by Nick Oldham
The post-mortem on Sophie Leader was due to take place later that afternoon, and the coroner had been informed of progress in that respect.
A DI from Skelmersdale had been asked to go and knock on Fraser Worthington’s mum’s front door and to arrest him if he was there.
And, Henry hoped, that was about that. Lots of delegating going on as he tried to keep his distance and let others do the work for a change.
Standing by the window, his mind drifted back to the night the chief constable had died. The images – though everything had been dark, murky, muddy and wet – were still vivid in Henry’s mind. So too was the desolate feeling that he had let a man die in a half-flooded quarry shaft, had robbed him of the dignity of dying surrounded by his family. A grubby death, Henry had called it.
He touched his ragged ear and sighed. ‘Shit.’
The ring of his mobile phone cut into his thoughts.
The man sat quietly in the public gallery of courtroom number one at Blackpool Magistrates’ Court. He had entered the court through the main entrance and, as all members of the public were now obliged, had walked through the metal detector arch, which bleeped accusingly as he stepped through. He rolled his eyes at his stupidity and fished out the key ring which had obviously triggered the alarm.
The private security guard made him empty his pockets, then go back through the scanner, which now stayed silent.
Apologizing profusely, he picked up his keys, entered the building and made his way to the courtroom and took his place in the gallery.
And waited patiently, his eyes constantly scanning the court layout, the distances, the angles, the possibilities, obstructions and people.
Inside himself, he was cold and clinical, not even considering the consequences of what he intended to achieve that morning.
The gang relocated to Lytham and parked on Hastings Place, close to the County Hotel in a line of other cars, nose facing the town centre. Fraser Worthington was the only one of the four who remained cool and laid back, controlling his breathing, his heart rate. The others were agitated, continually moving and fidgeting. The coke they had inhaled into their systems, coupled with the amphets and Lucozade, was making them eager and tense.
Their target premises was on Park Street, the junction for which was about 100 metres ahead of them.
Worthington checked his watch. ‘Need for speed,’ he said.
Still in his shirtsleeves, Henry scooped up his personal radio from the desk and tore out of his office, interrupting a routine transmission. ‘Superintendent Christie interrupting – urgent.’
‘Go ahead, sir.’
Henry ignored the lift and flung himself down the stairway, crashing against the wall and banisters as he leapt down the concrete steps three or four at a time.
‘Need to get patrols to the magistrates’ court … Received a report of an armed man either already in court or trying to get in with a view to causing harm to the defendant Wayne Oxford who’s up this morning from our cells. Phone the holding cells at court and make sure Oxford isn’t brought up. I’m attending on foot from my office,’ he finished as he hit the first-floor level of the station and burst out through the doors on to the concourse, on the opposite side of which was the court.
‘What is the man armed with, sir?’
‘A ceramic kitchen knife … Just get patrols en route, more details to follow,’ Henry shouted as he sprinted across the gap between cop shop and court house.
‘Roger … Patrols to acknowledge?’ the operator asked.
Henry’s arms pumped as he ran perhaps his fastest fifty metres since he was sixteen years old.
Anna Niven, with her head still firmly stuck somewhere metaphorically unpleasant, blundered along Lytham’s main shopping street, the blood still beating in her brain, not really concentrating on anything in particular other than the horrible jumble her life had just become. It was purely by accident that she found herself standing outside a small jeweller’s shop on Park Street, just off the main street, staring at the window display of new and second-hand jewellery. It was the sort of shop that sold top of the range rings and watches, but also seemed to have a thriving trade-in business too, according to the notices in the window.
Whilst staring at the rings, she started involuntarily to roll the two rings on the third finger of her left hand with her thumb. Her wedding and engagement rings. She looked down at what she was doing, seeing the two most important possessions in her life, bought with love, loyalty and commitment by Jake.
Now worth zilch.
Her eyes misted over, and the corners of her mouth drooped.
