Substantial Threat

Sixteen

It was Kate who roused them. Henry in the same bed as her and Donaldson in the spare bedroom. They threw coffee and juice down their throats and said a quick goodbye to Kate, but not the girls, because they were still in the Land of Nod.

It was 6.15 a.m. when they reached the motorway and Henry knew that barring accidents or other travel delays, he would have his friend at the airport well in time for the shuttle.

‘Have I slept?’ said the bleary-eyed American.

‘Not really.’ Henry yawned once, then could not stop from yawning.

At least the day was fine and pleasant as the night gave way to dawn. The sky was lightly clouded with hints of blue beyond.

Miller and Crazy were following, Miller in his Granada and Crazy on the motorbike, each hanging back, occasionally one passing the other. The following was easy because Christie was driving fast and it is far easier to follow a quickly moving vehicle, not least because the driver is usually more concerned about what is going on in front of him rather than behind. At 90 mph, this was very much the case with Henry.

Henry made it to the airport for 7 a.m., dropping Donaldson off at Terminal 3. Traffic was busy around the airport roads and Henry knew he could not stop long. Donaldson leaned back through the nearside door.

‘Thanks, Henry. At least I know what’s happened to Zeke. I’ll inform his family as soon as I get back to London and start making arrangements to get his body back to the States. How soon do you think we’ll be able to have him?’

‘As soon as I can arrange it,’ Henry promised. ‘It might be that we’ll have to arrange an independent post-mortem to be carried out before the coroner will release him, but I’ll get on to it today.’

Henry leaned across and they shook hands.

‘Much appreciated,’ said Donaldson.

‘Take care,’ called Henry as Donaldson slammed the door and stood back to watch Henry drive off. His eyes narrowed when he saw a black-suited motorcyclist pull away and slot in behind Henry’s Vectra. He did not know why it made him feel uncomfortable. It just did. Fed instinct. He shook it off and strode into the terminal.

The traffic had built up considerably by the time Henry got to the M6, but even so he was driving into the back yard at Ormskirk police station about forty minutes later. He called Rik Dean on the radio and he came down to let Henry into the police station, which had not opened for public business yet. Dean looked as tired as Henry felt.

‘Any problems?’

‘No,’ said Dean.

Henry held his tongue, wanting to make a quip about Dean and Burrows because he was still very annoyed about it. Instead he said, ‘Is the witness okay?’

‘Yes.’

They went up to the first floor and found Jane and Jack Burrows eating toast and drinking coffee in the dining room. Jane had obviously showered and was in her change of clothing. She looked fresh and beautiful and Henry’s insides did a quick whirl, making him think, ‘If she does this to me every time I see her, should I really be dumping her?’ He was getting confused again. He shelved his feelings and turned his attention to Jack Burrows. She needed a shower and a change of clothing, but that could not detract from the fact that she looked as stunning as ever. On one level Henry could not blame Dean for his indiscretion, but on another, a professional one, he condemned the guy totally.

‘Morning, ladies,’ Henry said.

He got a grunt from both of them.

‘A word, Jane.’ He tipped his head to indicate she should follow him out on to the landing. ‘How has it gone?’ he asked quietly.

‘Good. We talked until about five thirty, then decided to get some shut-eye.’

‘Did you record your conversation?’

‘Yeah, if the tape recorder’s working.’

‘Interesting?’

‘Very, very, very interesting.’

‘Gimme a flavour,’ Henry said enthusiastically.

‘Let me make you a brew first. You look like you need some sustenance. It’s a long story.’

Ormskirk police station is situated on a main road leading into the town on a corner plot just outside the shopping centre by a set of traffic lights. It is a relatively new building, constructed in the 1980s. It has a cell complex, a few offices and a first-floor hostel. Apart from the hostel, the police station is very underused. Spiralling policing costs mean that the station is open to the public for a restricted number of hours only and that all but very short-term prisoners are taken to the cells down the road in Skelmersdale. It has a large enclosed car park at the rear, with only one way in and one way out.

This meant that, whatever happened, Henry Christie could only drive out in one direction and if he had his protected witness with him, they would be an easy target.

