The Last Big Job

Prologue

Blackburn, Lancashire, 1986

They moved into action at midnight.

Billy Crane checked his watch, eyed his two companions in the darkness and nodded sharply. The three men were sitting in a stolen Ford Sierra Cosworth fitted with clean number plates. It was the preferred getaway car of the moment — a big, powerful brute of a car which usually stuck two fingers up at the cops.

They pulled on their nylon Balaclavas, obliterating their faces with the exception of their eyes and mouths. Next they each eased on a pair of tight surgical gloves and over them, another pair of thin woollen gloves. Crane wasn’t too bothered about fingerprints being left in the Cosworth because within four hours of the job being done, it would be comprehensively destroyed; first by gutting it with fire and then dropping in into a crusher in the scrap yard owned by one of his questionable friends. From there it would be spewed out as a twisted metal box the size of a policeman’s helmet.

Crane climbed out of the Cosworth, his companions close behind. They went to the boot and grabbed their equipment for the job ahead. Then, tooled up and laden down, they moved cautiously through darkened alleyways until they reached the rear of a terrace of shops and offices at the edge of town.

By then it was 12.10 a.m.

Crane dropped to his haunches, as did the other two behind him.

‘ We wait,’ he hissed, looking at his watch again. ‘Five minutes.’

The same Friday night-Saturday morning.

Over any given year, Blackburn — statistically — is the busiest town in Lancashire from a policing point of view. Blackpool may have horrendously hectic summers, but in winter it can be a ghost town from Monday to Friday each week; Preston may not lag far behind, but Blackburn consistently puts them both in the shade in terms of officer deployments and public demand.

And weekends are always busy, even when they are quiet.

The only thing that made that particular Friday night any different was that it was the first night of the year warm enough for officers to turn out in shirt-sleeve order.

Since the night shift came on duty at ten, the few officers out on the streets had been run ragged. Sixteen people had been locked up over a two-hour period; sixty jobs been logged in the Comms Room. The town was heaving. Situation normal. However, things were about to take on a new dimension.

The first call which was out of the ordinary was logged at 12.16 a.m. At that exact moment a young policewoman called Danielle Furness was storming angrily through the underground cell complex at Blackburn police station. Scurrying sheepishly behind her was a male colleague, much the same age, but barely out of his probation.

Both of them were dishevelled — owing to the fact that fifteen minutes earlier they had been rolling around on the ground, fighting. Not each other, but with a crowd of drunken youths who had taken it upon themselves to give the two officers a good hammering.

When Danny had paraded on duty at ten o’clock with the rest of her shift, she had been partnered up with the less experienced man and given the keys for one of the patrol cars. The younger officer had yet to earn a permit to drive police cars, having recently failed a standard driving course; in fact, having narrowly scraped through his probationary period by the skin of his teeth, he was fortunate even to have a job.

Rupert Davison had that certain knack of getting himself, and others, into trouble. Consequently, nobody wanted to work with him.

And yet, when Danny drew the short straw that night and found herself working with him, at first she did not mind. Blackburn is a tough Northern town, and night duty is always potentially dangerous. Bobbies needed partners for safety’s sake.

Danny received several comments about Davison and was told to watch her back. The guy was dangerous.

‘ He can’t be that bad,’ she responded.

‘ Oh he is, he fucking is,’ she was assured.

The first hour and a half or so of the tour had gone well. Danny was pleasantly surprised. She hated people who prejudged others and always tried to avoid doing it herself This was the first time she had ever gone out on patrol with Rupert, and contrary to reports, she found him amiable — charming — almost good company and pretty competent. If she had started off believing all the crap about him, she knew she would have struggled to remain positive. As it happened, they were busy, going from job to job, and Rupert had done his whack without any problems. Danny got to thinking that everybody was completely wrong about him… give a dog a bad name and all that.. she was quite impressed.

Just before midnight, they were cruising along Darwen Street, one of Blackburn’s busiest thoroughfares, night or day.

‘ What I really want is to get involved in cracking some serious crime. International stuff, if you know what I mean,’ Rupert was saying, revealing his pipe dreams. ‘I’m going to get on the Fast Track and I really want to be an ACPO officer…’ As he talked he spotted a couple of youths urinating in a shop doorway. ‘Stop!’ he shouted to Danny. ‘I want a word with those guys. Dirty gits.’

Danny slammed on the brakes, reversed back up the street. ‘Just warn them,’ she told Rupert. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in trivia tonight.’

He either chose not to hear, or genuinely did not. He jumped out of the car and strode authoritatively to the offending pissers, both of whom were completely drunk.

Danny remained behind the wheel, watching Rupert deal with the incident. It all seemed to be going well. There were a few smiles, nods and the typical drunken behaviour of wanting to shake hands. Then suddenly it all went banana-shaped.

Rupert began prodding one of the lads in the chest with a very attitude-filled forefinger, backing him up against a shop window. The drunk swung a punch and Rupert’s flat cap went flying through the air like a Frisbee. Rupert grabbed the lad’s lapels and then the second youth leapt on to the young PC’s back, trying to strangle and punch him in the head and face.

