Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  Henry looked beyond the house to some fairly dilapidated farm buildings. They seemed incongruous against the refurbished luxury of the farmhouse that was the Wickson family home. A couple of old, articulated fuel tankers stood in the yard formed by these buildings. Henry squinted thoughtfully at the scenario. He tried to recall something which was lurking at the back of his cranium. Old farm buildings, old fuel tankers . . . what did that mean?

  Suddenly he was not thinking about old buildings and trucks.

  A movement had cut into the periphery of his vision, making his head jerk away from what he was surveying.

  He stretched his neck, a feeling of high tension shooting through his body, certain he had seen something below. In the bushes, just to the right of his position. Something . . . someone . . . had definitely moved. But even as he stared and focused, he could see nothing.

  He remained motionless, alert, did not move another muscle.

  Only then did he realize just how dry his mouth had become and how remorselessly his heart was ramming against his rib cage. His eyes were sharp and his brain was now digesting the pros and cons of the stupidity of his current position.

  Supposing there was somebody down there? Supposing it was the person who had set fire to the stables and maimed a horse? Would that person be a pleasant companion for a morning stroll back into the arms of the real police? What would happen if that person did not want to cooperate and was twice as big, wide and nasty as Henry? Henry had been stripped of his powers and could not legally do half of the things he had been doing without a second thought for the past twenty-odd years. Whoever it was down there would be well likely to be a mad, raving lunatic with instability problems of epic proportions. So what would Henry do if he came face to face with this deranged individual?

  He could not radio for help. The personal radio, the bane of many a cop’s life, the piece of equipment that Henry had only ever used when it suited him, was no longer in his tool kit. And now he missed it like mad. He felt naked and vulnerable.

  Nor did he have any handcuffs.

  Nor an extending baton.

  Nor CS spray.

  He realized with a lead-like thump that he was very much on his own out here. The resources of law and order were no longer at his beck and call.

  Though he did have his mobile phone.

  Staring down the slope in front of him, he hoped that what he had seen was a sheep doing a bit of lurking, as opposed to an arsonist and horse-molester. He could handle a sheep, however violent it became.

  But it was not a sheep.

  It was someone who was very good at not being seen. It was a man dressed in army-type combat camouflage clothing, edging on his stomach along the line of the field. Henry’s mouth opened with a pop as he registered the fact that this man was more than good. He was almost invisible and it took a lot of blinking and re-focusing on Henry’s part to keep him in sight.

  Henry watched, fascinated. He found it tempting to stand up and begin waving his arms about to attract someone’s attention down at the stables, but at such a distance he guessed it would be a fairly useless gesture – and it would warn the man they were on to him.

  The figure crawled into a cluster of trees.

  Henry’s eyes kept with him.

  Maybe the guy was innocent. He could just be a perv or maybe a white supremacist out on manoeuvres . . . one and the same, Henry thought.

  However, innocent, guilty or just plain perverted, Henry knew the guy had to be collared and spoken to.

  Henry watched as the man lay out on his stomach, twisted round and settled in the trees.

  Henry was puzzled. He glanced towards the Wickson house. Three people, including Jane Roscoe, were still at the front of the house. He looked back at the prostrate figure and an ice-cold sensation shot through Henry’s lower abdomen. There was something familiar about the position the man had adopted.

  Henry began to move.

  Fast.

  After setting fire to the stables, Verner had retreated to his position on the hillside to watch the fun and games. They were gratifyingly splendid. The stable block lit up the night sky, flames rising high with the occasional crack as something inside exploded sending showers of sparks up into the atmosphere.

  All extremely satisfying.

  Watching the lights come on in the house. People dashing about like headless chickens. Panic setting in. The more fortunate horses being rescued from loose boxes and being turned out into an adjoining field. Then, almost twenty-five minutes later, the arrival of the fire brigade and the cops, by which time the tack room and some stables had been destroyed.

  Verner did not move from his position for hours whilst he watched all the activity, using his night sights and then, as the night ebbed, his binoculars.

