by Nick Oldham
‘Coming this way,’ the ARV constable said to Henry. He racked his MP5 so it was ready. He was a happy man. He had been trained for this sort of thing and was looking forward to putting it into practice.
Henry reached the set of lights that Crazy had ignored. Three cars had been involved in a minor bump, blocking part of the road. Henry could not see any injuries, so he sneaked past and speeded up towards the town, wondering if he was actually going to come face to face with the motorcycle.
He hoped so. He had already decided that, given half a chance, he was going to ram the bastard off the road and fuck the consequences.
‘Which way?’ Crazy shouted over his shoulder, the wind taking his voice away with it.
‘Back into town,’ Miller screamed into his ear. ‘Left at the roundabout towards the motorway down the back roads.’
Crazy acknowledged these directions with a thumbs up.
He was approaching the railway bridge at 70 mph.
Henry reached the mini-roundabout as the motorbike came into view on the crest of the railway bridge just ahead of him. He screeched to a halt. The bike kept coming.
‘You might want to close your eyes, cos I’m going to ram him and I don’t want any witnesses,’ Henry said to the armed constable.
‘You have my permission to go for it, sir.’
Henry pressed the accelerator, brought up the clutch with a dithering foot, and held on to the handbrake as he built up the revs. He thought how much he had actually come to like the Vectra. It had been a good workhorse. Now it was going to go to the knacker’s yard.
Crazy saw the Vectra. So did Miller. They recognized it as the one Henry Christie was driving. Both knew he would go for them because he had to. Otherwise he was going to lose them.
Crazy powered the bike down the short hill, went wide across to the wrong side of the road to get into the best position to cut left at the roundabout. He leaned over at such a sharp angle that his knee was almost touching the road surface, and only the edges of his tyres were in contact with the tarmac. The bike twitched. Crazy corrected it expertly, then its back end twitched again; he corrected it instantaneously.
He saw the Vectra leap forwards.
In his mind Henry had prepared himself for the ram. He was going to go for it. He brought the clutch up, dropped the handbrake, virtually stood on the accelerator.
And probably for the first time since he was seventeen, he stalled a car.
The Vectra lurched as though it was going to be sick, then died.
Crazy was ready for the impact, but it did not come. He laughed out loud when he saw what had happened, then screwed back the throttle to take him out of the corner, across the edge of the roundabout. His rear end twitched, but this time he could not control it. As his rear tyre touched a minute patch of diesel spilt on the road, the wheel whipped away. Crazy fought for control. He could not pull it back and the bike went down in a shower of sparks and slid at a speed of about 60 mph across the road and under the front end of the Vectra.
Henry saw the bike go. He gripped his steering wheel, ducked his head uselessly, lifted his knees up and braced himself for the impact. It all happened within a milli-second, yet he saw it all in wonderful, coloured, sharp detail. The sparks were spectacular, like a Roman candle burning. The rear passenger took off in flight from the pillion and zoomed like a missile out of Henry’s view. The rider held on tight to his machine, fighting desperately with it all the way until the moment of impact when it collided with the front of the Vectra with a crash so loud and distorted that Henry would never forget it.
The bonnet crumpled up like a blanket and the front of the car lifted as though on a jack.
Then it was over.
‘You okay?’ he asked the ARV officer.
‘Never better.’
Henry got out on shaky legs and looked at the motorbike and rider, both trapped tightly underneath his car. The rider was still moving, but Henry saw that his left leg was sticking out at a hideous angle below the knee and shards of bone had pierced his leather trousers. Then the rider was still.
‘Boss!’ the armed officer called to Henry.
Henry looked across the twisted bonnet of his car. The pillion passenger had rolled across the pavement and slammed up against a wall. He was now, miraculously, on his feet, staggering, gun in his right hand, towards the ARV officer who had his MP5 in a firing position. The passenger was covered in blood. His left arm hung loosely at his side and his face seemed horribly deformed. He was trying to raise the pistol and fire it.
The armed officer was getting very tense, very close to shooting this man down. Henry could see the tension in the constable’s shoulders.
‘Armed police,’ he shouted. ‘Drop your weapon, drop it now!’
The man still came towards him.
‘Armed police,’ he said again. ‘Drop your weapon or I will fire.’
