by Nick Oldham
The sight of two armed cops, one in uniform, one in plain clothes, confirmed his intuition.
Anderson did not hesitate, caught as he was between his car and the protection of the building.
His three-quarter-length sheepskin coat was unbuttoned, as always. He flung it open, skewed round to face the two officers, and the mini-Uzi which was hanging on a strap around his neck fell naturally into his hands with the ease of much practice. He clicked off the safety with his thumb and immediately whacked a short burst at the officers, bending low as he fired.
The uniformed male officer took the brunt of the burst across his shoulders and chest. The bullets ripped into his unprotected right shoulder and the rest thudded into his body armour — which saved his life. The impact spun him round like a top and he staggered face-first back into the surveillance van, screaming as blood spurted out from the wounds.
The female officer hit the deck, diving out of sight behind a car.
Two more officers appeared from an alley, one in plain clothes, one in uniform. Anderson gritted his teeth and loosed off another short burst in their direction. They leapt back down the alley, into cover.
Anderson turned and sprinted along St George’s Quay, disappearing out of sight underneath the railway bridge which spanned the end of the road.
Gun in hand, Henry ran up the alley towards the Quay. He could see Siobhan and the firearms officer jumping out of the back of the van and hear Siobhan’s near-hysterical voice over the radio, urging the rest of the troops to get going. ‘Move, come on, go!’ or words to that effect. There was the dull ‘du-du-du-du’ — a sound Henry recognised immediately as that of an automatic weapon being fired. The firearms officer pirouetted, clutching at his shoulder which had exploded in bright red, and toppled back into the van, screaming. Siobhan dived for cover. One officer down.
By this time, Henry and Philpot had reached the end of the alley. They ran rather stupidly out onto the road and showed themselves.
Henry saw Anderson about seventy metres away. The smoking muzzle of the deadly black Uzi zeroed in on the detective. Henry jarred to a halt, threw himself at Philpot and they bundled back into the alley only a fraction of a second before Anderson pulled the trigger again and released a deadly burst of bullets.
Stone chips flew. One lodged in Henry’s cheek. It was like being stung by a wasp.
They flattened themselves against the wall. Henry was breathing heavily already. Blood trickled warmly down his face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
He pivoted low out of the alley, gun in his right hand, supported by the left, bouncing on his knees. His elbows locked in an isosceles triangle ready to return fire, though painfully aware that the distance between himself and Anderson made the prospect of hitting him pretty remote… but all he saw was a glimpse of Anderson’s back in the fleeting second before he went out of sight.
‘ Leader to Car One,’ Henry bellowed down his radio. ‘He’s on foot, coming towards you, wearing a light tan coat, sheepskin collar, carrying an automatic weapon which he has used.’
Car One was the unmarked car which was supposed to have been keeping observations at the entrance to the Quay to clock Anderson if he came in that way. If the occupants of that car had been doing their job right, they should have seen Anderson and warned the surveillance van. That was an issue Henry would be taking up with those officers later.
‘ You stay here,’ he yelled across to Siobhan. ‘Look after him — call an ambulance. C’mon, bud, let’s move,’ he said to Philpot.
He went after Anderson, mindful that things had gone horribly wrong in less than a minute. Doesn’t take long for a job to get fucked up.
He and Philpot, who was much fitter and soon moved into the lead, ran to the end of the Quay where it becomes Damside Street, then onto the junction with Bridge Lane. Car One screamed down Bridge Lane from the direction of the city centre and squealed onto Damside Street, pulling up alongside Henry and Philpot.
The two officers aboard looked shamefaced. They had been away from their designated point and hadn’t bothered telling anyone. There were two Kentucky Fried Chicken wrappers in the back seat.
Henry was fuming. He could not recall a time in his life when he had been quite so fucking enraged.