She entered the shop with the intention of having both items valued, as she suddenly thought that she might need every penny in the next few weeks, depending on how it all panned out.
She feared the worst, but fixed a smile on to her face as she approached the glass counter and spoke to the nice young lady on the other side of it. She held out her fingers to show her the two rings.
Wayne Oxford stood in the dock, facing the magistrates. He had been brought a fresh set of clothing by his sister and looked smart now, wearing a suit and tie. He also looked weary and red-eyed, but betrayed no emotion to the panel of three and the clerk of the court.
A guard stood to one side of him, just a couple of feet from his shoulder. Oxford was not wearing handcuffs because prisoners appearing in court, unless too dangerous and unpredictable, were allowed that right.
‘Is your name Wayne Oxford?’ the clerk asked him.
‘It is,’ he responded.
‘And are you of no fixed abode?’
‘Correct.’
The man in the public-seating gallery at the side of the court slid the fingers of his right hand up the sleeve of his left arm and grasped the knife.
It was a small paring knife, made from ceramic, and just as sharp as its steel bladed cousin, but because of its composition it could not be picked up by a metal detector.
He began to rise as he withdrew the knife.
He had worked out the angles now – the height, the distance – and was convinced he would succeed. The dock was about two feet higher than floor level, but there was a fancy brass rail surrounding it which he knew would help him reach the prisoner.
His face remained expressionless.
The prosecuting solicitor from the CPS stood up and cleared her throat, about to address the bench and apply for the three-day remand to police cells.
The man walked sideways to the end of the bench seat, and from there he was about twenty feet from the dock.
He visualized his moves, speed and goal.
The paring knife was now in his right hand, almost concealed inside his fist, held down by his thigh.
No one had even glanced at him.
Good. He needed every second of advantage.
His nostrils flared, and then, just as the courtroom door flew open, he rushed silently across to the dock, completely focused on his task.
Henry ran across the tiled floor of the court foyer, dismissing the shouts of the security guards, and aimed for the double doors of court number one. He crashed through them and immediately caught sight of the man running across the courtroom, spotting the small, off-white blade of the paring knife in his hand.
Henry screamed a warning, which had no effect whatsoever on anyone.
By the time he reached the corner of the dock, the man had vaulted over the side of it, and as Henry leapt over too, just seconds after, he knew he was too late.
The security guard in the dock was cowering, terrified, in one corner, and the man was straddling Oxford, repeatedly plunging the short, but deadly blade into Oxford’s face, neck and chest.
Henry landed unsteadily, going over on his ankle, but he flew at the man, knocking him sideways, wanting to overpower him, wrest the knife from his fingers. Even as he did this he knew he was too late for Wayne Oxford; an arc of dark-red blood spurted high into the air, and Oxford’s feet and legs twitched a dramatic dance of
death. As Henry pinned the man down – a man with no fight in him any more – the pumping fountain of blood subsided, and Henry knew that Oxford had bled out within seconds.
The attacker lay motionless under Henry’s weight, allowing him to peel the knife out of his grip, as a large pool of blood spread quickly across the floor of the dock under Henry’s knees. Even so, Henry knew it was his duty to try and save Oxford.
The young lady behind the counter frowned at Anna as she unscrewed the two rings from her finger, leaving a deep, white indentation where they had been. She placed them on the counter top on to a felt mat.
Still frowning, the lady picked them up, then fitted a jeweller’s magnifying glass into her eye socket. ‘Are you sure about this, Madame?’
‘Yes.’ Anna’s voice quaked.
The woman held the diamond cluster engagement ring up to her eye.
It was at this moment two things happened, almost simultaneously.
The actual owner of the shop opened the security door behind the counter and glanced out, just checking all was OK on the shop floor.
It was.
Until a moment later when a masked Fraser Worthington and two members of his crew burst into the shop.
