looks up an’ t’ bloody loft door’s opening. This guy appears, drops down, an’ before I can say boo to a goose, he’s gone, done a runner.’

‘Must’ve been scary,’ Henry empathized, realizing time was of the essence. ‘Which is your house?’

‘End one — down there,’ Iqbal pointed.

‘Right.’ Henry’s mind raced. ‘Would you recognize him again?’

‘Oh, aye, cheeky little get!’

‘And can you describe him?’

‘For definite.’

‘And would you be prepared to jump into a police car with me and have a scout round, see if we can spot him?’

‘Course I would … you think he’s connected wi’ this?’ He gestured to the police activity.

Henry just gave him a knowing look, then turned to the officer who had brought him out to meet Iqbal. ‘We need a car. I’ll drive. Mr Iqbal can jump into the front seat, and you get in the back. We’ll have a drive around to see if we can spot our interloper. You can get a description and circulate it for patrols.’ Henry saw the female sergeant come into the back alley. ‘Everything OK?’

She gave him a thumbs up.

Henry told the drivers of the vans who had come to pick up the prisoners to take them both to Leyland Police Station, which was about fifteen miles away, because it was the only station in the county properly equipped to deal with terror suspects. During its time it had seen quite a few come through its doors.

He then commandeered the first patrol car that turned up, hoiked out the driver and set off with Iqbal and the Support Unit officer to do a quick search of the surrounding streets. About twenty minutes had passed since the raid had kicked off and Henry knew that the realistic chances of bagging the third member of the team were pretty remote, because if there was an escape route prepared through the lofts of the terrace, then there would be a vehicle waiting somewhere too. But, he reasoned, you had to be in it to win it and if there was the possibility of striking lucky, then he was prepared to have a go.

Iqbal was a good witness. He had got a fairly lengthy look at the mystery man and, it transpired, had even jumped out of bed to challenge him and been pushed out of the way by the man as he ran out of the bedroom.

‘I woulda gone after him, but me pyjama bottoms fell down,’ he explained. He went on to describe him in good detail, including his clothes.

It had been a long time since Henry had cruised the mean streets of Accrington in a police car; a long time since he had driven a witness around, too, searching for an offender. It was always a heart-pounding time.

Henry was now fully awake, the complete antithesis of the dopey-eyed old man he’d been half an hour before.

Much had happened in that short space of time, which was why he liked sharp-end policing so much. One minute you can be half-asleep; the next tackling gun-toting, explosive-clad kids. As he drove, he had time to reflect for a moment or two.

Which was when the backlash struck him full-on and he was forced to take a few steadying breaths whilst he gave thanks that he wasn’t in the queue to meet his Maker, maybe alongside two young and foolish Asian boys, to see whether he was going to be allocated heaven or hell. That is if the ultimate ‘Maker’ was the same for everyone.

He drove down on to Blackburn Road, then turned towards the town centre. A few citizens were knocking about now, the town slowly stretching and yawning into life.

Iqbal’s description of the man was circulated by the constable, though Henry knew that at five in the morning, the area would hardly be flooded with uniforms. In fact he recalled that at the briefing he had been told that there were only three officers on duty in Accrington after 4 a.m. — and he had snaffled one car for him and two vans for the prisoners, which meant, frustratingly, there was no one else to assist with the search until the reinforcements arrived.

He settled behind the wheel of the Astra and drove through the drizzle, whilst thinking about Operation Enid, the highly suspect intelligence they’d had to swallow, and putting officers in unnecessary danger. He smiled grimly, anticipating the carefully chosen words he would later be machine-gunning at Detective Superintendent Greek, the SB boss. When he did it, he hoped that a few of the spooks would be in earshot too.

He drove up to the railway station, saw no one fitting the description, then did a slow tour of the town. Mr Iqbal did not spot the intruder. Henry decided to call it off and get back to the scene.

They had circled the town centre and were on Blackburn Road, an ASDA superstore on their right and a new-ish complex of retail outlets, car dealers and a cinema. The traffic lights outside ASDA were on red. Henry pulled into the nearside lane, signalling (to no one in particular) his intention to turn left. He checked his mirror and actually saw there was a car behind, a BMW, approaching slowly in the offside lane, obviously going straight on towards the M65, about two miles ahead.

The lights turned green.

Henry selected first and — the habit of a lifetime drilled into him by a succession of police driving courses — before moving checked his mirror and noticed that the BMW, instead of setting off, had stopped completely some twenty metres behind.

‘What’s this guy up to?’ Henry said, his eyes still in the mirror.

The PC in the back looked over his shoulder. Mr Iqbal had a look, too.

Suddenly the BMW did a spectacular reverse U-turn, the whole car rocking, tyres squealing, even on the damp tarmac, and shot off back towards the town.

Henry fumbled with his gear and tried to execute the same manoeuvre, which he succeeded in doing with much less panache than whoever was driving the BMW. As he did this, the PC in the back radioed in.

In the seat next to Henry, Mr Iqbal grabbed the elbow rest on his door with both hands and said, ‘Fuckin’ hell!’

‘Just hold tight, you’ll be OK, I’m a safe driver.’ He rammed his foot on to the accelerator, flicked on the blues, and pushed the Astra hard, making the underpowered engine scream in protest. It did, however, respond well and he was still in sight of the BMW when he reached the roundabout underneath the old railway viaduct where several roads converged just on the edge of town. The driver of the BMW switched off the lights on the German car as he gunned the vehicle up the steep incline that was Milnshaw Lane and, without even the hint of a pause, did a left on to Whalley Road, also quite a steep hill, and sped out of town.