‘ You fucking wankers — where have you been?’ he screamed through the driver’s window. He couldn’t be bothered to await a reply. ‘You’ — he pointed at the passenger — ‘get out.’ He turned to Philpot. ‘You and this dipstick get going after him on foot. I’ll get a lift to the southern end of town and work my way back down on foot. Right, get going, go on, fuck off!’
Henry leapt into the passenger seat and said, ‘Drop me off at the Kentucky — you obviously know where that is.’
Dumbly the officer nodded.
Henry reholstered his gun.
He took a few seconds to marshal his thoughts before getting back on the radio. Then he directed two of the four officers who’d been at the back of the warehouse to make their way into the city centre and start searching. The other two were told to remain at the scene in case Anderson doubled back and also to assist Siobhan with the injured officer. He told the firearms team in the van to drive up to the police station, park their vehicles and begin searching from there. The two officers in the plain car tasked to watch the other route to Anderson’s flat were given a free hand.
Flood the place, that’s what he wanted to do. Flood the place and flush him out — if he was still there.
His mind was racing as he tried to consider all the angles.
The bus station, taxi rank and railway station all needed cover, as did every other way out of the city by foot and car.
He glared at the officer who was driving, but couldn’t find the words to adequately express his emotions. He shook his head, exhaled an exaggerated sigh and kept his mouth shut. The officer concentrated on driving, totally aware he was being appraised by someone who probably wanted to throttle him.
Within two minutes they were at the southern tip of the city, at the top of Penny Street, one of the main shopping thoroughfares. Henry opened his door and as he got out said, ‘You cruise the area and don’t go to the Kentucky or I’ll be sending your P45 to your home address.’
‘ Yes, Sarge,’ said the chastened PC.
Henry stood upright. Blood dribbled down his face into the corner of his mouth. He wiped his sleeve across it. Then, with his hand on the butt of his revolver in the upside-down holster, he walked towards the centre of Lancaster. He moved slowly, pausing occasionally, looking, his eyes never resting.
The town was busy. It was difficult to spot anyone in particular amongst the throng of shoppers. He constantly relayed his position to the other members of the team and they to him.
Time was running out. Five minutes had passed since the incident and each passing second meant that Anderson was less likely to be caught. It was like looking for a needle… Henry tensed up, thinking he had spotted Anderson but no, it was a lookalike. Similar, but not him. Shit. There were so many places he could disappear to.
Henry had reached the junction with Common Garden Street. From this point northwards, Penny Street became a pedestrianised area. On the opposite corner was a branch of Marks amp; Spencer, Kate’s favourite shop. Henry crossed the road, stood next to the shop window and stared down Penny Street into the impenetrable mass of people.
Damn, he cursed. He knew they had lost Anderson, just knew it. Henry’s chance to make a good impression on the NWOCS — and he’d completely ballsed it up. Everything Morton had said he didn’t want to happen, had happened. May not have been his fault personally, but he was the man in charge, the one who would have to answer all the awkward questions. The buck stopped firmly with him.
He glanced into Marks amp; Spencer.
And there he was, lurking behind a rack of sports gear.
They locked eyes.
Henry yanked his gun out of the holster.
Anderson stepped to one side,
out of the cover provided by the sports wear. The Uzi was in his hands. He fired at Henry, spraying bullets through the huge sheet of plate glass which separated the two men and made up the store frontage. Henry hurled himself to one side, dropping his weapon as he did so, and the whole window disintegrated spectacularly, like an avalanche, showering him with millions of shards of glass.
He was absolutely covered in the stuff — in his hair, down his shirt, in his pockets.
But he was unhurt.
The shopping had stopped in Penny Street. With screams and shrieks, everyone was running away or taking cover.
Anderson walked confidently towards Henry, Uzi in hand, a look of determination on his face and the intention of wiping out a detective. He lifted the small but deadly weapon and aimed at Henry’s chest.
Henry saw Anderson’s right forefinger curl around the trigger and pull it back. He saw the muzzle flash. Heard the crack and felt the impact on his sternum like a steam hammer. The force of the impact bowled him over and sent him sprawling in the broken glass.
