by Nick Oldham
McClure and Donaldson walked into a quiet side street. And there it was: Hinksman’s car.
‘ Bingo,’ gloated McClure.
And the radio went berserk.
‘ Civilian down, civilian down. Head wounds, looks bad.’
‘ Sierra to Alpha, Sierra to Alpha — take care at the back, he may be coming. Get ready.’
‘ Alpha received.’
They heard Karen interrupt. ‘Superintendent Wilde — situation report, please.’ She sounded wound-up.
‘ Sierra to Superintendent,’ Macintosh began, then was cut off.
‘ Shit, I wonder what’s happening,’ gasped McClure.
‘ Don’t sound good,’ commented Donaldson.
Macintosh’s transmission was cut into: ‘Basement door opening.’ It was a calm, clear message. A woman’s voice. ‘Someone’s coming out.’
McClure and Donaldson looked at each other, neither caring to speak.
A moment’s silence descended on the radio. Then a male voice screamed, ‘It’s him, it’s him.’
A transmission carrier must have stuck down then. There was the sound of footsteps running. Breathlessness. Rustling of clothing. A shout: ‘Armed police. Stop and drop your weapon. I said throw down your weapon!’ Panic rising in the voice. A gun shot. A heavy, rushing noise. A groan. More footsteps. Panting. Rustling. Then: ‘Officer down! Assistance, assistance…’ This was the female voice again. Another sharp crack, like a whip, very loud, distorted, as though next to the microphone: a gun shot close up. Then silence. Again.
‘ Fuck!’ uttered McClure. ‘What’re we going to do?’
‘ Sit tight,’ said Donaldson firmly.
The radio traffic started again. ‘Charlie One, in pursuit on foot.’ It was another female voice. The message became garbled. More panting. More running.
‘ He’s gotta be making for here,’ said Donaldson. ‘Gotta be, c’mon.’ The radio crashed to silence once more.
Donaldson grabbed McClure’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get hidden — and get that fuckin’ gun of yours ready. It is loaded, isn’t it?’
‘ Yes, yes,’ said McClure.
They vaulted over a low garden wall and ducked down into a crouch behind it. Out of sight, but with a direct line of view to Hinksman’s car.
‘ You can’t give him a chance,’ Donaldson whispered urgently into McClure’s ear, prompting him. ‘We take him by surprise and you shoot the bastard. Got it?’
McClure nodded.
He had the two-inch-barrelled Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. His sweaty hand. His shaking hand. His slimy forefinger quivered uncertainly on the trigger.
The seconds ticked by with a slowness that was physically painful.
The radio stayed silent, almost as though it had all been a nightmare. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Had he gone in another direction? Had they got him? Had he been arrested — or shot?
A figure appeared out of an alleyway about halfway down the street and walked in their direction. Seventy metres away. More of a trot than a walk. But there was no concern in the stride. No sense of urgency. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be in much of a rush. A bag was being carried in the left hand. A holdall. It couldn’t be him, surely.
‘ It’s him,’ said Donaldson.
The heads of the two detectives dipped an inch instinctively.
‘ Let him get to the car,’ Donaldson said between his teeth, his lips not moving. He glanced sideways at his nervous partner.
‘ If he goes to the driver’s door we’ll have the advantage because his back’ll be towards us.’ That was McClure thinking out loud, his mind racing.
Hinksman got to the car, checking his shoulder as he fumbled briefly with the key for the door. He went to the driver’s side, dropped the holdall to the ground and slid the key into the lock. He hadn’t seen the detectives. They rose slowly from their hiding place.
‘ Armed police,’ shouted McClure, pointing his gun at Hinksman’s back and stepping over the garden wall. ‘Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle or you’re a dead man — understand?’
Hinksman froze. Then nodded.
‘ Shoot him,’ Donaldson encouraged McClure. ‘Do it now.’
McClure motioned to Donaldson to keep quiet with a chopping action of his free hand. ‘Now put both your hands on the roof of the car so I can see them.’
Hinksman’s left hand slid up and he placed it on top of the car, empty, the key in the lock. His right hand was still tucked up at the front of his body. Out of sight.