‘ Oh hell,’ Danny moaned. ‘So it is all true.’ She dived out of the car, radioing for back-up.

Danny hauled the youth off Rupert’s back, stumbled and found herself flat on her back with the lad on top of her about to head-butt the bridge of her nose. She smacked him hard on the side of his head, sending him sprawling across the pavement.

Out of the corner of her eye she was conscious of Rupert and his opponent thrashing hell out of one another. Danny’s attention returned quickly to the youth she had belted. He had already staggered to his feet and was bearing down on her again, intent on delivering a mighty kick to her body.

She was up in a flash, but he was on her and once more she found herself on the ground fighting wildly.

Six other youths staggered noisily out of the Cathedral grounds at that point. All were drunk, carrying cider bottles. The moment they saw the scene in front of them, they joined in. Any opportunity to have a dig at a cop was not to be missed.

Moments later, two police vans screeched on to the scene disgorging the two ‘Strike Force’ teams: six bobbies with very hairy backsides, heavy boots and ugly dispositions.

Six arrests were made from the melee and, fighting all the way to the station, the youths were bundled — and battered where necessary — into cells. The documentation and processing would come several hours later when they had all sobered up.

Danny’s tights looked as though her cat had been using them for scratching practice. Her skirt was ripped down one seam, her white shirt had lost several buttons and her white, functional bra and generous cleavage was on view for everyone to see.

She was severely pissed off by the whole episode — not least because that night, of all nights, she did not have a spare shirt or skirt in her locker. Rounding on Rupert who had been trailing at her heels like a puppy, she hissed. ‘Just tell me this — what the hell did you say to those lads?’

‘ I… er…’He hesitated.

‘ All they were doing was peeing,’ she remonstrated.

‘ Erm… I think it might have been something like, “Only dogs piss in the street”,’ Rupert admitted quietly.

Danny’s face sank in disbelief. She took a beat to prevent herself from blurting out something she might regret. ‘I think you need to work on your interpersonal skills, don’t you?’ Then she turned away from him with the word ‘Wanker’ playing on her lips.

‘ Danny,’ someone called from the Comms Room. It was one of the PCs who worked in there who was constantly hassling her for a date. ‘Can you deal with this one?’ He waved a message pad in the air. Danny opened her arms and invited him to look at the state of her. Lust clouded briefly across his face when he saw her bra and what was in it. She picked up the expression and quickly pulled her shirt together. The PC gulped, returned to normal and said, ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry — but there’s just no one else to go.’

Her shoulders drooped. ‘What is it?’I she asked with resignation.

‘ Report of a riot up on Fishmoor.’

‘ Ugh, that’s all I need.’

She pushed her way out of the Custody Office door which led to the car park and ran to her car, Rupert close behind, fired up by the prospect of a riot. As she manoeuvred out of the station yard the radio operator informed her that two further calls in quick succession backed up the first one. Fishmoor looked like it was kicking off.

Danny hit the rocker switch for the rather pathetic blue light which rotated dimly on the roof of her Metro, screwed the car in its lower gears and tried to coax maximum performance from a vehicle well past its sell-by date. Six minutes after leaving the police station she was on the Fishmoor council estate. She careered, almost on two wheels, into Fishmoor Drive to find… nothing. The streets were deserted.

She radioed her findings to Comms and cancelled other patrols who had since been deployed. A quick sweep of the estate confirmed it was a hoax. Fishmoor was as quiet as she had ever seen it. The Comms operator gave her the addresses of the people who had called in, and Danny and Rupert drove by their houses; each one was in total darkness. However there wasn’t much time to dwell on it as a genuine call came in: a punter had just had a beer glass screwed into his face in one of the town centre clubs. Big trouble was brewing.

Danny gunned the small car back into town.

Crane and his team entered the rear of the building next to the target premises. He knew it was not alarmed and the entry, therefore, was done with little finesse. It was the office of an insurance broker’s with nothing of interest or value kept there, hence the lack of protection.

The three men moved swiftly through the rear kitchen and into the front office. They went straight to the window, unrolled a large sheet of thick black polythene from their equipment bag and covered the glass quickly and smoothly in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre, running masking tape around the edges to ensure no light passed through the polythene.

Only when Crane was satisfied that the temporary blind had been correctly fixed, did he allow himself and the others to switch on their torches.

So far, so good. It was 12.30 a.m. Crane allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He turned and looked at the dividing wall which separated the insurance broker’s from the Halifax Building Society office next door.

His target.

This was when the heavy work began.

A few moments later Crane and his men waltzed four heavy filing cabinets away from the wall to reveal an empty fireplace, the chimney of which had been boarded and blocked up many years ago.

Crane knew that set into the corresponding fireplace on the other side of the wall was a safe which — so he was led to believe — contained?60,000.

All he had to do was get through the wall, open the safe, steal the cash, escape. Easy. It was what he did for a living.

At the first opportunity, Danny raced to her flat, which was less than a quarter of a mile from Blackburn police station, to get a change of uniform. She emerged cleaned and pressed as a message came over the radio asking all patrols to make for the Army Recruiting Office in the town centre. A report from an anonymous passer-by had been received to the effect that what appeared to be a bomb was on the front doorstep of the premises. Patrols were asked to take the job seriously. The Provisional IRA were very active and this could be the real thing.