But the bullet didn’t penetrate, just seemed to knock the wind out of him as though he’d been rugby-tackled by six prop forwards.
For a moment he lay there dazed and slightly confused. Then what had happened sank in. He looked up and focused on Anderson.
It had been the last round in Anderson’s magazine, and Henry was still alive because he’d worn the protective vest given to him by Siobhan the day before. In his dreams he gave her a big sloppy kiss.
Anderson had discarded the empty magazine, produced a full one from his coat pocket and was fumbling to slot it in, when he looked up and saw the six foot two, fourteen-stone frame of Henry Christie charging towards him through the space where there had once been a window.
Henry came in low. Anderson swung the empty gun at his head. Henry dodged it skilfully and his left shoulder powered into Anderson’s solar plexus. He drove the wanted man hard backwards into a display of men’s underwear which crashed around them.
The Uzi flew out of Anderson’s grip and clattered away to one side.
The two men rolled and fought in a bed of boxer shorts and Y-fronts.
Anderson’s fist connected with Henry’s lower jaw, stunning him, sending shockwaves around his skull. Henry slumped off, shaking his head, allowing Anderson to get to his feet. He lashed out with his boot at Henry who immediately lunged at his legs to smother the kicks.
He overbalanced Anderson and this time the pair brought down a display of trousers and a mannequin.
They rolled through these, face to face, sometimes eyeball to eyeball, neither one able to get the upper hand. Anderson tried to head-butt Henry, who twisted his face out of the way only to expose his left ear to Anderson’s mouth — who, never one to fight clean — bit into it hard and nasty, worrying it like a terrier, trying to rip it off the side of Henry’s face.
The pain was phenomenal. Henry screamed. With a superhuman effort he wrenched his shredded ear out of Anderson’s mouth and dug him hard in the ribs with a punch from his right fist. Anderson groaned.
The two men separated from each other, both scrambling madly in an effort to be the first one to get to his feet, to gain the advantage.
They made it simultaneously.
Six feet apart.
They stared at each other.
Anderson spat out a gobful of blood and ear onto the prostrate mannequin, which lay there dismembered. He wiped his mouth.
Henry could hardly draw breath. He was acutely aware at that precise moment how out of shape he was and that, maybe, he was getting too old for shit like this. His ear was giving him the most horrendous pain. He had never even contemplated how painful it could be to have someone bite your ear off. He put a hand up to it. Christ! It felt like it was hanging off. The hand came away covered in crimson.
Anderson smiled. He had blood on his teeth. He looked like something from a cheap horror movie, but the worst of it was that this was real life and the blood on the teeth was Henry’s.
Anderson’s right hand went to his left sleeve. Henry had a quick and awful premonition… he was right.
A huge knife slid out of the sleeve.
Henry’s heart sank. The cunt was really well prepared for the worst. It was one of those quasi-military style knives where the handle was actually a knuckle duster and the blade was pretty damned near a scythe.
‘ Give up… Give up now,’ Henry croaked hoarsely between rasping breaths. ‘There’ll be a dozen cops here soon and when they see that thing in your hand they’ll blow you away. You’ll be dead, I promise you, Terry.’
Anderson flexed his fingers in the knuckleduster and his grip tightened on the handle.
Henry prepared himself to be skewered.
From behind him came a sound he would never have believed he would be relieved to hear.
A weapon being cocked.
Anderson looked up past Henry’s shoulder and the smile dropped off his face.
‘ Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
The cavalry had arrived.
Chapter Seventeen
Munrow remained in an exceptionally bad mood as he constantly reviewed yesterday’s proceedings. He could not even begin to get over the way he’d been treated by Rider.
Left out on the moors in the middle of nowhere. Naked. Todmorden? Where the fuck was that? Freezing his bollocks off, having to undergo the torment and humiliation of trying to find an ignition key in a fucking snowdrift. Could have died of hypothermia. Then having to drive all the way back to his woman’s house, covered in an oily car blanket, cowering down all the time, hoping no one would see him, or the cops pulled him. How in the name of shit would he have explained that to a Wooden Top?