Worthington was at the head of the three-man team, brandishing a sawn-off shotgun which, as he strode in like a black-clad demon, he fired into the shop ceiling, filling the room with deafening noise, smoke, falling debris, confusion and terror.
Armed with baseball bats, as well as firearms, the other two men – well drilled in the art of armed robbery – smashed the glass fronted counter displays and cabinets and began scooping out the jewellery and watches into ready prepared hessian bags.
The store owner reversed into the relative safety of the back of the shop, closing the heavy security door and smacking the palm of his hand on to the red alarm button, sending an initially silent signal to the alarm company.
Fraser brought down his shotgun and bounced towards the two females in the shop – assistant and customer – screaming, ‘On your fucking knees, on your fucking knees,’ at them. The words sounded even more horrific for coming out of the mouth slit in the balaclava, and the movement of his lips and teeth looked horrific.
Anna dropped to her knees instantly.
The woman behind the counter hesitated, her terror inducing paralysis. Worthington grabbed her hair in his fist and hauled the slightly built lady bodily over the counter, throwing her violently down next to Anna.
‘Oi – there was no need for that,’ Anna protested bravely.
Worthington spun and jammed the roughly sawn barrel ends into Anna’s cheek, drawing blood. He pushed his masked face only inches from hers and growled, ‘Who the fuck asked you, bitch?’ As he spoke, spittle from his mouth hit Anna’s face, making her cringe. He shoved her away with the muzzle, then rose and shouted, ‘No one needs to get hurt here.’ He waved the gun in an arc across the shop, stopping abruptly when he saw the manager’s face behind the security door window. The man ducked the instant he knew he had been spotted, and Worthington fired the gun at the door, though the pellets did little damage to it.
Anna lay on her side, touching her cheek, feeling warm blood on her fingertips.
On hearing Henry Christie’s dramatic transmission as he raced towards the magistrates’ court, Dave Morton slammed the brakes on the ARV and did a U-turn as Jake flicked the switch for the blue lights and two-tone horn.
‘I love the sound of a siren in the morning,’ Morton said through gritted teeth as he hauled the wheel down and spun the Galaxy around.
Jake called up comms to say they were presently on Clifton Road, Lytham, and therefore their ETA was at least ten minutes. Other officers and mobile patrols had also called up and were on their way.
Clifton Road, Lytham’s main shopping street, was a tight thoroughfare, with parked cars either side. It was dangerous to travel along it at speed because of its narrowness and the fact that pedestrians crossed from either side, also.
However, this did not stop Morton from pushing down the accelerator.
Almost as soon as they had passed the junction with Park Street, though, comms called them up specifically. ‘Romeo Eight receiving?’
‘Go ’head,’ Jake said, responding to their call sign, a slightly abbreviated version of the full one, Alpha Romeo Eight.
‘Cancel the court, please … Silent intruder alarm activated at The Jewel Shop, Park Street, Lytham … It’s an unusual one, activated by staff on premises.’
‘Just passed that,’ Morton said.
‘Roger,’ Jake replied to comms. ‘One minute away – any more info?’
‘Nothing … Just trying to establish contact with the premises now.’
‘OK.’
Jake turned off the two-tones and hung on tight as Morton flipped the vehicle right into Hastings Place in order to do a full loop around to Market Square, then up to the junction with Park Street.
From that moment on, things happened very quickly.
With the blue lights still flashing, Morton careened on to Park Street, and both officers instantly clocked and categorized the black saloon car parked with two wheels on the pavement outside the jewellers, facing away from them.
‘Getaway car,’ Jake blurted.
‘Yep.’
Morton screeched up behind it and slammed on the brakes as Jake leapt out of the Galaxy just an instant before it stopped, but the car shot away down Park Street without any hesitation, with one person aboard.
Jake shouted in the registration number as he ran to the front door of the jeweller’s, adding, ‘This looks genuine,’ in reference to the robbery.
Morton was not far behind him.