Miller smirked. Trapped like rats, he thought, as he surveyed the red-brick police station and its environs.

If she is in there, that is.

Henry and Jane sat in the lounge area while he ate some toast and drank the tea she had made for him. It was too busy to talk confidentially because of the number of sleepy hostel residents wandering in and out in various stages of undress. Henry wondered if he had missed something by never living in a police hostel in his younger, single days. The lifestyle had some appeal to it.

‘Let’s go to the room I slept in,’ Jane suggested when Henry had finished his toast. ‘Better to talk,’ she added. Each with a drink in hand they went into her room. The bed was made, there was no mess; her clothes from yesterday were hung up neatly on a hanger. Henry could smell that she had been there. Her aroma made him slightly dizzy as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Jane sat at the desk, keeping some distance between them, and placed Donaldson’s hand-held tape recorder on it.

‘Summary,’ Henry said. ‘Detail later.’

‘Okay. . Jack Burrows is the only daughter of the well-known transport boss and haulier, Bill Burrows, who has depots all over England and the continent. She had an undertaker’s business which she sold and went into property. I think you know some of this?’

Henry nodded. ‘But go on, it’s worth hearing again.’

‘By her account, she was always a bit of a wild child and when she met Ray Cragg, his lifestyle appealed to her for some unknown reason. Money. Excitement. All that sort of stuff, I suppose,’ said Jane dismissively. ‘Anyway, she got in with him and they became an item, but all he was doing was using her as an accessory, she says. Bit of posh totty. He didn’t really care about her, treated her like shit. Anyway, because of this she falls for the delectable Marty, Ray’s younger, stupider, half-brother, who, totally out of character, treats her like a lady.’

‘First time for everything,’ Henry commented.

‘Unless he was using her as well,’ said Roscoe. ‘It seems Marty was always trying to emulate and better Ray, but never quite succeeded. He was never quite as tough, never quite as hard, never quite as successful. He got bitter and twisted and decided to screw Ray as much as possible, including screwing his girlfriend, which is why he treated her well, I think, because Ray didn’t. There may be another reason why Marty treated her so well, too.’

‘Let me guess,’ interjected Henry. ‘The transport business.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Just brilliant, I suppose.’ He licked a finger and marked the air.

‘Apparently Ray does a lot of pimping, controls a lot of prostitutes. He saw the potential for bringing asylum-seeking girls in from Eastern Europe. He made contacts with some gangs on the Continent, but never quite pulled anything substantial off, though he had plans to expand in that direction. During this time, Marty met a guy called Mendoza who headed a Spanish gang which specializes in providing girls for prostitution to UK criminals. Marty decided to go into business with them without telling Ray. At the same time he proposed to bring in loads of paying asylum seekers by using Burrows Transport.’

‘How?’

‘Jack is well in with a number of bent drivers.’

‘Thought as much. So he’s been importing people in general and prostitutes in particular? The people get dumped and the hookers end up working in grotty flats — am I on the right track?’

‘More or less, except that Marty being Marty, nothing was quite so easy. He needed a lot of start-up money, apparently, which he didn’t have, so he took out loans from the Spaniards. Trouble was, Marty was terrible with money. He couldn’t add up, but he managed to subtract a lot into his own wallet and lost a lot through gambling: horses, casinos, the lot. The loan repayments kept being extended until such time as they were called in and Marty found himself repaying to a deadline, which he could not meet. In a panic, Marty skimmed from Ray, but could not accumulate enough and blamed others?’

‘Such as JJ?’

‘Yes. Then he had the big idea to get all the money together in one fell swoop.’

Henry was puzzled.

‘Apparently Ray counts his weekly takings in a little terraced house in Rawtenstall. Marty simply arranged to rob him. Hired four dimbos from Manchester to do the business, but Marty being Marty, it all went wrong. Two of them got whacked, two got away and one of Ray’s trusted men got greedy and did a runner with all the takings in the confusion. About two-fifty, two-eighty grand, supposedly.’

Henry whistled. ‘Marty gets left with nothing other than debt and gets executed by a very pissed-off bullfighter. Things are slotting into place now. So Ray doesn’t show any feelings about Marty’s death, he accuses Jack of sleeping with him and beats her up, so Jack is really pissed off with him and decides to drop him in it.’