By the time Danny arrived with Rupert in tow, the night patrol Inspector had sealed the scene and cordoned off a 200-metre area away from the premises — as per minimum guidelines — and called out the Army Bomb Disposal squad. The latter were en route from their base in Liverpool, at least three-quarters of an hour away.

Which meant that a large number of police officers were going to be tied up for a long time doing absolutely rock-all other than preventing the drunk and the curious from breaching the cordon.

Danny and Rupert were designated a point.

‘ What if it isn’t a bomb?’ Rupert was saying. ‘What if it’s just another hoax?’

‘ We can’t take the chance,’ Danny said.

‘ I’ve a bloody good mind to march up to it and see for myself.’

Danny’s blood literally froze in her veins. ‘You will do no such thing,’ she said as icily as she felt. If it hadn’t completely dawned on her before, it did now: Rupert Davison was a liability. She never ever wanted to work with him again.

Rupert spun away from Danny and had a moment’s rumination.

Then, without warning, he ducked under the cordon tape and marched towards the Army Careers Office, oblivious to Danny’s shrieks.

There was no quiet way to get through into next door, not when using a hammer and chisel to dislodge the brickwork. The only saving grace for Crane and his team was that the row of shops was set far away from any residential property and on a road, which though busy with traffic, was not one many people walked down after midnight.

The men took it in turns, working hard for very short periods.

The first brick took about ten minutes to dislodge; others soon began to follow. After twenty minutes they had removed one layer of bricks and had an opening large enough for a man to crawl through.

There were more layers to come.

Crane was sweating profusely under his mask. He leaned back and took a swig from a bottle of mineral water. He checked his watch and smiled grimly.

The fireworks were about to begin.

‘ You are the most dangerous, idiotic, irresponsible individual I have ever worked with. You put yourself in danger and what is more, you put other people in danger — your colleagues, the public.’ Danny was seething, could not remember a time in her short life when she had been more angry. ‘I’m surprised the Inspector didn’t put you on paper there and then,’ she said, using colloquial parlance to describe the process of disciplining an officer. ‘I thought the poor man was going to have a heart attack!’

‘ I don’t know what everyone’s so het up about,’ Rupert murmured. ‘I saved a lot of time and effort doing what I did. I mean, it was obvious it wasn’t a bomb. Just a pathetic attempt to make people think it was. A lunchbox with a few wires sticking out of it and a couple of batteries strapped to it. I ask you!’

Danny slammed the brakes on and screeched to a stop.

‘ Rupert, you arsehole. The IRA makes bombs to look like that on purpose so that idiots like you will think it’s not a bomb, walk up to it, shake it and boom! You’re blown to bits.’

The young officer shook his head, unwilling to admit a mistake. ‘The fact is, it wasn’t a bomb. It was a hoax — the second of the night, I might add.’

‘ Mmm,’ Danny muttered dubiously. She selected first gear with difficulty — the synchromesh had all but evaporated — and moved off. At least Rupert was right about one thing: there had been two well-executed hoaxes that night. Most hoaxes were perpetrated by stupid kids: tonight’s bore the mark of the adult. Danny was already beginning to wonder if there was a link. If another hoax came in, the possibility had to be seriously considered and investigated.

It had gone past 1 a.m. Danny and Rupert should have been in for their refreshments at one, so she was meandering slowly back to the station, not really anticipating with relish the tuna paste sandwiches that awaited her there. She was starving and would devour them, but she knew they would give her serious indigestion for the rest of the night.

The entrance to the police station car park on Northgate, Blackburn, was a throwback to days gone by when vehicles were narrow and tall and few in number. Though Danny was only driving a Metro, she was slow and cautious as she drove under the stone archway, down the cobbled incline, past the Custody Office door on her right, then up the asphalt slope into the car park proper.

As she peered round for a space, she thought she saw a dark shape flit between two police cars over in one corner of the car park. But she couldn’t be sure, her tired eyes might be playing tricks. Anything was possible on this, her fifth out of seven straight night shifts. She was aiming her car for a tight spot between her own private car — a battered Renault 12 — and someone else’s private car, when the first explosion came and she found herself thrown across Rupert’s knees.

Right in the corner of the car park, a police Montego had erupted in a ball of flame. A black mushroom cloud of dense smoke rose away into the clear night sky.

‘ Fuck!’Danny grimaced, trying to shake some sense into her dazed head. But before she could get a grip, the next car along exploded too. It was a Ford Granada traffic car.

Still dazed, Danny got out of the Metro, stunned by what she had experienced. Then her training clicked in.

‘ Two police cars exploded in the rear yard.’ she said calmly down her radio to Comms — who must have gathered something had happened as they were only a matter of yards away on the ground floor of the station. ‘Fire Brigade, please,’ she went on coolly. Then: ‘I think the offender could still be here. I saw a dark shape dodge between two cars when I pulled in. I need some assistance — and a dog, please.’ She swivelled round to Rupert who was standing catatonic behind her and bellowed: ‘Go up to the entrance and keep it covered. Make sure no one leaves.’ Then, when he just stood there, swaying slightly, she yelled, ‘Go on! We can catch this bastard.’

