Ambush

by Nick Oldham

  Hoyle threw himself sideways over the passenger seat.

  Had the Toyota actually driven over him like a tank it might have killed him, but the driver had only one mission with two aims, to put the ARV and Hoyle’s car out of commission.

  No sooner had this been achieved, with the ARV on its side, its wheels still spinning uselessly, and the radiator of Hoyle’s car a crumpled, hissing mess, the Toyota disentangled itself with a tearing of metal and sped off behind the police van which was now accelerating away from the scene.

  Inside the locked cage, Tasker raised his arms, held out his hands towards the officer opposite.

  ‘Release me. If you make this difficult, you will die.’

  Stripped down to his boxers, bound and gagged, the unconscious police constable who was to have driven the section van was discovered, shivering, wet and cold, an hour later. The story was that he had been flagged down by two men in an apparently broken-down Toyota pick-up while en route to the hospital to pick up the prisoner. He’d been bashed on the head, dragged out of his seat … and after that he did not recall anything until he regained consciousness under some bushes in the hospital grounds.

  The police van was found later, abandoned in an industrial area close to the motorway, and subsequently the Toyota was found in a ditch in a field near Kirkham.

  The two cops in the van were unhurt, but they were handcuffed together and minus their radios, torches, batons and personal mobile phones.

  And Brian Tasker had managed to escape from custody.

  As Flynn drifted off to sleep alongside Santiago, he visualized himself standing in the field looking at the burned-out Toyota. Just a fire-ravaged shell, even the tyres having melted. It had been stolen earlier from the resort.

  He was with a dithering Jack Hoyle, uninjured but still in shock from the break-out several hours earlier.

  ‘They were good,’ Flynn had said to Hoyle. ‘No messing about. No fear. No qualms about impersonating a cop, either … this helped, though.’ It was still raining hard and Flynn looked up into the sky, held his hands palms up.

  Just released from hospital with a handful of painkilling drugs in his system now, he felt his anger rise, and with it a determination, no matter what the cost, to bring Brian Tasker to justice.

  TWELVE

  His head pulsing with pain, broken cheekbone throbbing and his eye swollen and pulpy, Steve Flynn stood at the front of one of the conference rooms at headquarters, fighting nausea and exhaustion in equal measures as he surveyed the array of sour-faced individuals at tables arranged in a U shape; Flynn stood alone, feeling vulnerable, at the open end of that letter.

  He had just given his version of the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  His audience consisted of Lancashire Constabulary’s chief constable, the assistant chief constable in charge of operations and the detective chief superintendent in charge of crime for Lancashire, as well as high-ranking representatives from the National Crime Squad, the Metropolitan Police, West Midlands Police and various other dignitaries, most of whom he did not know.

  However, they all seemed to have one thing in common: they looked as though they wanted to tear Flynn limb from limb.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ the chief constable said. His name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known as FB to his friends and enemies alike. ‘You began a surveillance operation based on the say-so of a known drug user, not knowing who you were following and what the implications of that might be—’

  Flynn opened his mouth to respond, but FB held up a finger to stop him.

  ‘Do not interrupt me,’ the chief said. Flynn’s mouth clamped shut. ‘I get it,’ he conceded. ‘Things, events, run quickly and you have to react … I was a detective for many, many years, so fine. I understand. You run things on a wing and a prayer sometimes. It’s not rocket science.’

  Flynn swallowed.

  ‘So you find the vehicle you’re interested in, in north London, and follow it up the M1, M6?’ Flynn was prevented from replying by FB’s stubby first finger, still hovering upright. ‘Not actually knowing who was in it?’

  Flynn nodded. ‘Correct.’ He swallowed again – drily. Few men could intimidate him, purposely or otherwise, but FB terrified him. He oozed authority and did not suffer a fool gladly.