‘The money is still on the run and Ray wants it back because it’s his and because — and get this for a kind of rough justice — the Spaniard has threatened Ray and told him he now carries the debt incurred by his brother.’

Henry laughed. ‘What goes around comes around.’

‘Ray’s got two goons trailing the man who stole Ray’s money as we speak. A guy called Miller and that one who was at Ray’s when we went round.’

‘Crazy.’

‘And those two are very dangerous guys. They’re the one’s who took out the guys who tried to rob Ray, then dumped their bodies over the county line. They’re also the ones who came off best in McDonald’s. They’ve also been contracted to murder the Spaniard.’

‘What about the King’s Cross shooting?’

‘Ray and Marty did that. Crazy drove them.’

‘Wow,’ said Henry, taking it all in. ‘So how’s Jack? Will she put pen to paper, do you think?’

Jane nodded confidently. ‘She’s up for it.’

‘We’d better get it done as soon as possible. These people need to be taken off the streets — Oh,’ Henry had a thought, ‘did she say anything about the dead prostitute?’

‘No, didn’t ask. Sorry.’

‘Okay, you’ve done bloody well so far. What I want to do now is keep her on the move. I’d like to get her to the rape interview suite at Morecambe, just for today. It’ll give us some breathing space and while you’re sorting her out statement-wise, I’ll get a move on with the witness-protection stuff. She needs to be moved soon for her own safety, I reckon. From now on I think we should all watch our backs until we get Ray, Crazy and this other guy Miller into custody. I’d say they’ll be out to get her and anyone daft enough to get in their way — i.e., us.’

The entrance to the car park at the back of the police station was by way of a rough road through a small area of derelict land and some grassed-over humps. It was easy enough for Miller to position his car to have a view of all the comings and goings at the rear of the station without arousing too much suspicion.

Henry came off the phone, which seemed to have been pressed to his ear for over an hour. He had been making arrangements, letting the right people know what was happening, but not letting any names slip. By 9 a.m. he had done the necessary to get the ball rolling, but could not help but feel nervous. He knew he was up against a ruthless gang who had their backs to the wall. They would stop at nothing to protect themselves and destroy others. Henry knew he had to assume there was a very substantial threat against Jack Burrows, even though one had not yet been made. The phone call she had sneakily made last night worried him. It meant that Ray had been alerted. But what could he have achieved overnight in terms of pulling something in place to get at Jack Burrows this morning? Henry pondered. Nothing, he assured himself. Ray did not have a clue where she was and once Burrows committed herself to paper later today, there would be no way in which Ray could ever find her, unless she was foolish enough to compromise herself.

But Henry was on pins and needles.

She was safe and secure in the police station. Once outside on the road she became vulnerable.

He went upstairs and found Jane Roscoe, Rik Dean and Jack Burrows in the TV lounge. He beckoned Jane out to the landing.

‘The rape suite isn’t being used at the moment and though I know we shouldn’t really use it for this, I’m going to. We can spend some time debriefing her and getting it all recorded.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘I want to move as soon as possible, cos I’m starting to get a bit jumpy. We’ll travel to Skem and pick up the M6 from there. Probably take an hour to get to the suite.’

Jane nodded. ‘I’m beginning to feel jittery, too.’

‘I’d like an armed escort, but the only trouble with that is the bureaucracy. It would waste time and I want to get her moving as soon as. What do you think?’

‘I know what you’re saying, but it isn’t likely that Ray knows where she is at the moment, is it?’

‘No, but she’s still under threat. I don’t want to put her in any unnecessary danger. I’ll speak to Bernie Fleming about it.’

He went back downstairs to the CID office and called Fleming on the land line and put the conundrum to him.

‘Well,’ said Fleming, ‘under the circumstances, just get her moved, then we can have a proper look at having pre-planned firearms escorts for any future movements, once she’s made her statement.’

I’m not a happy chappie, Henry said to himself as he hung up.

