by Nick Oldham
Now, as he twisted away into the traffic, he bitterly regretted not shooting the man on the ground. He hadn’t seemed a potential threat, just some half-dead loser. How was he to know the bastard was a cop?
Hinksman rolled spectacularly across the bonnet of a car like a stuntman, much to the surprise of its occupants, and started to put some distance between himself and the cop.
He glanced round. Yes, he was coming.
Hinksman upped his pace, running north along the promenade, between the cars and coaches, zig-zagging, keeping low, constantly checking over his shoulder.
Stubbornly the cop remained there.
To Hinksman’s left were tram-tracks which were laid adjacent and parallel to the road, used by the quaint trams which ran from Blackpool to Fleetwood in the north; on the other side of them was the wide pavement area for pedestrians only, then the railings of the sea wall, then the sea itself. Two hundred metres ahead was the North Pier, jutting out into the night. To his right was the Tower.
Hinksman’s mind raced. He quickly calculated how many bullets he had left in the magazine. He’d fired seven in the alley and one at the cop - the one which had hit the woman. That left him with four. The cop had fired one of his own; Hinksman had registered the fact that the cop’s gun was a six-shot revolver of some sort, so he was one up. If the cop was any good, one bullet could be a major advantage if it came to a confrontation. And Hinksman didn’t like anyone having any advantage over him.
He released the magazine and stuffed it into his waistband, replacing it with one from his back jeans pocket.
Twelve to five. Good odds.
He swivelled from the hip and fired two in the general direction of the cop, knowing he’d miss but be close enough to scare him.
Then he was running again.
At the junction of Talbot Square, the Illuminations traffic had ground to a complete halt at the traffic lights. Hinksman looked behind. The cop was still there, but some distance away, more wary in his pursuit since the warning shots.
Hinksman had reached the point where he had to decide whether or not to carry on northwards or turn inland into town. The latter was a manoeuvre he wasn’t completely happy about as it would give the cop a better target.
Then he had the answer.
In the stationary, nose-to-tail traffic sat a blonde woman in a red, open-top BMW, hood down, gazing at the Illuminations, unaware of Hinksman’s approach.
He came alongside her, stopped by the driver’s door, opened it, and before she could even scream, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her out onto the road where she landed on her backside in a bewildered heap.
‘Thanks darlin’,’ he said and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, taking possession of the car. He was pleased to find it was an automatic gearbox. Selecting Reverse he put his foot down and rammed into the car behind, a Metro driven by an elderly man.
Hinksman laughed, gave him a wave with the hand holding the gun, and pushed the stick into Drive.
Now, with room to pull out of the line, he virtually stood on the accelerator pedal and yanked the steering wheel to the left.
His plan was to drive across the tram-tracks, onto the pedestrianised area and head up north where he would abandon the car and go to ground.
A perfect plan. Except for one major flaw.
The car accelerated very quickly - it had a fuel-injected 2.5-litre engine. Unfortunately, within moments Hinksman was travelling so fast that there was no earthly chance of avoiding a collision with a south-bound tram which seemed to appear from nowhere, bearing down on him at the stately speed of 10 mph.
He saw it, but could do nothing about it. It was just there. Ten tons of trundling tram. Unmissable.
The front of the car hit the front of the tram head on, and there could only be one winner. The bonnet crumpled with the impact and the tram ploughed the car a further 50 metres down the tracks before the whole mangled mess ground to a screeching, spark-flying halt.
Although Hinksman braced himself against the steering wheel, he couldn’t stop himself head-butting the windscreen. He sat there in the wreckage, dazed for a moment, amazingly still clutching his gun.
Then instinct took over.
He extricated himself from between the seat and the dashboard, feeling severe pain in his left leg. He slid over the side of the car and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He picked himself up and ran - ran like a drunk, staggering from side to side, feet hardly able to keep him upright. Not knowing where he was going, just aware that he needed to get away, despite the pain.
Henry Christie was right behind him, less than 10 metres away. He could see that the man was injured. It was only a matter of time and patience now. There was no speed in him any more. Henry slowed down himself, keeping a safe distance, glad of the opportunity to get his own breath back.
Hinksman weaved on across towards the sea wall. Just before the railings he stumbled, tripped and slumped onto his knees. He remained there for about thirty seconds, wavering. The gun slid out of his grasp and clattered beside him. Eventually he turned himself round and sat down, head in hands.
Henry circled him, gun at the ready, unsure of his next move.
When Hinksman looked up, his mind was clear again, the pain in his leg dreadful.
The cop was standing in front of him, gun pointed at his head. Hinksman chuckled.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Henry said. His gun quivered nervously. It was the first time he’d ever pointed it at anyone. ‘Put your hands on your head - now.’
Hinksman shook his head. ‘You turn around and walk away,’ he told Henry. ‘And you get two million dollars. That’s a promise.’
‘Hands on your head,’ Henry said.
‘Okay, three million. Just think. Three million dollars. What could you do with that, cop?’
‘I said you’re under arrest. Now do what I say, or I’ll shoot you.’
‘Fuck,’ winced Hinksman as a pain shot up through his leg like a million volts. ‘This is your last chance - three and a half million. And remember, I just saved your life too.’