Just then the third vehicle along exploded, propelling Danny and Rupert across the car park with the force of the blast.

Scrabbling the debris and bricks away from their hands, they finally broke through into the Building Society, to reveal the back of the safe. It was four feet high, three feet across. Crane knew it was secured to the floor by massive bolts and there was no time to try to free it. It was far too heavy for three men. Six would have struggled.

It had to be dealt with in situ.

Crane edged his way through the narrow gap and crouched in front of the safe. He knew he had the freedom to move around inside the premises as only the outer doors and windows were alarmed. Just to make extra sure, though, he had ensured that the alarm box outside had been filled with quick setting foam.

It was a one-key safe, not a combination lock, which made the next part of the job easy to administer. He pulled off his outer gloves and removed the blob of plastic explosive from his pocket. He thumbed as much of it as he could into the lock and inserted a detonator into it which resembled a length of pipe cleaner. He then packed the remainder of the PE around the lock.

The two other men watched him nervously.

Eventually he looked up at them. ‘Sorted,’ he said confidently. Before doing anything else, they enlarged the hole in the wall behind the safe so their getaway would be smoother. When this was done, Crane returned to the safe alone. The other two remained hidden behind the counter in the insurance broker’s next door.

Crane snapped the end off the detonator, activating it. Hands over ears, he rolled through the hole and joined his colleagues.

Danny recovered quickly. It had been like being blown over by a hurricane. She had landed on her side and rolled over and over until the energy of the blast within her dissipated.

‘ Third car gone up,’ she said crisply into the radio. ‘I’m sure he’s still in here.’

Two police cars raced into the yard. Officers began to emerge from the police station itself. Danny looked around for Rupert, who was now on his hands and knees, chin drooping down on to his chest, completely winded.

‘ Rupert — seal the car park,’ Danny screamed at him, urging him into action. He set off like a 100-metre sprinter. Then her eyes roved the car park, trying to focus properly even though the explosions had momentarily blinded her.

The car park was fairly small and enclosed on three sides by the high walls of neighbouring buildings, on the fourth side by the police station itself. There was literally only one way out through the main entrance. Danny knew that unless the man in the shadows had somehow managed to leg it during the confused seconds following the third explosion, he was trapped. Famous last thoughts… yet she felt very confident of capturing him.

‘ Come on, pull back,’ she told everyone forcefully. ‘Let’s wait for the dog — and let’s keep well away from the cars. We don’t know if another one is going to blow or not.’

As she spoke, the dog patrol van accelerated into the yard.

The whole building shook as the PE detonated.

Crane, now wearing goggles and an industrial dust mask over his Balaclava, darted through the opening, fanning away the smoke, trying to see what the damage was.

‘ Yes, fucking brilliant!’ he shouted as the safe’s interior was revealed. The perfect blow. Completely destroying the lock but not the contents, other than singeing a few notes.

He yanked the red-hot door open, reached inside and grabbed a wodge of notes which he threw into the black bin-liner one of his team was now holding open next to him.

There was at least sixty grand. But he didn’t stop to count it.

Time was now of the essence.

They had to get out — quick.

The voice which came over the radio was cool and in control. ‘They’re emptying the safe now.’ It was the relaxed tone of a Detective Inspector from the Regional Crime Squad by the name of Barney Gillrow. Throughout the whole of the job he had relayed a smooth commentary across the airwaves of the dedicated, encrypted radio channel which was being used for the operation. It was a channel which normal police radios could not pick up and the cops who were running around Blackburn that night had no idea that any sort of operation was on: pretty standard practice for the RCS, who rarely told the locals what they were up to. A policy which had ruffled many a feather on many an occasion.

Gillrow was secreted in the first-floor storeroom of the greengrocer’s shop on the other side of the Halifax Building Society. Surrounded by boxes of carrots and apples, he had been watching the progress of Crane’s break-in through miniature cameras fitted by Technical Services; one had been rigged up in the insurance broker’s, one in the Building Society. The cameras relayed the images on to two monitors set up in the storeroom, giving him a clear black-and-white picture.

Gillrow had kept every officer on the operation — which included a mixture of RCS personnel, a firearms team and other armed officers — fully informed of the progress.

‘ They’ll be out in a matter of seconds. Get into position, everyone,’ he said, controlling his excitement.

The trap was about to be sprung.

Police Constable Henry Christie’s eyelids drooped shut and he fell asleep, his chin lolling forwards. Too many disturbed nights caused by a newly-born daughter who refused to sleep were taking their toll on him.

An elbow from his partner, PC Terry Briggs, jolted him awake.

‘ Ugh!’ Henry rubbed his eyes and made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Shit,’ he breathed, and pulled himself into full consciousness.