Henry emerged from the front door of Ormskirk police station and walked across the small concourse to the traffic lights at the junction. On the opposite corner was the library and opposite that was the traffic-free road leading down to the main shopping centre. He breathed in the fresh air and watched the traffic flowing for a while, before strolling down the slight incline away from the town centre, then cutting across the grassed area and walking back into the car park behind the station.

His eyes were roving constantly, seeking potential problems, searching for signs of danger.

There was nothing. People were coming and going all the time. Many cars were parked on the waste ground outside the police station walls. A guy in motorcycle leathers, helmet on, was standing astride his bike, chatting to another man in a car, both smoking. They didn’t even look at Henry. He did not give them a second glance.

Yet he was still feeling pretty unhappy.

He reversed his car to the rear door of the police station. As soon as he got there, Rik Dean came out and did the same with his car, parking it in front of Henry’s so they were in convoy. Henry waited for him and they both went back into the station. Jane and Jack were waiting behind the door.

‘We’re ready,’ Jane said.

‘I’m not,’ said Henry. He left the three of them standing there and went into the CID office where a lone detective was beavering diligently away at paperwork. Henry picked up the phone and dialled the divisional communications room. He asked where the Armed Response Vehicle was at that moment. Chorley, he was told. At least twenty minutes away.

‘Tell them to make their way to Ormskirk police station immediately and to liaise with me, DCI Christie.’

Back with the three waiting people, Henry told them the good news. They were not going anywhere yet.

‘Looks like they’re preparing to go,’ Miller said to Crazy as he watched Henry Christie walk back into the police station car park and manoeuvre his car to the back door.

‘What’s he up to?’ Crazy said.

‘Checking,’ said Miller. ‘He’s a bit worried, and so he should be.’ Miller smiled. ‘He’s on the ball. I wonder if he clocked us? If he did, he didn’t show it.’

The ARV rolled into the police station fifteen minutes later, the engine reeking of heat and smoke. They were in a fully liveried Ford Galaxy with smoked-glass windows and they had pushed it all the way.

‘Armed cops,’ Miller said.

‘He must have clocked us then,’ said Crazy.

‘I don’t think so. He’s just being careful. Shit,’ breathed Miller.

‘What do we do?’

‘I’ve just added up fifty grand and one hundred and forty grand, plus what other stuff I have put away for a rainy day,’ said Miller. ‘To me that adds up to a nice lifestyle in a hot, cheap country. I don’t know about you, but I’m up for this.’

‘The money’s not in our hands yet.’

‘It will be. We’ll easily find that idiot Dix and then we’ll be laughing all the way to wherever.’

‘It might mean killing a cop.’

‘Yeah, true. So be it. Needs must.’

Henry watched the ARV come into the back yard and manoeuvre backwards to become lead vehicle of the three-car convoy. He trotted down to meet the two officers at the door as they were buzzed in.

He introduced himself and said, pleased, ‘You made good time,’ then quickly briefed them and asked if they had any problems.

‘No,’ one said, ‘but can we covert arm?’

‘Yes,’ Henry said, making a big decision. It meant they could arm themselves, but that their weapons would have to stay out of sight, but be accessible.

‘Go and sort yourselves out and we’ll be out soon.’

Henry collected everyone from upstairs and led them down to the back door of the station. Jane dropped into the front passenger seat of Henry’s car, while Henry opened the back door of Dean’s car, ushering Jack Burrows out of the station and into the back seat where she laid herself out full length. ‘Keep down until we reach the motorway, then you can sit up, okay?’

Rik Dean got into the driver’s seat and Henry got into his Vectra. He gave the word, ‘Go,’ on his radio.

The ARV began to roll slowly towards the exit. Dean released his handbrake and crawled behind, with Henry bringing up the rear.

Henry was feeling the strain, particularly in his throat, which felt dry and sore. He took a deep breath to help him settle down. Maybe he was just letting his police senses get in the way of his common sense. ‘But why do I have a very bad feeling about this?’ he thought and only realized he had said it out loud when Jane shot him a query-filled look. ‘Sorry.’

As the ARV reached the exit, Henry’s mobile rang out.

‘Hi — Henry Christie,’ he said, happy to answer it: he knew it could not be Jane because she was sitting next to him.