  ‘They stop for a brew at Corley Services and you and your partner’ – here FB flicked a dismissive finger at Hoyle, sitting to one side of Flynn, his head bowed – ‘kept eyeball on them and then you and one of the other surveillance cars set off just ahead of the target in order to get into position, leaving the third car on the services to drop in behind said target.’ Flynn nodded again. FB went on. ‘Unfortunately it looks as though this particular car had been spotted by the target and identified as either a police car or, shall I say, a car that was a threat and the target has somehow sneaked up on the two officers in that car and murdered them in cold blood.’

  FB stopped there. His words hung like a noose.

  Then he ploughed on. ‘You kept following the target but sent your other team member back to check on the whereabouts of the other two officers, after you lost all contact with them. They were found dead.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Flynn mumbled.

  ‘And then you lost the target vehicle.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Absolutely fucking incredible.’ FB’s lips pursed tightly.

  ‘The weather was … and the motorway was …’ Weakly, Flynn tried to explain the loss.

  FB waved him to shut it. ‘So you then revisited your informant and forced more out of her than she had previously divulged – something she should have done, anyway. From this, along with some intel from our database, you found the target vehicle and a further bloodbath.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Brian Tasker, who had apparently just murdered up to four people and cut the tongue out of one of them. A fight ensued. Tasker fired a gun at you and missed, but you put him down. Unfortunately he ended up in hospital and, with the help of his associates, managed to escape from custody. Incredibly, he did not seriously injure any more officers, though more by luck than judgement.’

  ‘Sir,’ Flynn confirmed.

  FB sat back, his eyes half-closed, looking down his nose at Flynn and Hoyle.

  ‘Two National Crime Squad officers murdered. Two of our local criminals murdered. An escape from custody. A very dangerous madman on the loose. This is a fucking serious omelette in our face,’ FB said. ‘But you know what? I don’t really care about that. As operational officers you are required to make speedy decisions on the hoof, it’s part of what we do. We can’t always invoke health and safety regulations and they certainly don’t apply to the bad guys. However, I want it on record that the deaths of the two crime squad officers could not reasonably have been foreseen, but the fact remains that a tragedy has occurred, as in the case of the deaths of the two known criminals, Don Braceford and Will Carney.’ He paused and his nostrils dilated. ‘I myself shall shoulder the public side of this in terms of the press, media and publicity, and also the private issues of dealing with the grieving relatives of the families concerned. Do not misunderstand this.’ He looked pointedly at Flynn. ‘There have been many mistakes here and they will be thoroughly investigated.’ Flynn heeded the warning. ‘However, I feel, unless I can be convinced otherwise, that what has happened is one of the risks we run as police officers, and what criminals can expect if things go wrong for them. Any PC could walk out of the police station and meet his or her death.’ He paused again. ‘What now remains is for us to bring in Brian Tasker and put him away for the remainder of his natural life. We do not know for certain whether he pulled the trigger on those two officers, but he is the prime suspect since he appears to have murdered the other man he was with. So to that end I am now officially forming a squad to hunt down and arrest this man. It will be a multi-force operation and I will remain its nominal head.’ FB glanced at a detective superintendent from the NCS. ‘Mr Rothwell here wi
ll be the operational head and I am going to bring in DI Craig Alford from my Serious and Organized Crime Unit to be the tactical head. I fully expect a hundred per cent commitment from all officers concerned and I will authorize any necessary overtime and resources. The operation will last as long as necessary but I expect a result as soon as possible. All officers must clear their diaries of other commitments until it is over because there will be long days and nights ahead until this man is apprehended. Anyone not wishing to be part of this may step down now. That is all … other than to say the operation will be called “Ambush”.’

  FB scooped up his papers and stood up. As he went to the door of the conference room he passed close to Flynn and Hoyle. To them, he said, ‘With me.’

  In the corridor FB looked at the weary duo.

  ‘Quick resolution,’ he said to them. ‘Bring that man in. Do not make a hash of it.’ To Flynn he said, ‘Your cards are marked.’

