Instinct

SIX

That transmission was the one picked up by Rik Dean, sitting alone in the KFC whilst Henry had gone to check whether Mark Carter had done a runner out back. Up to that point in the day, neither detective had his PR on and Rik had only switched his on for… well, boredom, really. He was instantly transported into a foot chase in Blackpool town centre, consisting of various hurried and worried transmissions, others more measured and calming, and he recognized the gruff but controlled tones of Bill Robbins in amongst them. There were many exchanges between mobile and foot patrols descending on an incident — one which Rik did not immediately understand — and then came the ‘ Officer down ’ message, at which point he had rushed out to Henry, thinking he would want to know about this.

He found him around the back of the KFC talking to Mark — who had, as Rik guessed, tried to slip out and disappear. Henry was holding Mark’s sleeve and it looked as though the pair were having a few moments of tension. But Rik knew what was important and that he and Henry might be needed elsewhere p.d.q. Mark Carter could be picked up as and when, so it didn’t concern Rik too much when Mark saw his chance and fled.

The two detectives raced to Henry’s car and jumped in. Henry reversed out of the space and screeched on to the road, turning up to the traffic lights on Preston New Road. From there, a left turn would take them towards Blackpool, right to the motorway roundabout at Marton Circle, the M55. The lights were on red.

‘What’s the situation?’ Henry demanded.

‘Not entirely sure,’ Rik admitted, looking at his PR which was alive with traffic and some pretty panicked voices.

‘Find out,’ Henry said.

Rik hesitated slightly, waiting for an appropriate gap in transmissions into which he could dive. Impatient, Henry snatched the PR and said, ‘Superintendent Christie interrupting.’ From what little he had heard he could tell it was very confusing and, for a short time, no one seemed to be taking proper control. Part of the problem was that patrols were on radio talk-thru, meaning everyone could hear everything being said and could interrupt without permission. On big incidents, this wasn’t always a good thing and sometimes the radio operator needed to take a firm grip, switch off talk-thru and assume total control. Which is exactly what Henry ordered the comms operator, who sounded out of his depth, to do. Maybe it was a new guy. At Henry’s instigation the man took a deep breath, became more authoritative, and cancelled talk-thru. Henry asked him then to recirculate brief details of the incident, offender and vehicle.

The lights changed to green.

Henry stuffed the PR back into Rik’s hands, considered his position, zipped across a lane, cutting up another driver, and headed towards the motorway junction. His feeling was that enough people were already at the scene, so he thought that a few minutes sat at the motorway junction could be fruitful. Maybe. A traffic car was en route to do just that, but was ten minutes away at least, so Henry decided to plug that gap for a while. Patrols covering checkpoints such as motorway junctions was pretty standard procedure anyway, basic coppering that sometimes got overlooked in the heat of an exciting incident. Escape routes had to be covered and sometimes it paid off.

All this was in Henry’s mind when Rik said, ‘We’re not going to the scene, then?’

Henry gunned the Mercedes, feeling the smooth surge of power at his light touch. God, it felt good. ‘No.’

‘But…?’

‘I know there’s no guarantee, but a Ford Fiesta with a cracked windscreen might just come sailing past.’

‘And pigs might fly.’

Henry grunted like one. But he knew that being a lucky cop was often about diligence and doing routine things… and patience. He said, ‘Sometimes it happens, especially if an offender is panicking leaving a scene because they haven’t worked out an escape route properly, one that avoids main roads. Sounds like the guy in the Ford was surprised and maybe he didn’t even think he’d need an escape plan.’

‘Mm, whatever.’ Rik would most definitely have preferred to be charging to the scene. Those emotive words ‘ Officer down ’ drew in cops automatically. They always felt the need to be there, even if they ended up acting like headless chickens. Henry, too, felt the urge to be at the scene, but he knew a wider perspective was needed — which is why he was a superintendent. That was his argument, anyway.

His mobile phone rang and he answered it by pressing a button on the dash which linked to the handset via Bluetooth and also switched the call to speakerphone. Henry grinned, amazed at how he had embraced the technology.

‘Henry Christie.’

‘Henry — it’s Karl. I heard your voice on the radio, barking orders like some sort of mini Hitler.’

‘Karl — you at the scene?’ Henry asked, ignoring the remark.

‘Right at it,’ Donaldson confirmed.