Not for the first time in his life he was wondering why the hell he had volunteered to become an Authorised Firearms Officer. It had probably been some stupid macho impulse fuelled no doubt by the diet of cowboys and Indians he had ingested as a youngster. He had truly enjoyed the two-week intensive training course with the handgun — Smith amp; Wesson Model 10, 38 calibre, four- and two-inch barrels — down the shooting range at Headquarters and out on the Army range at Holcombe Brook… but three armed operations and a Conservative Party conference later — actually carrying a gun in public, actually waiting for armed robbers to appear or the IRA to assassinate him — had made him realise what a jerk he was.

Firing down the shooting range, however intensive and lifelike, was a doddle compared to even just having a gun strapped on in public. The responsibility and implications sometimes overawed him like a tidal wave.

And here he was once more, waiting for a man known to carry firearms to come back to the stolen car he was using on a job. Henry looked at his partner — all Firearms Officers worked in pairs — who was leaning back in the driver’s seat of the Cavalier looking cool, relaxed and unflustered.

Bastard, Henry thought. Why can’t I be like that?

Then he put it into perspective. There was very little chance that Crane would make it as far as the Sierra Cosworth. The full Firearms team was actually at the back of the Building Society, waiting for him to make his exit. As soon as he set foot outside the premises, four guns would be pointed at him.

Henry and Terry, as Authorised Firearms Officers and not actually members of the Firearms team, were on the outer ring of the operation, well away from the main action, well away from danger.

‘ OK, let’s go.’ Crane’s voice grated as he stuffed the last bundle of notes into the bag. He grabbed it from the man who was holding it, goose-necked it tightly closed and ushered his mates ahead of him.

Jake always looked sleek and composed, as befitting one of Lancashire Constabulary’s most successful manhunters operating in the Force at that time. He was young, cool, keen, highly trained, hardworking… and above all had a set of fangs which he loved sinking into the flesh of villains.

That night he was raring to go.

His handler pulled him back to check his enthusiasm and Jake obeyed the command immediately, settling on his haunches, but unable to control a quiver of excitement. His ears were pricked and pointing forwards. His sharp eyes pierced the gloom of the car park behind Blackburn police station, searching the darkness for any movement. His heart thumped quickly and he was ready for action.

He tensed as his handler shouted out the familiar warning: ‘If you do not come out, I will release the dog. This is your last chance.’

The semi-circle of police officers waited for a response. None came.

With a smooth flick of the lead, Lancon Jake, the four-year old German shepherd dog, leapt into action, darting eagerly between the nearest two cars.

The handler followed, confident that if there was anyone there to be found, Jake would do it quickly.

As Crane’s two colleagues ran out into the back yard of the insurance broker’s, arc-lights snapped on, swathing the scene in brightness and highlighting a ring of armed cops, crouching in combat positions, accompanied by a cry of ‘Stop — armed police! Get your hands on your heads. Do it now!’

But Billy Crane was already at the front door of the insurance broker’s, the sawn-off pump-action shotgun he’d been carrying over his shoulder throughout the burglary now in his hands. He blasted the lock off the door using Hatton Rounds — cartridges — purposely designed to take out door locks and hinges — booted the door outwards, and burst out on to the street unopposed.

Head down, money bag in one hand, shotgun in the other, he sprinted across the road, ducked into an alley and vanished, leaving his two companions to face arrest.

It took less than a minute for Jake to strike. A howl of human anguish, coupled by one of canine glee, went up simultaneously. The figure of a man rose from behind a police van and set off running, dodging around vehicles whilst a wide mouth, jam packed with sharp, dangerous teeth, snapped at his backside.

The man did not get far.

Propelled by strong back legs, Jake powered himself across the short gap between himself and his victim. He sunk his teeth into the back of the man’s thigh, bringing him down at the same time as tearing out a chunk of flesh. The man screamed in agony and tried to free himself from Jake who, with a certain degree of deliberate pleasure, placed his mouth around the man’s right biceps and squeezed gently. He looked up at his prisoner and blinked his big brown eyes benignly.

Jake was a very intelligent dog.

He knew when he had won.

As often happens, when it all goes to rat shit, police officers can lose their cool over the radio.

‘ There’s one gone out the fuckin’ front door,’ a voice screamed, jolting Henry Christie and Terry Briggs out of their complacency. ‘All patrols to be aware. PCs Christie and Briggs have you received that? He could be coming in your direction. Received?’

‘ Y-yes,’ Henry stuttered, acknowledging for both himself and Terry.

They were parked at the top end of a narrow cul de sac from where they had a view across to the alley into which Crane had earlier backed the stolen Cosworth. If he was intending to use the car as his getaway, Crane had no choice but to drive out past Henry’s police car — but Henry did not want to give him that option. It could result in a chaotic chase and no arrest.

‘ Let’s see if we can bag him before he gets in the car,’ Henry said. He jumped out of the Cavalier, and with Terry close behind, ran across to the alley entrance, cursing under his breath about not having had the foresight to disable the car when he had the chance.

Breathing heavily already, Henry slammed himself on the wall by the alley entrance and paused. His hand went down and touched the handle of his revolver which was strapped in a holster at his right hip. Terry slid in behind him.

Henry gritted his teeth and prepared to take a peek into the alley to make sure the coast was clear. He intended to disable the car now, even with something as unsubtle as lobbing a brick through the windscreen; it would at least slow Crane down.