‘Henry, it’s Karl. . Just something preying on my mind, might just be a load of bollocks, as you might say, but just be careful when you move that witness, will you? I saw a motorbike behind you when you left the airport and while there was nothing wrong about it, it just seemed out of place, somehow, like it could have been following you.’

Motorbike! Shit! Henry’s mind spun like a vortex. That could be how Ray Cragg might be able to get to a witness quickly. He could have followed Henry from his home and Henry would have led him right to the witness. His mind processed these thoughts as the convoy turned out of the car park and approached the junction with the main road. Henry did not even thank Karl. He threw his phone down and grabbed his radio, about to cancel the trip north until he could put together a full armed escort.

He was too late.

The Ford Granada came out of nowhere, from the side. It was the car Henry had seen earlier, the one with the motorcyclist standing next to it.

It wheels spun on the gravel, churning up stones and dust. Henry saw a flash of the hooded driver. He also saw the leather-clad, helmeted motorcyclist at the side of the road, sitting astride his powerful-looking machine.

The Granada smashed into the driver’s side of the ARV, crushing the PC who was driving and making the vehicle undriveable.

Henry slammed his brakes on and was already half out of his car, his brain only just registering what was happening.

The driver of the Granada was out of his car faster, spraying the side of the ARV with a broadside of slugs from the H amp;K MP5 in his hand — the one he had stolen from an armed officer at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. This done, he ran to the back of Dean’s car, stood by the back door, rose on his toes, and pumped every last remaining bullet into the back half of the car where Jack Burrows was lying.

Henry could do nothing but cower behind his door. Roscoe, hands to her face, screamed uncontrollably. Rik Dean had thrown himself underneath his steering wheel for protection.

Then it was over. The gunman threw the H amp;K down and ran to the waiting motorcycle and jumped on to the pillion. He waved and with a skid and a swerve of the rear wheels, the bike shot away and headed towards Preston.

‘Pull yourself together,’ Henry screamed at Jane. He ran to Dean’s car and peered in through the shattered windows. ‘Fuck,’ he said when he saw the state of Jack Burrows. Rik Dean, shell-shocked and shaking, literally rolled out of the car and fell to the ground.

‘You okay?’

‘I think so.’

‘Get sorted and call an ambulance.’ Henry ran to the crash-damaged and bullet-splattered ARV. The driver was trapped by the steering wheel and looked like he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. His colleague on the other side of the vehicle was unhurt, just a little shaken, but still cool. He was already out of the car, reaching in for his weapons.

Henry ran back to his car. Jane was still in shock.

‘Get out, get looking after the wounded and protect this scene,’ he ordered her sharply. She got out numbly, seemed to pull herself together as she stood up and ran to Dean’s car, opening the rear door. Jack Burrows slumped out, covered in blood, but apparently still alive.

Henry jumped into the driving seat of his car, reversed in a cloud of smoke, slammed it into first and drove around the chaos. He stopped at the road and shouted, ‘Get in,’ to the unhurt ARV officer. ‘These other people will look after the wounded.’

The PC, carrying two H amp;K MP5s and his own Glock at his waist, got in beside Henry and dropped the assorted weaponry into the footwell. Henry jammed the gas pedal down and screeched out through a gap in the now stationary traffic in the direction the motorbike had gone. He knew he had little chance of catching it, but he steered with one hand, recklessly, while he held his radio in the other and relayed details of the incident to the control room and circulated details of the escaping bike, which, he said, would be easy to spot because the passenger was not wearing a helmet.

He gunned his Vectra towards Preston once he reached the A59, though he did not know for sure if he was even going the right way. The bike could easily have gone towards Liverpool. Or could now be abandoned in a side street and they could be tootling along in a nice car. All Henry knew was that it was more than likely they would be making their way, by some route or other, back to Blackpool. Or maybe not. Shit, he thought.