‘Tell me,’ Henry said. Donaldson did so, succinctly.

He ended by saying ‘The cop he clipped looks pretty bad — big thigh injury. He did well to crack the windshield with his gun, though.’

‘Are things being controlled now?’

‘Yeah. There’s a uniformed cop with a lot of bird shit on his collar at the scene, ambulance just arriving, bomb squad, too. I think we’re OK. The initial scene down by the Tower entrance is sealed, I think, and that guy’s been neutralized. But Akram’s on the loose. Hell, if we could take him, that would be…’ Donaldson was lost for words.

‘OK, pal. I’ll have to leave you with it. Unfortunately it’s not my job, but I’ll sit on the motorway checkpoint until the traffic car deigns to turn up, then I’ll have to resume my day job.’

‘Gotcha.’

‘Oh, Karl — you planning on staying up here tonight, or going home?’

‘Hadn’t given it a thought.’

‘Spare room at the Christie household if necessary,’ Henry invited him. ‘Just turn up if you need it. Cheaper than a Premier Inn.’

‘Roger that.’

Henry drew the Mercedes on to the forecourt of the petrol station situated just five hundred metres before the motorway junction and parked up close to the exit ramp. An ideal position from which to view passing traffic. The two officers picked up their just-warm meals.

‘I knew Karl would be involved somewhere,’ Henry smirked, then sat back in the comfortable leather seat, watching traffic, not hopeful for a result. ‘Suicide bomber in Blackpool,’ he murmured, taking a bite from his chicken burger.

‘Why bloody Blackpool?’ Rik said, disgusted.

Henry shrugged. ‘Terrorists terrorize. Hitting a target like Blackpool makes the whole country feel unsafe. Up to now, if you don’t live in London you feel pretty secure strolling around your own town. Remember the IRA?’

‘Mm.’ It was a bitter murmur from Rik’s throat.

‘Surprised they don’t do it all the time — make everybody feel threatened all the time. Provincial towns… middle England… low-class places…’

‘I get your point,’ Rik said uncomfortably.

‘I’m sure they have the resources and the willing bodies,’ Henry pressed on relentlessly.

Rik raised his hands in defeat. ‘I get you.’

Henry grinned.

‘So, come on then,’ Rik demanded, making his point with a chicken leg. ‘Have you ever actually sat at a checkpoint after a job and actually seen the offending vehicle drive by?’

‘ Twice, actually. ’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘True. Once, when I was on the crime car and a taxi driver got robbed at gunpoint, the offenders stole his cab and came sailing past ten minutes later. That was a good lock-up,’ Henry remembered with pride. ‘Other time was after a post office robbery… that got a bit messy, but it was a good result.’

‘OK — so twice in thirty years?’

‘You’ve got to cover all avenues.’ And to confirm it, the comms operator informed all patrols that all checkpoints in the division were now covered by static patrols and adjoining divisions were doing the same.

‘So if he tries to get out of Blackpool by main road, we might get lucky,’ Rik said cynically. ‘There’s loads of other ways out.’

Henry looked at him and shook his head sadly, then returned his attention to the traffic flowing by. He could not help but feel a pulse of excitement in his veins. A murder and a suicide bomber in one day. He thought about his ‘Intention to Retire’ report sitting on his computer’s hard drive, waiting to be printed off. Days like this meant it could wait a little longer. Kate’s illness and death had certainly taken the sheen off police work for Henry, but that had been the fault of the circumstances as much as anything. A loved one dying took the shine off everything. However, there was no doubt about it, he still got a serious buzz from coppering, even if he’d had a mental hiccup earlier at the murder scene. But that was something he’d occasionally witnessed in other colleagues when they’d been affected by personal trauma. He just never thought it would get to him on the job, thought he was immune to it.

‘So Carter did a runner?’ Rik said. ‘Think he’s guilty?’

Henry screwed up his nose. ‘Famous last words, but no, I don’t think he did it. He’s a decent lad, really.’

‘You go all soft around him,’ Rik said.

‘He’s had a tough life.’

‘He’s a little shit and I wouldn’t put it past him.’ Rik was very unforgiving, never able to accept that an individual’s upbringing or situation was any excuse for criminal behaviour. It was a point of view Henry knew well.