So embarrassing.
He had been made to look a complete fool.
And nobody made Munrow look a fool. No one. No cunt got away with that — uninjured.
He sat brooding in a pub in the town centre of Preston, a pint of Thwaites Mild in his hand, waiting for the woman to turn up.
They had arranged to meet here so she could take him shopping for a new set of clothes befitting a free man. She had a rich husband in the oil business and a credit card with a ten thousand limit on it. The trap of an unhappy marriage made het: want to spend to the hilt and, basically, stick two fingers up at Hubby who she knew was having it away in Saudi.
Munrow knew little about her, other than she was one of the prison visitors. Unpaid, doing it for a social service. She’d easily fallen under his powerful aura to the extent that they’d even contrived to screw in the prison classroom once, when he’d rear-ended her over a table.
He did not want to know very much about her. All he wanted from her was enough sex to see him through the post-prison rampant stage and then money.
One of his plans that afternoon was to induce her to make a substantial withdrawal and hand every penny over to him. Wham, bam, thank you, silly cow. He needed the money to payoff the men who had helped him cause mayhem in Conroy’s clubs the other night. They were cheap to hire.
He took a big swig of his beer. His mind skipped to Conroy who, he imagined, would be shitting himself at that moment. Munrow’s show of uncompromising strength would have worried him badly and he would no message across very clearly: Munrow was here to stay. He was back and wanted a chunk of the action.
Over the weekend he planned to hit some of Conroy’s council-estate distribution houses in East Lancashire… then maybe there could be some talk. Or if the mood took him, he might just move his men into one of Conroy’s Manchester clubs and take the place over. No talk. No fucking about. Yeah, he might do that.
It could be as simple as that.
As for Rider… that bastard would really suffer.
‘ Hello, sweetheart.’ There was a tap on Munrow’s shoulder. It was his woman. He had to admit she was — or had been — drop dead gorgeous. And she was cracking in bed. Amazing what a shit of a husband can do to a woman.
But deep down, Munrow
sneered contemptuously at her. Naive, stupid cow. Didn’t realise she was going to be screwed — in more ways than one.
For the time being he was going to play along. He hadn’t satisfied himself sexually yet and those years behind bars had made him crave for it. He was going to have his fill before he robbed her blind, then dumped her broke.
He slid his arm round her slim waist and squeezed her breast. She bent down and kissed him hard on the mouth, breaking off eventually with a gasp.
‘ How are you feeling, darling?’
‘ Fine, got myself together now. Are you OK?’
‘ Yes, yes, thanks for asking.’
She had been on the verge of hysteria when he got back from his trip to Todmorden. At least she hadn’t called the cops. He reassured her it was all one big mistake and things were fine. The less she knew the better. She had swallowed his cock and bull story and it was only when they both shared a hot shower and she knelt down in front of him and swallowed his cock and spunk did she really calm down.
After a few hours’ sleep, Munrow had then scoured Manchester for the only person who knew exactly where he had been. The only person who could have given Rider the information about his whereabouts.
Toni Thomas, the bitch.
It was a waste of time. Toni was very noticeable by his/her absence.
‘ So, Debenhams? Burtons? Where do you fancy?’
Munrow came back to the present. He shrugged. ‘Anywhere. You’re buying, babe.’
The adrenalin ebbed out of Henry’s body to be replaced by suffering.
He eased the protective vest carefully over his head — carefully because he did not want to knock his ear which was hanging off — laid it to one side and looked unwillingly down at his chest where the bullet from the mini-Uzi had struck his sternum.
There was a revolting, circular, deep purple mark with a single black spot at its centre which looked like he’d been struck by a hammer. When he breathed, he recoiled involuntarily. Jesus, he could not believe how painful it was. It gripped his sternum like a clawed fist. He was certain it must be cracked.