‘Perhaps you should’ve killed me when you had the chance.’
‘Maybe I’ll just have to kill you now.’
He looked for his gun, saw it within reach of his hand.
‘If you move, I’ll shoot you,’ Henry warned him again. His breathing had become shallow, body tensed up.
‘No, you won’t. You’re a fuckin’ terrified limey cop with no guts. You don’t shoot people. I’m gonna pick this up and blow your fuckin’ head off. Just watch.’
‘Don’t make me do it,’ Henry said quickly, doubting whether he could. ‘I can do it ... I will do it. Now put your hands on your head!’
‘Fuck you,’ spat Hinksman. He reached out for the gun.
And Henry shot him.
Chapter Twelve
Donaldson drew up outside Karen’s house, which was in darkness. He switched off the engine, killed the lights and sat there for a while wondering what his reception would be like if he managed to pluck up enough courage to actually go to the door and knock on it.
He had almost made the decision to drive away when he thought, What the hell. He had nothing to lose. It had taken him long enough and a bucket full of sickly charm to get the switchboard operator at headquarters to give him the address, so there was no way he was going to let that go to waste.
Added to that, he desperately needed someone to talk to. He was very much alone in a strange land and the only friend he had, had died in his arms earlier that day.
Plus he thought he was falling in love. And that was a very odd, unsettling feeling - one he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It surprised him because when he’d first met Karen Wilde not very long ago, he’d detested her.
Something fundamental had changed over the course of the day. He’d seen a side of her after the Blackpool shootings that he was certain no one else had. It had touched him deeply. Now he couldn’t get her off his m
ind no matter how he tried.
He wanted to find out how she felt about him. If there was something there, even the vaguest hint or possibility, he’d decided he would stick by her through this traumatic period and try and make things work out - professionally and personally - despite his living in Florida and she in Lancashire.
Light-headedly, he’d thought, Love will find a way - a thought that confused and disturbed him, but made him giggle at its silliness at the same time.
He checked his watch. 10.45 p.m. Too late? Naah!
He got out of the car.
It’s a nice house, he thought as he strolled up to the front door. I could spend time here. He raised his knuckles, then saw that the door was actually slightly ajar.
He pushed it slowly. It swung open to reveal a darkened hallway. Donaldson tensed up, feeling his skin crawl. Something was wrong.
‘Karen?’ he called out from the threshold. ‘Karen, it’s me, Karl Donaldson. ‘
There was no answer, just a creeping silence.
Puzzled, slightly worried, he stepped inside and called out again.
No response.
Then he heard a sound from upstairs. A creak, a movement of sorts; a murmur.
Instinctively his right hand slid under his jacket for his gun, which, of course, wasn’t there. He cursed under his breath and went silently up, one stair at a time, pausing on each. On the landing he stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, getting his bearings. He listened hard.
Four doors, all closed, led off the landing. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, he assumed.
Cocking his head to one side, he attempted to pinpoint the source of the noise, which was a cross between a muffled sobbing and retching.
Where was it coming from? Not from behind the first door, nor the second. He crept along to the third. A little sign made of ceramic screwed to the door said Bathroom.
Donaldson hesitated. He had visions of a killer dog, all fangs and saliva, lying in wait for him, hungry for an intruder.
He knocked.
The sound continued.
He turned the handle and eased the door slightly open, prepared to slam it shut if necessary. Inside was complete darkness. He fumbled, found the light switch and pulled the cord. Bright lights from the six spots set in the ceiling lit the room; an extractor fan whirred into life.
Inside was a large corner bath with shower, a bidet, toilet and washbasin.
And the source of the noise.
Karen was curled up into a ball on her knees, her back, bottom and soles of her feet towards the door, squeezed down into the floorspace between toilet and bidet, her face pressed into the carpet. She rocked slowly back and forth like a baby. Her sobs were muffled, but they shook her body with violence each time one erupted. She was completely naked.
‘Karen?’ Donaldson said. ‘It’s me, Karl Donaldson. What’s up?’
‘Go away,’ she sobbed into the floor. ‘Go away, Karl. Leave me alone.’
Donaldson swooped down to her level on one knee. He touched her back with trepidation; she shrank away. ‘Karen, what the hell’s the matter?’ He was painfully aware of her nakedness. ‘Come on,’ he cooed. ‘It’s me, Karl. Look at me. Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening. ‘
She rose slowly to her haunches, her hands covering her face. She continued to cry; Donaldson continued to make reassuring noises. Slowly he prised her fingers from her face. His mouth fell open in shock at what he saw.
‘Christ, Karen, what’s gone on? Come on, tell me.’
She almost choked as she said, ‘I’ve been raped.’
‘I want a round-the-clock armed guard on this fella until we get him to a police station. In fact, deploy one of the firearms teams to do it; get them to work a rota out between themselves, get them to live here if necessary. Fuck the expense. I’ll authorise it.’
This was said by Fanshaw-Bayley while striding down a corridor at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. It was directed at the Duty Inspector from Blackpool Central police station who had already posted two armed men at the bedside.