With what looked to be an amazing feat of strength, the injured man raised his gun, but as he did so he lost his balance, toppled over backwards and discharged the gun once into the air.
Seventeen
It was a very tired, harassed and angry Henry Christie who, at 6 a.m. two days later, took part in the briefing of a full firearms team and a full squad of hefty support unit officers at Fleetwood police station.
Prior to this Henry had faced many hours of relentless scrutiny following his, allegedly, very ill-judged decision to move a witness who was under a substantial threat without putting in place a pre-planned firearms operation. It had been a harrowing time for him as his decision-making was continually criticized as being poor and also because he received no support whatever from Bernie Fleming. Henry would not have minded so much, but he was, misguidedly it transpired, trying to protect Fleming from the fall-out. But Fleming seemed to have developed a case of memory loss and, oddly, could not recall receiving any phone call from Henry prior to the incident taking place.
All anyone could see was the result. The so-called protected witness was currently still in intensive care and unlikely to pull through; an injured ARV officer who would be okay was already talking about suing the force; and there were two dead offenders. Added to that DS Rik Dean off sick with stress, also planning to sue the county.
Only one good thing had happened to Henry over the preceding forty-eight hours. He had received the results of the DNA test taken from Marty Cragg’s dead body which matched the DNA from one of the semen traces found inside the body of the dead prostitute. Henry pulled together a few disparate pieces of information such as Marty’s involvement with bringing asylum-seekers into the country, some for the purposes of prostitution; Marty’s association with Jack Burrows, which gave him access to the dead girl’s grubby flat; his penchant for beating up women, his sperm inside her, of course, and the fact that Marty had a scald mark on his arm, which Henry had noticed while inspecting his body before sliding it into the mortuary fridge. At the time Henry had not thought anything about the scald, but it tied in with the scald mark on the girl’s body nicely. Henry believed he probably had enough there to get a conviction if Marty had still been alive. When he got the chance, he would put pen to paper and write off the murder.
It still troubled him deeply that the girl, Julie from Albania, remained unidentified.
He felt a journey to Albania coming on. He knew the police out there were keen to work alongside other European forces, and maybe he could use them to help find her family. If, indeed, she did come from Albania.
So that was the only good thing.
And now he was going for Ray Cragg, although he did not know how much good would come from sweating him in interview. Ray was a seasoned criminal and would say nothing and probably get away with everything, particularly if Jack Burrows died, which was a distinct possibility. An interview was about all Henry had. Ray was so forensically aware it was frightening. If only he had made a mistake somewhere along the line.
Henry looked at the assembled faces of the firearms and support-unit t
eams. He thought they looked pretty mean and would not like them coming through his door at any time of day.
Next to him was Jane Roscoe who was co-running the operation. She had taken the bulk of the briefing with Henry chipping in where appropriate. He had watched her talk and had been impressed.
The briefing was over at 6.30 a.m. Everyone was then given the chance to have a quick brew before turning out to be ready and in position to hit Ray Cragg’s house at seven on the dot. Henry knew Ray was in because he’d had a surveillance team tracking his movements for the last thirty-six hours.
Henry and Roscoe had a cup of tea each, but said little to each other. He finished first and with relief said, ‘Time to go.’
They left the back door of the station together and were approached by a man bearing a large bouquet of flowers. Henry held back the urge to say, ‘For me?’
The man went up to Jane.
‘Tom!’ she said, taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I needed to see you, needed to sort things out with you.’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
Tom glanced at Henry and the corners of his mouth turned down, as though he knew something. Henry’s breathing constricted for a moment. Tom looked back at his wife. ‘Please.’
Jane shook her head in disbelief and looked pleadingly at Henry.
‘You talk,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll sort this job out and you catch up later. Not a problem.’ He jumped into his pool car, a rather tatty Astra which had temporarily replaced his Vectra, and set off behind a support-unit carrier. He saw Tom hand the flowers over to Jane. He wished them well.
Henry, wearing a ballistic vest, with two armed and dangerous officers standing behind him, was towering over Ray Cragg at five minutes past seven. Ray was in such a deep sleep he had not heard the front door being battered down, nor the thud of heavily booted coppers wading into his house, clearing each room with a shout as they went. Neither did he hear his mother’s screams, or the grunt of her latest lover, as the firearms team entered her bedroom and pointed their machine pistols at them.