Henry was a skilled driver. He had done all the courses and more, and on top of that he’d had many car chases — even survived them — but even he had a shiver of dread when he too pulled out of Milnshaw Lane and caused a law abiding member of the public, tootling along in his Nissan, minding his own business, to brake hard, swerve, mount the kerb and just miss a lamp post.

‘I’ll say sorry later,’ Henry promised.

In the seat behind him, the PC had started a running commentary: ‘Now on Whalley Road in the direction of Clayton-le-Moors; speeds in excess of fifty and accelerating … didn’t get the registration number … yeah, blue BMW …’

Mr Iqbal, even in the greyness of dawn, had clearly lost his colour, his face having drained of blood. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ he said again.

The Astra’s engine was ear-splittingly loud, but Henry did not let up on it. He pushed it to its limits and as he shot a red light at the junction of Queens Road — on the corner, by the hospital — he was travelling at sixty, which was fast for the conditions in this built-up area. The BMW had dipped out of sight beyond a slight rise. Henry knew the road ahead was fairly straight, though it was narrow for a main road, and because of the time of day and the lack of other traffic, the BMW had the capacity to leave the Astra standing.

‘Just had a report of a stolen BMW from Accrington town centre in the last ten minutes,’ the comms operator said from the control room at Blackburn, which covered this area. He gave details and asked if this could be the one they were chasing.

‘Affirmative,’ the PC replied as he sat back and, intelligently, put a seat belt on.

‘Present location?’ comms asked.

‘Whalley Road heading towards Clayton … just passing the Fraser Eagle Stadium’ — Accrington Stanley’s football ground — ‘but we’ve lost sight of the car.’

Henry was grimly undeterred. It was unlikely now that he would catch the BMW, but he always liked to go the extra mile and though he reduced speed, much to Mr Iqbal’s obvious relief, he decided to go as far as Clayton-le-Moors, then turn back. It was the thought that the BMW could be being driven by the third member of a terrorist cell that made him want to keep looking. Whilst he might be wrong on that score, he hated coincidence.

‘All patrols,’ came the now urgent voice of the radio operator, ‘treble-nine just received from a driver on Whalley Road, Clayton-le-Moors … reporting a BMW has just collided with two parked cars and flipped over on to its roof, just after the junction with Burnley Road … will give further details …’

‘We’re one minute away,’ the PC shouted up. ‘Sounds like our man.’

‘Thank you, God,’ Henry intoned and, once more, stuck his right foot down, bringing a further expletive from Mr Iqbal, who sank down into his seat and gripped his seat belt with two hands.

The BMW driver had run the red light at the Burnley Road junction, but had been unlucky in that at that precise moment another car was legitimately crossing its bows to the green light. It had been travelling at about eighty mph and with the avoiding swerve on the greasy road, the driver had lost control. The BMW had fish-tailed out of the junction, crashed into one car parked on the left-hand side of the road, catapulted across to one on the opposite side and had then been flipped on to its roof, careering dramatically down the road, sparks flying until it pounded into another car, bounced off it and came to a crunching stop, spinning like a top on its roof and blocking the road in both directions, just on the Accrington side of a canal bridge.

Henry stopped in the middle of the road twenty metres short of the BMW, flicked on all the Astra’s emergency lights. He and the constable bundled out of the car and trotted to the scene, the constable — efficient as ever — radioing through that they were off at the scene. Iqbal stayed in the Astra, still clutching the seat belt.

The BMW had stopped spinning at ninety degrees to the road. It was a scrunched up mess. The roof was battered down, had damage all around it. Henry thought the driver would have been lucky to survive this in one piece as he reached the car and bent to peer inside, expecting blood and brains and broken bits of body everywhere.

‘Shit!’ he breathed.

The car was empty.

Henry stood up, looking around, and worked out how the car had arrived at its current location, amazed that, following such a crash, the driver had managed to crawl out and leg it.

‘Where the …?’ he started to say.

‘What, boss?’ the constable said, then took a look. ‘Christ, he’s got out!’

‘He’s gone down there,’ came a voice, which made both officers look up to a bedroom window of a roadside terraced house. It was a middle-aged woman, clutching a dressing gown around her bosom, leaning out and pointing. ‘Canal,’ she added helpfully.

Henry gave her the thumbs-up. ‘I’ll have a quick look-see and if I don’t spot him, we’ll get a dog handler down here. You look after the scene.’ Without waiting for a response, the charged-up Henry Christie trotted to the canal bridge, then cut down a steep set of steps which led on to the canal towpath. It was the Leeds-Liverpool canal, meandering through the once heavily industrialized towns of East Lancashire. As he reached the towpath, he seemed to immediately enter a more serene world, even though he was only a matter of metres away from a main road and maybe a couple of hundred from the M65 motorway.

In the fast clearing dawn light, and even the misty rain, the canal looked wonderful, very peaceful. Two moorhens squawked off as his heavy boots landed, flapping away and launching themselves into the reeds on the opposite bank.

He stopped, listened to the silence, the sound of traffic merely a vague drone.

To his right was the canal bridge, over which the main road ran, and to his left the canal threaded its way towards Accrington. He walked in this direction for a few metres.

There was no sign of anyone.

He tutted as he realized this was definitely a job for a dog. If he started to search by himself, he would either cock things up for the dog or just waste his time. With reluctance he decided to take a step back and let the experts get on with their jobs when they arrived. And anyway, the search would need armed backup if the suspect was indeed one of the terrorists.

He took one last look and his eyes caught something in the darkness under the arch of the bridge. A shape on the floor in the shadow. The hairs on his neck prickled. He did not move, but allowed his eyes to adjust properly.

It was the shape of a body. Someone trying to hide?

His steps were slow and quiet until he was sure what he was seeing, then he did not hesitate, but ran and crouched down beside the body of a male lying face down, spread-eagled, in a dirty puddle of blood and rainwater.