Jake was trying to see what was going on inside the shop, but the decorative etched and misted windows in the door made it difficult to make anything out, so he just went for it. He entered at the exact moment Fraser Worthington grabbed Anna’s hair and wrenched her up, holding her in front of him like a shield and jamming the muzzle of the shotgun into her already bleeding face.
‘Get fucking back!’ he screamed.
Jake stopped, stunned on two levels.
Firstly that he had actually run into a robbery in progress, which even when responding to an alarm was unusual. Most were false alarms.
Secondly that his wife was being held as a hostage or human shield, and what the fuck was she doing there in the first place?
Worthington rested the shotgun across Anna’s shoulder and aimed it at Jake. The other two robbers ditched their baseball bats and spun to him with their firearms pointed at him.
Morton, moments behind and with his view blocked, stumbled in at Jake’s back, crashing into him and causing Jake to stagger forwards. This revealed the tableau to Morton, who reacted by going for his sidearm, the Glock, as Jake went down on to his knees.
One of Worthington’s men fired his shotgun at Morton, catching him in the left side of his neck just above the collar line of his ballistic vest. The force of the blow spun him backwards. He pirouetted, clutching his throat, and dropped to his knees as gouts of thick blood cascaded from the terrible wound. He slithered and slumped face down on the tiled floor into a deepening pool of blood, which was pulsing rapidly out from his body.
‘We get their fuckin’ car,’ Worthington shouted, knowing that their own getaway car had left them high and dry.
Jake took all this in: his friend gurgling obscenely as his life blood ebbed out of him; the terrified face of Anna, who was being roughly held by a desperate robber; the other two with bags full of jewels and the guns in their hands.
Anna’s eyes pleaded with him.
Worthington dragged her across to Jake. ‘You – fuckin’ car keys,’ he demanded. ‘And don’t do anything, or I’ll blow this bitch’s head off.’
‘He’s got ’em,’ Jake said, trying to hold on to Anna’s eyeline and somehow convey reassurance to her by staying calm himself – but he saw her head was shaking in terror and also saw the cut in her
soft cheek. Jake pointed at Morton. ‘But they still might be in the car.’
Worthington jerked his head at the crew member who had shot the cop. He strode over Morton’s now still body and out of the shop, whilst Worthington dragged Anna back to the counter in his ferocious grip.
A huge surge of anger gushed through Jake at that moment, which he knew he had to control. Anything rash and stupid would result in more bloodshed. He glanced at the shop assistant cowering by the counter, her head covered by her own hands.
Then, for a moment, the world stopped turning, and Jake could feel his heart slamming dully within his chest, hear the rasping of his breathing from his lungs.
‘They’re in the car,’ a voice shouted behind him, and Jake came back into the real world.
Jake’s head flicked around, and he saw the robber that Worthington had sent to check for the key in the Galaxy was back.
Worthington threw Anna aside. She bounced into the counter, screamed in pain, then tripped raggedly as Worthington brought his shotgun around and aimed it squarely at Jake.
‘In for a penny,’ Worthington said. Even though he was still masked, Jake could see the man’s mouth curve into a wicked smile behind the hole in the ski mask, and he knew what was going to happen. They’d killed one cop, so another would make no difference.
Worthington raised the gun.
Jake leapt like a frog and flung himself across the shop as Worthington fired. A glass display cabinet disintegrated behind where Jake had been.
Jake rolled and came up. Worthington had to rack another shell into the chamber, but it didn’t want to go smoothly and jammed for just a second too long, giving Jake that extra moment he needed as his incessant, repetitive, firearms training kicked in.
He drew the Glock from its holster at his side, brought it out smoothly, releasing the safety catch with his thumb and aimed it at Worthington, who had managed to slam the reluctant shell into the breach.
Jake fired, double-tapping – ‘Ba-bam’ – into Worthington’s chest.
Worthington dropped the shotgun, took an unsteady step backwards and looked down at his chest, then dropped to his knees before falling face down.