‘And I want them here as of now!’
‘Yes, sir!’ said the harassed Inspector, who began gabbling instructions down his personal radio.
‘Now where the hell is he?’ FB interrupted.
‘Who, sir?’
‘The killer, you idiot.’
‘Just down to the end of this corridor, turn left, last door on the left. . .’
FB increased his pace and left the Inspector standing. He completed his sentence to FB’s back. ‘The one with the two bobbies outside. . .’ His voice trailed off and he scowled at FB.
As FB reached the door, a doctor emerged from the room. FB introduced himself.
‘How is he?’ he then asked.
‘He’ll be OK. He’s got a hairline fracture of the skull - not as serious as it sounds - a broken left tibia, and a certain amount of bone damage to his left foot where your man shot him, but he’ll walk again. Eventually. He’ll need surgery on it tonight.’
‘Thanks, Doctor. By the way, you do know who the man is, don’t you? What he’s responsible for?’
‘I have been informed, yes.’
‘So you know he’s under arrest and in our custody. There will be policemen with him every second of every minute of every day. He’s highly dangerous, not to be trusted and never to be left alone.’
‘This man is ill,’ protested the doctor.
‘Oh, he can have his treatment - but he’ll have cops with him every inch of the way, even if it means cops with surgical gowns on. They’ll be there to prevent his escape and to protect members of staff. The man is a killer, a ruthless, bloody killer and cannot be trusted. I can’t stress it enough. If I could, I’d handcuff him to the bed.’
‘That’s going a bit far.’
‘If it’s necessary, I’ll do it,’ said FB, his words hanging in the air. The doctor’s gaze locked onto his; FB’s won hands down. ‘Message received and understood.’
‘Thanks, Doc. Knew you’d understand.’
FB went into the room where Hinksman lay in bed.
His head was bandaged; a drip fed into his arm. A cage held the bedclothes off his feet. His eyes were closed and sunken. They didn’t open when FB came in.
FB regarded him for a moment. Then he turned to the two uniformed Constables who were in the room. Each had a gun holstered at his side.
‘Has he said anything yet?’
They shook their heads.
‘He says anything, you remember to note it down, OK? And watch yourselves. This man is a cunt. If he does anything you don’t like, shoot him again - this time through the head, not the damned foot. Got that? You have my express permission.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.
FB took one last look at Hinksman, nodded curtly at the officers and left the room.
Out in the corridor, the two PCs who were guarding the door from the outside were surprised to see a Detective Chief Superintendent punch the air with a fist of victory and jig down the corridor.
Henry walked back from the X-ray Department and handed his X-rays to a nurse at the Casualty Department. He sat down wearily on a chair in the waiting area and closed his eyes. He was completely wiped out.
A few minutes later the casualty doctor called his name and beckoned him into a cubicle where he hoisted himself onto the edge of the examination couch.
His X-rays were pinned to a lighted panel on the wall.
There were shots of his head and chest.
‘Not too much damage,’ said the doctor. ‘Broken nose which will heal in its own good time. There shouldn’t be a problem with it. There won’t be any breathing difficulties and it won’t be deformed.’
‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘I’m ugly enough.’
‘Two cracked ribs. . . and they’ll heal themselves too. A couple of weeks and you’ll be as right as rain. I’ll get a nurse to re-stitch that head wound and you’ll need a couple of stitches in that bottom lip. You
’ll have two cracking black eyes and plenty of facial and abdominal bruising and swelling, but time and rest will see it right. Take aspirin or Paracetamol for the discomfort. You’ll be a hundred per cent again - in due course. Now, I’ll get a nurse to do the business.’
‘Cheers,’ said Henry, at which point his nose began to bleed again, gushing forth in a torrent down his chest. He tipped his head back as instructed. The bleeding stopped quickly.
‘It may have a tendency to do that for a day or two,’ warned the doctor.
‘So how’s the girl?’ Henry asked the doctor, referring to Ralphie’s ladyfriend who was in one of the other cubicles with a policewoman for company.
‘Fine, fine ... stitches and a sore head. Mentally very much on the edge, I’d say. She’s witnessed some very heavy stuff.’
‘Know how she feels,’ said Henry bleakly.
‘OK now? Bleeding stopped? Good. I’ll send that nurse along.’ The doctor slipped out between the curtains to be replaced a moment later by FE.
Henry peered up at him. He knew FB well and had worked in local CID under him some years before.
‘Detective-Sergeant Christie,’ said FB.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘You look like shite, Henry,’ FB said truthfully.
‘Feel like shite.’
A nurse came in and commenced to repair Henry’s face.
FB said, ‘Once she’s finished, come and see me in the cafe and let’s have a chat. I want to know everything that went on tonight.’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘That was brilliant shooting, y’know. In the foot! Absolutely a-mazing.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ said Henry. He didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d meant to shoot the bastard in the chest but his gun hand had been shaking so much that he couldn’t aim properly. Still, Henry thought philosophically, might as well perpetuate the myth that I’m a dead shot, capable of winging suspects at will.
‘Proper little hero, aren’t you?’ said the nurse sardonically. Then she dabbed something nasty on his cuts that made him scream.