‘ Don’t give him the chance, Ken. Shoot the bastard,’ said Donaldson, verging on sheer anger.
‘ Both fuckin’ hands,’ yelled McClure at Hinksman.
‘ OK, OK,’ said Hinksman.
McClure was moving forwards, concentrating totally on the killer in front of him, forcing fear and everything else to the back of his mind into a compartment to be unlocked later at leisure.
Donaldson was a wary two steps behind him. His head was shaking.
His eyes kept moving heavenwards. ‘Come on Ken, put him down.’
‘ No, Karl, it’s not the way we do things over here.’
There was one more garden wall to step over. No higher, no broader than the last. But McClure’s concentration was so absolute he misjudged his stride as he stepped across, snagging the top of it with the toe of his left shoe.
He stumbled, lost his balance and crashed down onto one knee with a yelp of pain.
Hinksman, who’d watched the approach in the wing mirror of the car, swung round fast, the gun in his right hand hot from previous firings.
McClure had regained his feet, but for a few seconds he was open and totally vulnerable. These were the few seconds Hinksman needed to loose off two rounds. They slammed into the detective’s chest, blowing him backwards like a candle flame being snuffed out by a gust of wind.
The impact of the bullets propelled him into Donaldson who caught him with a hand under each armpit and, winded himself, staggered sideways with the weight and momentum of McClure’s body. The two detectives crashed to the ground in a macabre embrace. McClure landed half on top of Donaldson, pinning him there, trapping him.
As they’d fallen, McClure’s gun had skittered away out of reach.
Donaldson desperately tried to heave McClure off.
Hinksman sauntered up to them, a smile of victory playing cruelly on his face. His gun hung at his side, literally smoking. He was full of confidence.
He tossed his gun across to his left hand, clicked the magazine out and dropped it onto the ground where it tinkled merrily on the concrete pavement. His right hand delved into his jeans pocket and emerged holding a new magazine. He slotted it in without looking, his eyes holding Donaldson’s in a death-warrant gaze. He transferred the gun back to his right hand.
Donaldson gave up trying to dislodge the wounded McClure, whose shirt-front was a soggy mass of bright red blood.
He lay there under McClure’s dead weight, unable to move. Hinksman stood arrogantly above him.
‘ Well now, Fibbie,’ he said. ‘So you wanted him to shoot me? Naughty, naughty. This is England. They play by the rules here. You should know that. Not like you fuckers… Anyway, can’t stay even though I’d love to chat. Y’know, I ain’t never done an officer of the law before today, but I guess there’s always a first time for everything… and in your case, Fibbie, a fourth time.’
Hinksman pointed the gun at Donaldson’s head as the significance of the words sank in.
The detective swallowed something big and hard and it stuck in his throat. His eyes squinted as he braced himself for the impact. He wondered what it would feel like.
Hinksman eased the hammer back. His forefinger curled onto the trigger. Only the lightest touch was now needed.
Donaldson thought of blackness for ever.
There was a shout. A female voice.
‘ Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
Donaldson and Hinksman looked. Twenty metres away
stood two uniformed officers from the firearms team. Both had their revolvers drawn, both were in exactly the same weaver stance: left foot forward, guns held in the right hand, supported by the left, fingers on triggers — aimed at Hinksman.
A tense moment of silence passed when nothing happened.
‘ Drop your weapon and raise your hands,’ the female officer reiterated.
Hinksman’s gun was pointing at Donaldson. He glanced back down at him and smiled briefly. Donaldson thought he was going to pull the trigger.
Without warning the American moved quickly, becoming a blur of speed. He pivoted on his heels, crouched down and cracked three ear splitting shots off at the officers. He threw himself to one side, grabbed his holdall and did a body roll down in front of his car. He leapt to his feet in one flowing motion and sprinted away without a backward glance, keeping low as he went.
The male officer had gone down with a scream, clutching his right bicep, his gun skidding away under a car. The woman dived sideways for cover behind a car after managing to fire one shot in reply.
Donaldson, powerless to do otherwise, simply watched Hinksman run down the street and turn left into an alleyway and disappear. He looked at the female officer who was flattened on the floor, breathing heavily, as white as a sheet.