  Other cops arrived. An ambulance turned up.

  All this from just a little match and a splash of petrol.

  He found himself giggling quite a lot.

  Then the helicopter belonging to John Lloyd Wickson landed on the pad.

  Now Verner was going to have more fun than ever. He came out of his hiding place and crawled along to another position where he had set up the rifle. He squirmed into the prostrate firing position and sighted down the barrel of the gun, picking out the figure of Wickson, who was standing at the front of his house, together with two other people. Wickson started to strut towards the stables.

  He was an easy target.

  Henry pushed himself over the brow of the hill, whilst at the same time using his mobile phone and trying to tab to Jane Roscoe’s number which he still had stored in his phone. He hoped her number had not changed and even as he rose, a flash of thought went through his mind: Why did I keep her number?

  He found it, pressed the call button and stumbled down the hill to where the man was lying in what Henry had recognized as the prone firing position.

  He held the phone to his ear. He was about a hundred metres from the man as the phone rang out.

  Jane Roscoe was not the sort of person to make snap judgements about people, but in the case of John Lloyd Wickson, she made an exception.

  He was a dislikeable, arrogant shit-head, even if he was rich.

  He immediately started by throwing his weight around, taking little notice of what she had to say and genuinely seemed surprised that, in this day and age, a woman could be a detective inspector.

  She became increasingly angry with him as he flounced around his home, barking orders at people, shouting at his wife and snarling at his daughter. He had no hint of compassion about him, seemed purely self-centred.

  Jane was very close to grabbing him and slapping his vermin-like features.

  Eventually he relented somewhat and after a flurry of tirades at his family, he turned to Jane and said, ‘I’m going down to look at the stables now – talk to me on the way.’

  Then he was gone, hurrying through the house accompanied by the man who had arrived with him in the helicopter. Jane learned this was Wickson’s head of security, a man she vaguely and uncomfortably recognized, but could not quite place. He was called Jake Coulton.

  The three of them left the house and Wickson paused for a few moments at the front door to speak in hushed tones to Coulton, then set off for the stables. Jane scurried behind, trying to keep to the pace. As they got on to the track to the stables, her phone went.

  ‘It’s me, Henry,’ came the breathless voice.

  Instinctively Jane looked across to the distant hillside where she saw a tiny figure running down the hill.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked impatiently.

  ‘Guy . . . up here . . . with a gun . . .’ Henry panted.

  And with that, the ping of the first bullet zipped by and dust flew up on the track just feet ahead of Wickson, followed a millisecond later by the crack of the shot.

  ‘Get the fuck down!’ Jane screamed. She dived for Wickson who had stopped in his tracks, incomprehension on his face. His security man had walked on, unaware that anything ha
d happened. Jane rugby-tackled Wickson, smashed him to the ground and rolled him to the edge of the track, into the deep, wet ditch parallel to it. ‘Somebody’s shooting at you.’

  The message got through to the security guy as another bullet lifted the track surface by his feet.

  Henry had no way of being sure that his message had got through to Jane. As his run down the slope gathered momentum, his heels jarring, he yelled into his phone hoping that Roscoe understood what he was trying to say.

  Whilst speaking, he heard the first shot crack in the morning air, like Indiana Jones’s whip hitting its target.

  Even pounding down the hill, getting faster and faster, Henry knew he should have veered away and gone to ground, to protect himself.

  But his desire to protect life, ingrained deeply over the course of his career, made him – stupidly, some might say – carry on. The mobile phone dropped out of his hand and disappeared in the wet grass.

  Verner heard Henry’s thundering approach.

  He fired another shot across the bows of John Lloyd Wickson, the noise whipping the air again, then twisted round to face Henry, trying to point the rifle at him. It snagged in the low branches of the tree and before he could bring the barrel round and aim and fire, Henry leapt wildly at him.

  But Verner was quick.