The moment he spun into the alley, a couple of things happened simultaneously. A belated radio message announced, ‘Patrols beware, suspect is armed, suspect is armed.’ And Henry saw that Crane had already reached the driver’s door of the Cosworth, which was open.

About twelve feet separated the two men.

Crane instinctively jerked the shotgun up. The cartridge which was now in the breech was not for punching holes in doors; it was meant to blow away other human beings, as were all the remaining shells.

Henry saw the gun rise and threw himself to the ground a split second before the discharge. Even though Crane missed, Henry felt the whoosh of the shot blast past him. He rolled behind the cover of the opposite wall whilst fumbling desperately for his own gun, painfully aware that he had never yet drawn it in anger.

Then Terry moved into the alley, his gun drawn, in the classic combat position.

Henry wanted to shout, ‘No, you stupid git!’ The words stuck in his mouth as Terry screamed, ‘Armed police! Drop your weapon!’

Crane sneered, pumped the action and swung the shotgun towards Terry.

Both weapons roared as one. Both parties were flung backwards.

Terry’s gun flew out of his hand as he stumbled, clutching his left shoulder, then fell over, hard. Disregarding the possible danger from Crane, Henry’s first instinct — and act — was to leap up and run across to his friend, bawling, ‘Officer down! Officer down!’ into his radio.

Terry’s right hand could not stem the flow of blood from the wound. ‘Shite, shite, shite!’ he breathed on inspecting the damage. It looked a bloody, mangled mess.

‘ Terry, Terry,’ Henry said desperately, kneeling down next to him.

‘ I’m OK,’ he lied bravely, keeping his cool. ‘I’ve got another shoulder. I think I hit matey — you go and see, Henry. I’ll be fine.’

Henry nodded and drew his gun, twisting away from Terry. His heart beating fast, he crept towards the Cosworth, aware that at close quarters a shotgun was lethal every time; a revolver had to be lucky.

The driver’s door was still open. There was no sign, or sound, of Crane, making Henry think he was either dead or well wounded. Henry Christie believed himself to be a moderately brave person. He was no coward, nor was he particularly heroic, but as he approached the stolen car, the wisdom of choosing — nay, volunteering — to carry a firearm reared its ugly head again.

He decided to ease himself at a crouch down the passenger side of the car and come around the back end quickly and decisively, gun at the ready and in the right frame of mind to discharge it if necessary. It seemed like a long journey, bent double, moving inch by inch, holding a weapon suddenly weighing half a ton with slippery hands, sweat dribbling down his face and into every crack and orifice in his body. He took a deep breath, counted three, pivoted round into the weaver stance and shouted ‘Armed police!’ for some reason he would never be able to adequately explain. The words simply sputtered out on a surge of adrenaline.

There was no one there for them to have any effect on.

Crane had gone.

Had the man who had been arrested in the police car park with a mouthful of flesh missing from his thigh and a series of puncture marks in his right arm, been arrested two years earlier in 1984, he would probably have been flung into a cell and only been allowed to see a doctor when the custody staff decided he could, a lot depending on their mood.

The arrival of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act changed all that. So now, handcuffed securely to Rupert, the prisoner was put into the back of a police van and whisked immediately up to the Casualty Department at Blackburn Royal Infirmary as soon as he had been booked into the custody systems and searched. Custody Sergeants did not want injured people in their cells any more — at least not until a medical practitioner had stated they were fit to be detained.

Ten minutes after his arrest, the man who had blown up three police vehicles was face down in a treatment cubicle, with his jeans and underpants rolled down exposing a very nasty-looking gash on his right thigh. A nurse was dabbing it with antiseptic; the patient jerked each time the cotton wool ball touched the wound. Rupert Davison stood by and watched, feeling queasy. He was astonished to see what damage a dog could do.

A very frustrated Danny Furness, who had actually made the arrest, was pacing to and fro outside the cubicle. She was desperate for a cigarette. The dreaded smoking habit had come quite late into her life, but now she was a nicotine addict — who needed a fix. What was particularly frustrating her was that she wanted a chance to get into the ribs of this prisoner as soon as possible, before anyone else got the chance; ‘anyone’ in this case being the CID. She was aware that the two night-duty detectives were hovering like hungry vultures back at the station to deal with him when he arrived back. But she wanted him. It was her job. Hers and Rupert’s. And she was not going to let it slide through her fingers.

In her brain she was already making plans to out-fox the detectives. Which was where a nicotine stick would have come in useful. It would have helped her to think.

Another frustration was that — by law — she was not allowed to question the prisoner here at the hospital. Not officially, anyway. Pity really, she thought, hearing him squeal in agony behind the curtain. A few probing questions in his present state might get good results. On the other hand, courts took a dim view of torture and intimidation.

From where she was standing Danny had a clear view along the corridor to the ambulance bay outside; as she stood there, an ambulance came roaring up and screeched to a halt in the bay. Its rear doors were flung open and several Casualty staff nurses, porters and a doctor — raced out of the hospital, obviously pre-warned of the arrival. A body was stretchered out, accompanied by a uniformed police officer who, Danny observed, was openly armed.