‘ It’s safe now,’ Donaldson called out. ‘He’s gone. He won’t be back.’
It took a while for her to pluck up enough courage to stick her head out for an instant.
The other officer, the one who’d been shot, struggled up into a sitting position, leaning against a low wall where he remained, sobbing as he held his injured, limp arm. Blood poured through his fingers.
Donaldson gently eased McClure off him and laid him out on the pavement. Thankfully he was unconscious.
‘ Shit,’ said Donaldson on seeing his colleague’s bloody front.
He ripped open the shirt to inspect the wounds. They were very bad. The bullets had gone into the left side of his chest. Brilliant, deadly shooting.
McClure was breathing, but with every breath big bubbles of blood were being blown out of the holes. He wheezed and gurgled as the breath came and went.
‘ Shit,’ Donaldson said again, hopelessly.
McClure’s eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused.
‘ It’s OK,’ Donaldson said. ‘Just hold on, pal.’
The eyes came to life. He looked up at Donaldson.
‘ Can’t feel a thing,’ he gasped with a twisted smile.
‘ Don’t worry, it’s not bad. You’ll be fine,’ he lied smoothly.
‘ No… no, I won’t be. I should’ve shot him shouldn’t I?’
‘ Yep,’ Donaldson acceded.
‘ Couldn’t do it… couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Not the way we do things round here.’
‘ I know… Now don’t speak… save your energy.’
McClure coughed, spraying Donaldson with a fine mist of blood. Donaldson ran a hand over his face.
When he looked, McClure’s eyes were closed. Donaldson knew he was dead.
Crosby’s face was ashen, his eyes sunk into black, hollow sockets. His breathing was laboured, but for the time being he was stable and surrounded by machines that continuously monitored his condition. He was also awake and quite compos mentis.
FB sat at the bedside. Crosby’s wife stood out in the corridor talking in hushed tones to the Chief Constable.
‘ You saved my life,’ Crosby said quietly through the oxygen mask.
‘ Thank you.’
FB nodded. ‘Training took over. It was nothing.’
‘ As good a cliche as any,’ said Crosby. ‘Now you make sure you get that investigation back off that cow.’
‘ I will,’ said FB.
‘ And do her. Do her well. If you can, get her thrown out of the job. Do it for me.’
‘ I’ll do it, even if it takes for ever.’
‘ Good man.’
Crosby’s head dropped back onto the pillow. His eyes closed.
FB actually felt a tear form and roll down his cheek. ‘I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do,’ he said softly.
The machine which monitored Crosby’s heart-rate changed its tone to one continuous note. It took a moment to register with FB — by which time two nurses had rushed into the room and an alarm bell was sounding somewhere. More medical staff arrived within seconds, crowding round the patient, pushing FB out of the way.
He retreated to the door, standing by Mrs Crosby and Dave August.
Five minutes later it was over.
Crosby was dead.
FB stormed down the corridor muttering, ‘That bitch is history.’
Karen sat alone in her borrowed office at Preston police station. She did not want to see anyone. She wanted to sit by herself for as long as possible as the day darkened to try and comprehend the enormity of what had happened.
Three policemen dead. Another injured. Shots fired. A member of the public dead too — that being Pepe Paglia whose body the firearms team had found on entering the hotel. He’d been shot through the head. And to cap it all the person responsible had got away. Been allowed to escape.
Basically the biggest single fuck-up in the history of Lancashire Constabulary. And it was all her fault.
Karen rubbed her face with her hands.
And for a classic post-script, Jack Crosby had died. Apparently she was to blame for that too.
How long was it since she had had any sleep? Many hours. Yet she doubted whether she could sleep now even if she had the opportunity. Her dazed mind raced around and around like an Indy car on an oval track.
There was a soft knock on the door. Donaldson crept quietly into the room. Bloodstains had dried on his clothing. He hadn’t had a chance to change yet.
‘ OK?’ he enquired.
‘ No, not really,’ she admitted truthfully. She was on the verge of tears, struggled to keep them back.
‘ I have a little more bad news, I’m afraid.’