One of Lancashire Constabulary’s objectives for the year was to make roads safer. This meant that there were often traffic patrols operating radar speed traps on roads where speeding had been the cause of accidents, or where it caused a danger to the public. Parts of the A59 north of Ormskirk are such a problem, particularly on the north side of a small town called Burscough. Here the A59 is often subject to traffic-officer attention, especially in the 30 mph limit as the road winds out of the north end of town. On that day, two traffic cops had set up a speed trap, one on the radar, one stopping the offenders, and were keeping themselves very busy with cars coming into Buscough from the direction of Preston. Easy pickings and great fun.

Travelling south down the A59 that morning was a PC from Ormskirk who had been to headquarters clothing stores for some new uniform. He had been on duty since seven and was returning to Ormskirk, ready for a very big, fat-boy’s breakfast. He knew that the traffic cops had set up a radar north of Burscough and he slowed right down as he sailed into the 30 mph zone, fully aware that the gutter rats would have no qualms in booking him, even though he was on duty and driving a police van. No love lost there.

This combination of police on the A59 at that time of day was not particularly unusual. As the officer drove past the tripod-mounted radar at 29 mph, he waved at the traffic cop, then hid his one-fingered salute. Up ahead he could see the motorcycle cop standing next to his machine, wearing his hi-viz jacket, ready to pull in wrongdoers. He accelerated a little.

All these officers received Henry Christie’s coolly transmitted circulation at exactly the same time, and their reactions were similar because they realized that this motorbike could well be en route to them and, as motorcycles tend to go like the proverbial shit off a shovel, it might be there within seconds.

Miller clung to Crazy as he took the machine underneath them up to speeds which were, like his nickname, crazy. The road surface was generally smooth and excellent. If no other traffic had been about, it would have been a fantastic ride as the bike swept round long corners and flew down straights. Unfortunately, other traffic did impede progress a little, but not too much. Crazy was good. He looked well ahead, made sound decisions, veered round and in between vehicles and made superb time.

They were on the southern outskirts of Burscough within minutes. Crazy throttled back a little and disregarded the red of the traffic lights just outside the town, weaving dangerously between crossing traffic and hitting the hump-back bridge just before the small town centre at 90 mph.

The bike left the road at the crest of the hill, thumped down on its rear wheel, swerved madly, but Crazy held it upright and braked down to about 50 mph for the town centre, then, once he had negotiated the pelican crossing and the mini-roundabout without knocking anyone over, he opened the throttle again up the hill over the railway line.

Miller could not help but laugh. The wind in his face and hair, the roller-coaster ride he was having was fantastic. The feeling was unbelievable, that combination of speed, danger and blood-letting.

Then he heard Crazy scream an obscenity.

The A59 is not a wide road as it snakes out of Burscough, so it was very easy to place the police van and the traffic cop’s plain car at an angle and effectively block the road completely. There were no footpaths on either side, with nowhere for vehicles to go, unless they chose to go off-road into the recently ploughed fields on either side.

The motorcycle cop stood astride his powerful BMW. The other two officers stood in the road, stopping traffic and working their way on foot down the short line of stationary cars and puzzled drivers, towards Burscough, anticipating the arrival of the pursued bike.

It came speeding into view.

Henry was speaking calmly into the radio, telling the three cops up ahead to take extreme care and not to put their lives or others’ lives in jeopardy. The men on the bike were dangerous in the extreme.

They acknowledged his warning.

Crazy braked hard and almost launched himself and Miller over the handlebars as the speed of the bike reduced from eighty to zero within a fraction of a second. He stopped about fifty metres away from the two cops on foot, who started to approach hesitantly.

Miller had his pistol in his waistband. He produced it and rested it on Crazy’s shoulder to take aim at the officers. They dived for cover behind a car and the police motorcyclist cowered down, hoping his machine would offer protection. Miller did not fire. He patted Crazy on the back and indicated for him to about-face.

Crazy revved the engine, released the clutch, spun the bike on the spot and headed back towards Burscough.

Behind him the two officers on foot raised their heads slowly from their cover and spoke on their radios. The one on the motorcycle set off in pursuit.

‘Coming this way,’ the ARV constable said to Henry. He racked his MP5 so it was ready. He was a happy man. He had been trained for this sort of thing and was looking forward to putting it into practice.