What the hell’s all this? she thought, her attention suddenly riveted. She looked quickly down at her personal radio, checking it was still on and working — it was — and wondered if she had missed something. She was pretty sure she hadn’t.

The person on the stretcher was wheeled hastily past her, surrounded by medical staff, to the emergency treatment room.

With some shock, Danny saw it was a cop and that he looked very poorly. She did not recognise him, but she did know — by sight — the armed officer who was with him. He was called Henry Christie. Danny knew he presently worked on the Headquarters Support Unit and that he was a very highly thought-of cop who might just go far if he applied himself. She had never spoken to him, but they had occasionally caught each other’s eyes and she fancied him like mad even though she knew he was married. Having said that, Danny was going through a phase of fancying several men. At the moment she was having discreet liaisons with two — both detectives — both, coincidentally, on duty that night. Not an ideal situation, but one Danny was happy to deal with.

As Henry Christie pushed past her that night, their eyes did not connect. His worried face was completely focused on his partner on the stretcher. Danny glimpsed a good deal of blood soaking through the sheets and clothing around the man’s left shoulder and upper chest as he was wheeled past.

Danny watched as the stretcher disappeared into the ETR. She thought it was a really weird kind of a night.

Billy Crane stumbled and fell heavily. He picked himself up with some difficulty and rolled over a low garden wall where he laid himself out, making an attempt to control the shaking which raked his body. Dragging the Balaclava off his head, he threw it away.

The bullet fired by the cop had ripped into his neck muscle just above the collar bone and exited straight through, drilling a perfect hole. Crane knew it was a perfect hole because he had been able to insert his forefinger and push it out the other side.

Under normal circumstances this would not have been a life-threatening wound, but because of his predicament — on the run from the cops, having just peppered one of them with a shotgun — it could easily prove to be so. A lot of blood had been lost and he needed medical attention quickly. But medical attention meant cops.

Unless he got it on his own terms.

His breathing came in short jerks. A wave of nausea rippled over him and he gripped the shotgun tightly in front of him as he lay there behind the garden wall.

A car pulled up nearby. The engine kept running. A door opened, the sound of voices drifted across to Crane’s ears. Despite the burning surge of agony which came with movement, Crane raised himself high enough to see over the wall.

Not many yards away from him, a car was stationary. Someone — a man — was leaning in through the passenger window, talking to the driver. A young woman stood nearby on the pavement. Crane blinked and shook his head. A few seconds passed before he realised he was seeing someone paying off a taxi.

He forced himself up, staggered over the wall and lurched towards the rear door of the car which he wrenched open. He threw himself across the back seat, much to the surprise of the driver and the man who was paying him.

‘ Sorry pal,’ the Asian taxi driver said over his shoulder. ‘Got a fare already booked. I can fit you in in half an hour if you like. See ya mate, thanks.’ The last four words were directed at the man who had just paid and turned away to his girlfriend.

The taxi driver looked over his left shoulder.

What he saw would remain with him for the rest of his life.

A reincarnation of the devil, hunched up in the back seat. An indescribable, terrifying look across the countenance. Eyes sunken in their sockets, hair in disarray, blood gushing from the neck — and a shotgun aimed squarely in his direction.

Crane growled, ‘Take me to the hospital now or I’ll kill you.’

Henry Christie was shooed out of the ETR. He retreated with reluctance, wanting to be with his friend throughout this ordeal.

‘ Go on, go and get a cup of tea,’ a nurse told him firmly.

Henry turned and walked back down the corridor, rubbing his face and shaking his head, muttering to himself He almost collided with Danny who pushed a plastic cup towards him. It contained hot, sweet tea.

‘ Oh, thanks,’ he said gratefully, eyeing Danny up and down. ‘I need it. I’m parched.’ He took a sip, which tasted wonderful. He noticed there was a faint trace of lipstick on the other side of the cup. She had given him her drink.

‘ What the hell’s going on, Henry?’ Danny demanded to know. ‘That’s a cop in there, isn’t it?’

‘ Yeah, yeah it is.’ Henry chewed his lips. He looked at Danny again, impressed by what he saw, as he always had been. A slim, slightly gangly girl with a figure worthy of worship, and fantastic Oriental-style eyes, a seductive shade of green. ‘RCS job,’ he went on. ‘A burglary at a Building Society just off Preston New Road.’ Then realising he’d better not say too much to Danny in case she was interviewed later about what he’d told her, he shrugged and muttered angrily, ‘Obviously a cock-up.’

‘ Is he your partner?’ She nodded towards the ETR.

‘ Yeah.’

‘ How is he?’

‘ He — we — both thought he’d just taken a shot in the shoulder, but it looks a lot worse than that now. He’s hurt pretty badly, I think.’

‘ God, I hope he’s OK.’

‘ So do I.’ Henry took a ruminative sip of tea. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘ Caught some guy blowing up police cars in the yard at Northgate. He got dogged; half his back leg bitten away.’ A smirk of evil crossed Danny’s face which made Henry smile. ‘He refused to give his details to the Custody Sergeant.’

‘ Blowing up cars, you say?’

Danny nodded.

‘ I wonder if he’s connected to the burglary? The guy we were after tonight is known to use diversionary tactics to keep everyone busy while he does the business.’