‘Take your freakin’ blinkers off,’ Henry whined — a slightly ironic statement as at that exact moment a Ford Fiesta with a cracked windscreen drove past them on the main road in the direction of the motorway, one Asian male on board.

Henry’s adrenaline spurted into his already fast-pumping blood flow as he bagged his food and clicked the Mercedes into drive. He moved smoothly off the forecourt, slotting in three cars behind the Fiesta which was in the nearside lane.

‘See,’ Henry said. ‘You get lucky if you do the work.’

Rik glowered, stuffed his uneaten meal back into its package then picked up his PR.

The Fiesta peeled left on to the M55, picking up speed but not excessively so. This made Henry frown slightly. He hung back as cars in front of him moved out to overtake the Fiesta leaving a sixty metre gap between himself and the Ford. The speed edged slowly upwards to the seventy mark as Rik relayed the position to comms. The force control room at headquarters then muscled in and took over the running of the ‘follow’, diverting and deploying traffic and motorway patrols. The FIM made the decision that if the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, a rolling road block would be instigated to box it in and bring it to a halt on an appropriate stretch of hard shoulder when enough patrols were there, together with armed officers.

Henry was instructed to keep his distance, simply report progress, and not to get involved directly.

First to join was a big Volvo traffic car, overtaking Henry and dropping into the space between his Merc and the Fiesta. The speed was still around the seventy mark.

‘Doesn’t really give the impression of a desperate man,’ Henry commented dryly.

‘The Fiesta isn’t a fast car, especially a shit heap like that one,’ Rik said.

‘Granted… but…’

‘Yeah, I know… I’ve been in a car chase with a Reliant Robin three-wheeler going faster than that.’

Another traffic car tore up alongside Henry, then moved ahead so that it was abreast with the first one in the nearside and middle lanes of the motorway, both still hanging back from the Ford. Control room said that other traffic cars were a few miles ahead of them on the motorway, waiting.

Henry’s mobile rang.

‘Henry — it’s Karl.’

‘Yeah — we’re with the Fiesta,’ Henry said. ‘Something odd, though.’ Henry explained the lack of urgency in the demeanour of the supposedly fleeing felon who’d knocked over a cop and been back-up for a suicide bomber. ‘He’s just trolling along at seventy, no evasive tactics, dangerous driving, attempts to force cop cars off the road or anything.’

‘Did you get a look at the driver?’

‘Not a good one,’ Henry admitted, and arched his eyebrows at Rik, who shook his head: he didn’t get a good look either. ‘Just enough to see an Asian male.’

‘Tell them all to take care,’ Donaldson said. ‘Could be a set-up — oh, and by the way, I shot the driver.’

‘You what?’ Henry blurted, but Donaldson ended the call on that note. ‘Shit,’ Henry said.

Another traffic car joined the chase as the convoy reached the exit for Kirkham, but the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, which meant that the next exit was at Broughton, north of Preston, about eight miles distant and eight minutes at the current speed. That was enough time and distance to pull the car if they could get their act together. This was already being discussed over the airwaves and Henry could see this would be the preferred option, rather than allowing the Fiesta to get on to the M6 where life would become much more complicated and far busier.

Henry picked up the PR and put that point across to the FIM, his only reservation being that there were no armed officers present at the moment. That problem was negated when a plain Volvo sports saloon roared up behind with two AFOs on board. Added to that there was another traffic car further ahead, waiting on the hard shoulder. That gave three liveried traffic cars and an armed response vehicle… game on.

Two miles had shot by while that short discussion was taking place, so they had to move now.

Henry dropped further back in the Merc. The firearms vehicle slotted into his vacated space. As if on cue, all the traffic cars switched on their blue lights. One then took up a position behind the Fiesta, another drew alongside it in the middle lane, and then they tightened up their positions. Further ahead, the traffic car that had been waiting on the hard shoulder accelerated into the nearside lane.

The Fiesta now had a police car alongside it, one behind and one in front, with nothing on the nearside except for the hard shoulder.

Then, like jet fighters escorting another plane down to earth, they edged the Fiesta across on to the hard shoulder without touching it, slowing the car down bit by bit.

Henry watched the operation being executed with precision from his position at the back of it all.

It wasn’t far now to the Broughton exit, maybe two miles.

The police cars continued to slow down.

The Fiesta made no effort to avoid what was going on, seeming to accept the inevitable, slowing down as indicated.