  Then he was gone.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Flynn said, realizing he had been given a second chance. ‘We need to get working fast,’ he said to Hoyle. ‘Get back down to the Smoke, get into people’s ribs, find him and fuck him …’

  His voice tailed off because of the look on Hoyle’s face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘No,’ Hoyle said.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘Just not for me,’ Hoyle said tightly.

  ‘What’s not for you?’ Flynn demanded, perplexed.

  ‘Going after this guy. This could go on for ever. Weeks, months. I got a home life, y’know?’

  ‘So do I, but sometimes—’

  ‘Sometimes what?’ Hoyle interrupted sharply.

  ‘Sometimes things got to be done,’ Flynn answered simply. ‘Your wife will understand. This guy needs nailing to the wall and we’re the ones to do it. He’s a bad fucker. We go after bad fuckers.’

  ‘Nah, nah,’ Hoyle shook his head. ‘He’s a London guy and we’ll be down there all the time by necessity. We won’t be able to go to work every morning and come home for our teas every night.’

  ‘Jack,’ Flynn pleaded, ‘we don’t do that now.’

  ‘Exactly – and you know what? I shat myself when that car rammed me. I shat myself when we saw Tasker with a tongue in his hand standing over Don Braceford’s body. These are dangerous guys, Steve. I mean, really dangerous. They kill cops—’

  Flynn opened his mouth to protest, but Hoyle held up a finger to stop him, the second time Flynn had been silenced by a digit in a short space of time. ‘Don’t tell me that’s why they need catching. I know it is … I just don’t want to do this job this time.’

  Flynn could tell from his friend’s face his resolve was unshakeable.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is, but don’t let me stop you, Steve.’

  Flynn backed off, a bit confused. He could see Hoyle’s point of view. He had a wife and two kids; Flynn had a wife and young son; neither saw enough of their families as it was. They worked long and hard and with dedication. Spending more weeks away would not be good for either family and although Flynn wasn’t happy about the prospect of leaving his home for a long period of time, and especially about not seeing his son, he also thought it might be a good thing for his marriage. Maybe give his wife a bit of a breathing space to cope with the phase she seemed to be going through with him. A period of work-enforced separation might be helpful.

  However, there was no guarantee how long it would take to hunt down Tasker.

  This time tomorrow he could be in custody. Flynn argued this point with Hoyle.

  ‘And this time next year we might still be chasing him,’ Hoyle argued back.

  Flynn shrugged, defeated.

  Santiago gently rubbed Flynn’s belly with her warm bottom. He thought she had fallen asleep while he retold these events, but her movement told him otherwise.

  ‘So that was the start of Operation Ambush.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And how did it end?’

  ‘Badly.’

  In essence Flynn spent the next four months in and around London and in Spain, chasing the shadow that was Brian Tasker. He seemed to revel in being a man on the run.

  The Ambush team, led by Craig Alford and with the assistance of Jerry Tope (brought in to run the intelligence cell), together with DS Dave Carver and DCs Jimmy Blue and Lincoln Bartlett, all from Lancashire, formed the core of the squad.

  Flynn put in time and effort, but Tasker always seemed to be one step ahead and his business was flourishing according to the contacts and sources the police plundered remorselessly for information.

  Flynn was patient. He knew one day Tasker would make a mistake and he hoped that he, Flynn, would be there to step in and snatch the bastard.

  At the end of a four-day stretch of surveillance and the following of four known associates around London, Flynn returned home on the Friday of the sixteenth week of the manhunt, drained and lacking enthusiasm. At headquarters he checked into the incident room from which Ambush was being coordinated (other satellite offices were in London and Birmingham) before going home for the weekend. It was ten days since he had been in the north.

  He was eager to get home and hug his son, maybe take him to Blackpool Zoo over the weekend, and with any luck relations between him and Faye might begin to thaw, although he did not hold out much hope on that score.