  He recovered and was able to use the rifle as a baton. He caught Henry a hard, well-aimed blow to the side of the head just before Henry could actually grab him. The impact twisted Henry’s neck and sent him rolling across the grass.

  Henry’s mind was jarred for one black moment, but as he hit the grass, clarity returned and he rolled up into a kneeling position, facing Verner who was still trying to pull the gun round and get it pointed at him. Henry pounced again, like an athlete leaving starting blocks.

  He palmed the barrel of the gun away and went for the man holding it.

  Henry would be the first to admit that he wasn’t really a fighter. Although he had been through many scrapes in his time, often coming off poorly, he did not have the technique of a trained attacker. He had been taught many defensive tactics, but few which went the other way and he knew that his best strengths lay in his ability to overpower, rather than beat into submission.

  When faced with someone who really knew what he was doing, Henry knew there would be a good chance of coming off second best.

  Although Henry clearly had the advantage of position and the fact that the man on the ground had relinquished the rifle, Henry did not see the blow coming. It was just a blur as the man’s left fist connected. Suddenly Henry’s jaw jarred, his head jerked upwards and then it was him on the floor, the man having now recovered his position.

  A glint of steel. In Verner’s right hand there was now a knife. It sliced through the air towards Henry’s abdomen. His eyes shot open and he reacted by twisting to one side, but not quite far enough and quick enough. He felt the blade slice through his clothing and along the edge of his ribs. His skin split with an exquisite sort of pain. He gasped, continued twisting away, and the knife rose again, this time plunging back down towards his chest.

  Henry’s hands grasped Verner’s wrist, just preventing the point of the blade from piercing his ribs, halting it less than an inch above his chest.

  Henry and Verner stared into each other’s eyes.

  Verner laughed.

  It was the moment Henry needed. Just that one moment which was a lack of concentration on Verner’s part.

  He kicked out, connecting with Verner’s left hip.

  This time Verner went sprawling and the knife flipped out of his grasp, spinning away and embedding itself in the soft ground.

  Henry was up, going for him.

  But Verner had also recovered, was up on his feet, powering towards Henry. They met like a couple of trucks in a head-on collision, then grappled with each other like wrestlers. They teetered over and rolled down the slope, hitting, kicking and trying to head-butt each other, both frenzied, fighting their own separate agendas.

  They fought with the ferocity of bears.

  When they stopped rolling, Henry found himself trapped underneath Verner. Verner’s right hand was around his windpipe, squeezing hard and forcing Henry’s head back, his knees pinning Henry’s arms to the ground.

  Henry gurgled, fought, writhed and desperately tried to break free.

  Jane Roscoe raised her head to where she had last seen Henry Christie on the hillside. Now she could not see anyone.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ she warned Wickson. He complied, crouching deep in the drainage channel, his face now like a frightened mouse. It was an expression that warmed the cockles of Jane’s heart, even though she, too, was terrified. It showed Wickson for what he was. She spoke into her mobile. ‘Henry, Henry, what’s going on?’

  The connection was still open, but she could hear nothing.

  She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out her personal radio. Her message to control room was quick and succinct.

  Henry could feel that the back of his head was in water, a puddle or something, and that the man on him was trying to strangle him and push his head under the water. Centimetre by centimetre, Henry knew he was going under. The water was touching his ears now.

  He managed to release one arm from under Verner’s knee.

  Without hesitation, Henry clouted him across the head, his hand bunched into a fist with his thumb forming a hard pointed ‘v’ which he drove into Verner’s temple.

  The blow knocked him sideways.

  Both men rose to their feet and faced each other, circling now. Suddenly Verner was holding a spray canister of something in his hand.

  Henry did not want to get a face full of whatever was in it. Could have been anything from CS to acid.

  He stepped back and held up his hands. But it did not make any difference to Verner, who sprayed it at Henry.

  Verner turned and ran.

  ‘Henry?’ Jane heard Henry’s voice calling through the mobile.

  ‘Yeah,’ he croaked. ‘I let him get away . . . Ahh, Jesus.’