‘Far too easy,’ Henry remarked. He could feel the tension increasing as if a band were tightening across his chest.

Then they were at a crawl.

Then at a virtual standstill.

Then stopped.

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the two AFOs in reflective jackets got out of the ARV — which was parked ahead of Henry on the hard shoulder — handguns drawn, and stood behind the open doors of their car, using the V-shape for support and protection. One had a loudhailer. Then the doors of the traffic car in front of them opened, the officer jumped out and ran back, whilst the AFOs ran forwards at a crouch, each taking up a position behind the open doors of the traffic car, directly behind the Fiesta.

Meanwhile, normal traffic continued to roll past and, without exception, every vehicle slowed down and the occupants gawked at the incident unfolding in front of their eyes. Traffic may have been light, but it was a problem, and it needed to be completely stopped behind them somehow.

Henry and Rik climbed out of the Mercedes which was parked about fifty metres behind the ARV on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on.

A gust of wind buffeted Henry, causing him to stagger. Then he was almost spun full circle by the slipstream of a passing lorry. He felt extremely vulnerable and suddenly realized what a very dangerous place a motorway was, even at the best of times. He went to the boot of his car and fished out a couple of reflective jackets that he always carried, handing one to Rik. Then, keeping to the side of the motorway, he strode up to the traffic officers, the wind in his face, amazed by how strong it was on such a nice day. The fact that the motorway was exposed and slightly raised made it cold and forbidding.

The man in the Fiesta had not moved. Henry could see his outline in the driver’s seat.

Henry mentioned the passing traffic to one of the officers who shouted back at him, raising his voice because that was the only way to be heard against the combined thunder of passing vehicles and swirling wind. He told Henry that the gantries had been activated further back down the motorway and blocks had been set up on the slip roads to keep anyone from coming on. The overhead signs were telling drivers to stop because of a police incident. The officer added, ‘No one ever does, though.’

Henry patted the guy’s shoulder and, crouching low with Rik just behind him, he jogged up to the armed officer using the passenger door of the traffic car as a shield. This was the one with a loudhailer.

Henry assessed the whole scenario, very unhappy about it.

‘We need to get him out from the nearside door and up to the Armco barrier,’ he shouted.

The officer nodded.

Then the driver’s door of the Fiesta opened, the guy swung out his legs, stood up and faced Henry’s direction. Henry saw a young, skin-headed Asian youth, maybe nineteen years old, dressed in trainers, jeans and a big anorak. This was not the man that Donaldson had described to him, the one he’d chased through the streets, who had driven this car at a cop, the one he’d shot. Not the man called Akram.

‘Stand still,’ the AFO with the loudhailer shouted. ‘Do not move.’

The lad had a blank expression. He seemed to be saying something to himself, mumbling. His hands were down at his sides, fists clenched. He walked between the Fiesta and the traffic car and stopped by the rear offside wing of the Ford as though he hadn’t heard the shouted instruction.

Henry’s eyes took in everything — including the other firearms officer crouching behind the driver’s door of the traffic car, armed with a Glock pistol, held down in front of him in the classic two-handed grip. This officer had a clear, unobstructed view of the lad.

Henry thought he saw the twitch of a smile in the corner of the Asian’s mouth. His head rose slightly and he looked at Henry across the gap that separated them.

Several cars hurtled past in the fast lane.

Henry spotted something in the young man’s right fist. It looked like the top of a pen. Henry knew exactly what it was. A button. A detonator. Attached to a bomb that was strapped to his chest.

Henry had been here once before, face to face with a suicide bomber. Last time, in the backstreets of Accrington, he’d been lucky. A mis-connection meant the device failed to explode. Since that moment, Henry knew he never wanted to be in that position again. He knew he would not be so lucky next time. This time.

The young man raised his right hand.

Several things happened.

Henry screamed, ‘TAKE HIM DOWN!’ to the firearms officers.

The young man shouted something, words that were blocked by the wind, but Henry knew he was saying that Allah was great.

The firearms officer on the other side of the car stepped sideways, raised and aimed the Glock, bringing it up into the point of an isosceles triangle formed with his locked arms.

The young man lifted his thumb in a gesture designed to show that he was now going to press the detonator in his hand, blow himself up and whoever else he could take with him.

Henry cringed and cowered away, as though turning his back to the situation would protect him from a bomb blast.