by Nick Oldham
‘ 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 fr
om 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.