  The incident room was deserted bar one lone figure. Jerry Tope sat hunched at a computer terminal, head down, concentrating. He did not initially notice Flynn behind him and jumped out of his skin when Flynn cleared his throat.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Tope said humourlessly. He looked drawn, tired and at the end of his tether.

  Flynn leaned over his shoulder. ‘What’re you doing?’

  Tope blew out his cheeks. ‘Following the money, but getting nowhere.’

  Flynn knew that Tope had been able to access some bank accounts belonging to Tasker, but they had ceased to have any transactions on them soon after the manhunt began. They had been virtually emptied of all funds and the inference was that Tasker had opened new accounts in false names and/or was using accounts belonging to others, as well as using cash to buy stuff instead of debit or credit cards.

  A list of transactions filled the monitor.

  Tope pulled a face. ‘What are we missing, Steve? Even here, surely, there must be something we can pin him down with.’ He wafted his fingers at the screen, infuriated. ‘Pissed off, so pissed off.’ He slumped back in his chair.

  ‘Yeah.’ Flynn looked at the numbers and stood up stretching. ‘Keep at it, mate … no one else around?’

  ‘All gone … and I’m with them now.’

  Tope made a point of shutting down his computer with a flourish, collected his briefcase and stood up. He looked at Flynn. ‘You still here?’

  ‘Good point.’

  Flynn lay in bed alongside his wife. He was tight-lipped and unable to sleep following the stand-up row the couple had had earlier in front of their son, who had watched open-mouthed, then run away screaming.

  Flynn had not picked the argument – or at least he didn’t think he had – but it had escalated like a rocket launch.

  Later in bed (he had climbed in after her to find her asleep or feigning it) he had reached over to her with the idea of reconciliation through lovemaking but she had shrugged him off and failed to respond to his trite, ‘Sorry’ (although in his mind he added, but did not vocalize, ‘for whatever it was I did’).

  Eventually he slid out, grabbed his dressing gown and, after checking on his son, went downstairs, found whisky and necked a shot of the burning spirit. He decided he would try to woo her back and make firm promises about the future; he’d try to get a transfer to something more local and with better hours. A job on Blackpool CID would be a good move, he thought.

  First thing, though, was to melt Faye’s heart.

  Corny as it sounded – and because he was a simple man – he thought a bouquet of flowers in h
er favourite colours would perhaps be a good step, followed by lunch out – just the two of them. As his mind drifted around possible venues, he suddenly sat up and swore.

  He scrambled for the phone and dialled Jerry Tope’s home number.

  ‘Saturday morning, six a.m.,’ Tope whined. His hair was in disarray and there was a certain indefinable smell about him. He was unshaven. ‘This better be worth it.’

  ‘When I came in yesterday evening you were scanning some of the bank accounts Tasker was using before he went off the grid. Put them on screen again,’ Flynn said, businesslike.

  The two of them were back in the incident room and Flynn towered over Tope’s shoulder. It had taken a lot of persuasion to lure Tope back into the office that morning, especially as Flynn had called him up at two a.m., only four hours previously.

  ‘You can always go back to bed,’ he added.

  ‘I will do.’

  He switched the computer on and after a couple of minutes’ searching found the page he thought was on display when Flynn had been there the previous evening.

  Flynn leaned forward eagerly, certain he had seen something of interest which had only registered later while he was sipping whisky and thinking about treating his wife.

  It was just a page full of numbers, bank transactions from an account that had belonged to Tasker but which had been emptied of all funds, some £4,000, and not used since.

  ‘Is this the one?’ he said into Tope’s ear.

  ‘Yep,’ Tope answered with weary lack of interest.

  ‘Move.’

  Flynn nudged Tope out of the chair, sat down and scrolled through the figures. He wasn’t the greatest at numbers; sometimes they became a blur to him and he could easily lose concentration. He had not been great at maths at school.

  ‘I’m sure I saw something …’ He stopped scrolling and said, ‘Yes.’