Henry reached the set of lights that Crazy had ignored. Three cars had been involved in a minor bump, blocking part of the road. Henry could not see any injuries, so he sneaked past and speeded up towards the town, wondering if he was actually going to come face to face with the motorcycle.

He hoped so. He had already decided that, given half a chance, he was going to ram the bastard off the road and fuck the consequences.

‘Which way?’ Crazy shouted over his shoulder, the wind taking his voice away with it.

‘Back into town,’ Miller screamed into his ear. ‘Left at the roundabout towards the motorway down the back roads.’

Crazy acknowledged these directions with a thumbs up.

He was approaching the railway bridge at 70 mph.

Henry reached the mini-roundabout as the motorbike came into view on the crest of the railway bridge just ahead of him. He screeched to a halt. The bike kept coming.

‘You might want to close your eyes, cos I’m going to ram him and I don’t want any witnesses,’ Henry said to the armed constable.

‘You have my permission to go for it, sir.’

Henry pressed the accelerator, brought up the clutch with a dithering foot, and held on to the handbrake as he built up the revs. He thought how much he had actually come to like the Vectra. It had been a good workhorse. Now it was going to go to the knacker’s yard.

Crazy saw the Vectra. So did Miller. They recognized it as the one Henry Christie was driving. Both knew he would go for them because he had to. Otherwise he was going to lose them.

Crazy powered the bike down the short hill, went wide across to the wrong side of the road to get into the best position to cut left at the roundabout. He leaned over at such a sharp angle that his knee was almost touching the road surface, and only the edges of his tyres were in contact with the tarmac. The bike twitched. Crazy corrected it expertly, then its back end twitched again; he corrected it instantaneously.

He saw the Vectra leap forwards.

In his mind Henry had prepared himself for the ram. He was going to go for it. He brought the clutch up, dropped the handbrake, virtually stood on the accelerator.

And probably for the first time since he was seventeen, he stalled a car.

The Vectra lurched as though it was going to be sick, then died.

Crazy was ready for the impact, but it did not come. He laughed out loud when he saw what had happened, then screwed back the throttle to take him out of the corner, across the edge of the roundabout. His rear end twitched, but this time he could not control it. As his rear tyre touched a minute patch of diesel spilt on the road, the wheel whipped away. Crazy fought for control. He could not pull it back and the bike went down in a shower of sparks and slid at a speed of about 60 mph across the road and under the front end of the Vectra.

Henry saw the bike go. He gripped his steering wheel, ducked his head uselessly, lifted his knees up and braced himself for the impact. It all happened within a milli-second, yet he saw it all in wonderful, coloured, sharp detail. The sparks were spectacular, like a Roman candle burning. The rear passenger took off in flight from the pillion and zoomed like a missile out of Henry’s view. The rider held on tight to his machine, fighting desperately with it all the way until the moment of impact when it collided with the front of the Vectra with a crash so loud and distorted that Henry would never forget it.

The bonnet crumpled up like a blanket and the front of the car lifted as though on a jack.

Then it was over.

‘You okay?’ he asked the ARV officer.

‘Never better.’

Henry got out on shaky legs and looked at the motorbike and rider, both trapped tightly underneath his car. The rider was still moving, but Henry saw that his left leg was sticking out at a hideous angle below the knee and shards of bone had pierced his leather trousers. Then the rider was still.

‘Boss!’ the armed officer called to Henry.

Henry looked across the twisted bonnet of his car. The pillion passenger had rolled across the pavement and slammed up against a wall. He was now, miraculously, on his feet, staggering, gun in his right hand, towards the ARV officer who had his MP5 in a firing position. The passenger was covered in blood. His left arm hung loosely at his side and his face seemed horribly deformed. He was trying to raise the pistol and fire it.

The armed officer was getting very tense, very close to shooting this man down. Henry could see the tension in the constable’s shoulders.

‘Armed police,’ he shouted. ‘Drop your weapon, drop it now!’

The man still came towards him.

‘Armed police,’ he said again. ‘Drop your weapon or I will fire.’

With what looked to be an amazing feat of strength, the injured man raised his gun, but as he did so he lost his balance, toppled over backwards and discharged the gun once into the air.