‘ We’ve had a few hoaxes tonight — big ones.’

Henry said sagely, ‘I’ll lay odds he’s involved.’

‘ Ahhhh — you bitch!’ came a scream from behind the cubicle curtain.

Danny drew the curtain back to reveal a female doctor suturing the dog-bite on the patient’s leg.

The man’s mouth clamped tight shut when he saw Henry Christie.

‘ Well, hello there, Callum, me old mucker — and just what the hell have you been up to tonight?’ Henry asked, approaching and leaning towards him in an intimidating manner. He had recognised the prisoner immediately. ‘But more to the point — who have you been working with?’

The taxi pulled up in the hospital car park within view of the Casualty Department.

‘ Switch the engine off and get out of the fucking car,’ Crane ordered the Asian who was trembling so badly that control of his bodily functions was now becoming an issue.

‘ But boss, I ain’t done nothing. I won’t tell no one, honest!’

‘ Just get out, you little turd.’

The taxi driver, whose name was Jyoti, got out, covered all the while by Crane’s shaking shotgun. Crane was becoming weaker by the moment; his head was starting to swim, his vision misting over. He willed himself to get a grip. ‘Now, you bastard, you walk into the Casualty Department just in front of me and you stay with me all the way. You try to get away and I’ll shoot your stinking head off. I’ve already killed a cop tonight, so a Paki won’t mean anything to me — got it?’

They walked the fifty or so yards to the entrance. Crane slid the shotgun out of sight underneath his zip-up jacket.

At the counter the receptionist looked up with a professional smile into Jyoti’s troubled face. Crane leaned over his shoulder. ‘I want to see a doctor now,’ he insisted.

‘ Well, there’s a wait for an hour for non-urgent cases. I’m afraid you’ll have to take a seat. Could I have your details, please?’

Sheer anger surged through Crane. Mustering all his strength he propelled the little taxi driver away, sending him sprawling across the tiled floor. He slammed the shotgun on to the counter. ‘Is this fucking urgent enough?’

He pulled the trigger.

Before Henry could settle down to have an unofficial chat with Danny’s prisoner he was beckoned out of the cubicle by the nurse who had shooed him out of the ETR.

‘ Your friend needs to go to surgery immediately.’ There was a very concerned expression on her young face. ‘We think one of the pellets may have ruptured an artery in his upper chest. He’s bleeding very badly internally and externally. And before you ask — he’ll be OK. That’s a promise. It just needs to be sorted now.’

‘ Thanks for that. Can I see him before he goes?’

‘ If you’re very quick.’

Henry strode towards the ETR behind the nurse.

But then there was the shout. The scream. And the ear-splitting noise that Henry had already heard once that night.

The roar of a shotgun discharging.

He spun, hand going straight to the butt of the revolver at his waist, and raced towards Casualty reception, Danny right behind him.

Crane was slumped like a drunk over the counter, his right hand holding the shotgun. Blood gurgled out of his neck wound across the plastic veneered surface of the counter. The receptionist was curled up, terrified, on the floor. The plasterboard wall behind her had a hole punched right through it by the shotgun blast. The taxi driver still lay on the floor whimpering. The other waiting patients were scrambling away to safety or prostrating themselves in fear.

Crane reacted instantaneously to the arrival of the two cops. He swung the shotgun round in their direction, but as he did so, he lost his balance and staggered back along the counter, trying to regain his footing. The rogue shotgun pointed upwards and Crane pulled the trigger yet again, this time bringing down huge chunks of the suspended ceiling crashing around his ears.

Seeing his chance, Henry launched himself into Crane. In those days he was fit, fast and a rugby player. His six-two, fairly muscled, thirteen-stone body powered into the injured criminal, driving all the air and fight out of him, flattening him painfully on to the cold, hard floor. The shotgun clattered harmlessly away.

There was no resistance from Crane. He had passed out. Cautiously, Henry disengaged himself and rose to his feet, wondering once again, if he was the right man for this job.

‘ Well, that certainly was an interesting tour of duty,’ Rupert Davison remarked to Danny. It was 8 a.m. and they had worked a couple of hours overtime to tie up the loose ends concerning their prisoner from the police car park, who had become the responsibility of the Regional Crime Squad, despite Danny’s initial protests. However, by the end of her shift, she could no longer be bothered. Let them have the little prick, she thought. What she wanted was her bed.

As she and Rupert walked out of Blackburn police station, they were greeted by bright sunlight. It was a fine Saturday morning.

Rupert touched Danny’s arm and stopped her. ‘Danny, do you want to come back to my place for a drink?’I he said awkwardly. ‘Perhaps we could get to know each other a little better.’

She blinked rapidly at the proposal, amused and a little shocked.

‘ I really fancy you,’ he went on, bolder now. ‘I want to make love to you.’

Danny burst out laughing, turned away from him and strolled to her car. She had to stop to let a plain police car drive past. Henry Christie was at the wheel. He gave her a quick wave and was gone. It would be many years before Henry would even have a conversation with her again. Henry, Danny thought wistfully at that time, if only you’d asked me that question.