  ‘What is it? You sound awful.’

  ‘I am.’ He coughed and spluttered. ‘He just CSed me.’ He coughed and made a choking noise. ‘Christ! And my windpipe’s crushed, and I’ve been fucking stabbed . . . I’m tired, wet, beaten up . . . but other than that –’ he coughed again –‘feelin’ fine.’

  ‘Stop whining . . . where is he now?’

  ‘He can’t be too far way . . . obviously I can’t see a bloody thing either at the moment. My eyes are streaming. How about turning the helicopter out for a start, then get a dog and some ARVs up and around here.’

  ‘Already on their way,’ she said crisply.

  ‘The guy’s dangerous,’ Henry warned.

  ‘I gathered that.’

  ‘Everyone down there OK?’

  ‘Well, nice of you to ask . . . yes . . . shaken and stirred.’ Jane looked at Wickson and his security man, deep in conversation with each other again. Wickson was as pale as white paint, but the security guy, Coulton, looked cool and composed. ‘Do you need an ambulance?’ she asked Henry.

  He was sitting on a rock, holding his face into the breeze, desperately trying to keep his eyes wide open to get the CS blown out. His nose was running uncontrollably and his eyes burned like fire. He managed to look down at the cut on his side by pulling up his shirt. It was not as bad as he had thought, though the sight of it made him feel a bit woozy. It was just a slash across the skin. ‘I could do with looking at, I think, but I’m not ambulance material . . . at least I don’t think so,’ he said vaguely. Then: ‘I’m gonna make it back to my car, somehow. I’ll be all right. It might be an idea to get a few checkpoints set up. This guy’ll have transport of some sort. There was a car parked off the road not far away from mine, could be his.’

  ‘I’ve arranged some checkpoints to be manned.’

  ‘In that case, you’re well ahead of me.’

  He pressed the end-call button on his mobile and stood u
p shakily. The exertion of the encounter had left him feeling weak kneed. He was in need of food and drink, as well as TLC. He did not feel he had the energy to make it back to his car, but there was no way he could have got the helicopter to air lift him out of there.

  His mobile rang again. It was Roscoe. ‘Henry . . . description of the guy, please.’

  The cut on his side opened wider as he made his way back across the fields to his car and was starting to really hurt. By the time he reached his car, it was bleeding quite badly, causing him to reappraise the severity of the wound. He was glad to see his car and the thought of sitting in the driver’s seat and resting was very nice.

  He fished out his car keys and pointed the remote lock at the Mondeo. As he opened the door, Verner stepped out from behind the car.

  Henry swore and thought, Shit really does happen, doesn’t it?

  There was a pistol in his hand, pointed at Henry’s guts.

  ‘Keys please.’ Verner extended his left hand, wiggling his fingers, indicating they should be given to him.

  Henry shook his head and uttered a snort, furious for not thinking of this possibility. He held the keys out on the palm of his right hand.

  ‘Throw them to me,’ Verner instructed. ‘Nothing stupid, or you’re dead on the spot.’

  Henry heaved them gently underhand. They handed with a clatter at Verner’s feet.

  ‘Good guy,’ Verner nodded appreciatively. Henry saw that he was not even breathing heavily, as opposed to himself. He was still close to needing a ventilator and though he thought himself pretty fit these days, he realized that gently jogging a few miles every day did not prepare you for a cross-country hike, a life-or-death struggle with a deranged gunman and arsonist, and another hike back with a slashed side and CS in your face. Verner bent down and picked up the keys with his free hand, never once allowing the gun to waver away from Henry’s body mass, nor his eyes to leave Henry. ‘Now I want you to turn round and close your eyes.’

  Henry had been intrigued about what the next step would be. Presumably the man did not intend to kill him. He could have done that already. Henry guessed that what was going to happen was that he was now going to be whacked from behind with the pistol butt. If aimed correctly and with the required force, he would be driven into unconsciousness and hopefully the blow would not kill him or, worse, cause irreparable brain damage.