She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go on.’ She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
‘ I’ve just spoken to Joe Kovaks; he tells me that the guy who gave us the information has been killed. Stabbed to death in his hospital bed at the prison. Even had his tongue cut out.’
‘ Oh God,’ she uttered. She stood up shakily and crossed to the window which overlooked the town. In the distance the River Ribble snaked away towards the sea. She shook her head in disbelief.
She couldn’t stop it. She began to cry with gut-wrenching sobs that racked her body, made her shoulders judder.
Donaldson crossed to her and placed an arm around her. She turned instinctively into him and buried her face in his blood-stained shirt. It was a great effort to prevent himself from crying. Ever since McClure had died, he’d shut his mind to it so that he could get on with what had to be done. Now that time was over. Family had been told. Statements had been made.
He stroked Karen’s hair. It felt coarse and grubby. Stale.
She tilted her head and looked up. Tears flooded her eyes, pouring down her cheeks. Make-up ran, lipstick smeared. She would have been the first to admit she looked a mess.
‘ I’m sorry, Karl,’ she said.
The door opened before she could finish.
FB and a sidekick strutted businesslike into the room.
‘ Oh, this is fuckin’ great,’ he shouted. ‘Straight back to your old tricks and the bodies are still warm. I should’ve known. You’re an uncaring, unfeeling slag. Yes, a fuckin’ slag and you’ll never be any different. ‘
Karen and Donaldson had stepped a pace apart from each other.
They were speechless.
‘ Right — collect your things. You’re off this investigation as of now and you’re also suspended from duty pending a full enquiry.’
‘ Suspended?’ she said in disbelief. ‘On what grounds?’
‘ Neglect of duty, disobeying a lawful order, bringing the force into disrepute… you name it, l
ady, it’s there. Unfortunately you’ll be on full pay. May I have your warrant card, please? As of now you’re banned from entering any police station, other than as a member of the public. You must go home and remain there until D and C contact you.’ FB was in full flow. ‘Do you know how many lives you’ve destroyed by this thoughtless operation? And do you care? I’ll bet not.’
Karen couldn’t answer.
‘ Let up, will you, pal?’ Donaldson cut in.
‘ You shut it, Yank,’ snarled FB, pointing. ‘You’re not involved in this.’
‘ Not involved?’ Donaldson stepped forward and grabbed FB’s lapels, heaved him onto his toes and whacked him back against the wall. They stood nose to nose. ‘Not involved, you asshole? My friend died in my arms today, you little shit. Not involved? I oughtta punch you into next week.’
His big clenched fist drew back. FB braced himself, wondering what time-travel would feel like.
Karen caught the fist before it connected. ‘Karl, Karl. There’s no need for that. It won’t do anyone any good… and please, let me fight my own battles.’
‘ But it’d make me feel so damned good,’ he said, reluctantly dropping the sweating FB.
Numbly, Karen rummaged through her handbag until she found her warrant card. She placed it photo-up on her desk. She collected her coat, slung it around her shoulders and walked out of the office, averting her eyes from everyone else’s.
‘ Good fuckin’ riddance,’ FB called out childishly. ‘And stay away from the Chief — he doesn’t need your poison.’
‘ You be quiet,’ Donaldson warned him. He came up close to FB again. ‘I don’t know you, but you sure got bad manners and if she hadn’t stopped me your teeth would be stickin’ outta your ass now because I’d’ve smashed them that far down your goddamned throat.’
Donaldson hurried out of the office after Karen, but she’d already caught the lift. He ran down the stairs into the car park — just in time to see the back end of her car pull away into traffic with a screech of tyres.
Chapter Ten
The surveillance was back on.
The suspected drugs dealer in the Porsche was gunning down the west-bound carriageway of the M55, heading out towards the Lancashire coast. He was averaging about 100 mph — not particularly excessive for such a car — but it showed he was fairly relaxed about things and didn’t think he was being followed. What he didn’t know was that a sophisticated tracking device had been fitted to the underside of his car and was emitting a powerful, easy to follow signal to the four-car RCS surveillance team, the nearest of which, two miles behind, was driven by Henry Christie.