Henry shook Ray by the shoulder, thinking, The sleep of a man with no conscience.
He took a lot of rousing. Henry wanted to slap him – hard – but knew it would only backfire.
‘Come on, Ray. Come on, sleepy head.’
Eventually his eyes flickered open. Henry thrust his warrant card and badge in front of them and introduced himself, although introductions were probably unnecessary. He immediately cautioned Ray and told him he was under arrest on suspicion of murder, conspiracy to murder and supplying controlled drugs. ‘And whatever else I can think of in due course, but that’ll do for now,’ Henry finished.
Ray smiled mockingly. ‘Whatever. I’ll be back here in an hour.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
‘This is a nice bed you’ve got,’ Henry commented. ‘Very comfy.’
‘Had it since I was ten – it’s brill.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t think you’ll be sleeping in it again – ever.’
Ray glared sharply up, a touch of concern on his weasel-thin face. It quickly disappeared to be replaced by an expression of contempt. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Get dressed.’
Ray stumbled to the wardrobe, eyeing the two armed officers. He removed his ragged underpants and began to clothe himself. He sat back on the bed as he pulled his socks on and glanced round for his footwear.
Henry bent down and picked up a pair of trainers tucked under the bed.
‘These?’
‘Yeah, give ’em here.’
Henry smiled and handed them over.
‘Nice ones. Had them long?’
‘Few months, why?’
‘Nothing,’ Henry said innocently. ‘Let’s go, pal.’
They conveyed him to Blackpool central police station where the pre-warned custody sergeant and gaoler were waiting to receive Ray with open arms.
‘Bag up his clothing and shoes,’ Henry told the sergeant.
‘You let me get dressed, you twat,’ Ray said to Henry. ‘Now you want me to strip again!’
‘I know. I’m like that.’
‘Why do you want my clothes?’ Ray demanded, a sneer on his lips.
‘Forensics.’
‘As if,’ Ray said cockily. He undressed and was given a paper suit in replacement. He then called his solicitor, who said he would be there in half an hour. Ray was led to the cells by the gaoler. Henry instructed the sergeant to ring when the solicitor landed. He then made his way up to the MIR to prepare for a tough interviewing session. It was 8.30 a.m.
He was surprised to see Bernie Fleming in the MIR. Henry’s mouth twisted. Fleming was not his bestest friend at this moment. In fact, Henry had struck him off his Christmas card list.
Jane was also there, sitting on a chair at the allocator’s desk. She looked pretty uncomfortable. Henry wondered if she and her husband had made up and were now united against the world together.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Fleming said ominously.
‘What about?’
‘Not here, eh? DI Roscoe’s office.’
As there was no one else in the room at that moment, Henry said, ‘Here’ll do fine.’
‘As you wish.’ Fleming shrugged.
He cleared his throat and Henry thought, Oh, fuck! He experienced a tightness across his chest and found he could hardly breathe. Somehow he knew what was coming.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Fleming went on, ‘but a decision has been made at the highest level that you should be suspended from duty.’ Henry shivered as the words sank in. Fleming went on, ‘You’ll be on full pay pending the outcome of the inquiry into the incident at Ormskirk. Your professional judgement has been called into question and it is not felt appropriate to allow you to remain on duty under the circumstances.’ It was as though Fleming was reading it off a card. ‘I’m sorry, Henry.’
Henry held his tongue. What he would have said, he would have regretted. Instead, he said absolutely nothing.
‘I’m afraid you are now barred from entering police premises, other than the public areas. I want your warrant card and badge. I have been told that I should escort you from the station. Please give me your car keys, too, as well as your swipe card. You can arrange to come into headquarters later today to clear your desk.’
‘Thanks for nothing.’ Henry handed over the required items. ‘I take it DI Roscoe is running with Ray Cragg now?’
‘She is.’
‘Just one minute before I leave.’ He shouldered past Fleming and stood in front of Jane. ‘Ray Cragg is in custody. His clothing and footwear have been seized. Just cross-check his trainers with the footwear mark found on Carrie Dancing’s head, will you? It could be a match. I think he’s slipped up there, so if nothing else you’ll get him for her murder.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Henry, I swear I didn’t know about this.’
‘It’s okay, Jane. I’ll be fine. Good luck with it, and with your life. And just for the record, I’m sorry I treated you so badly. Guess I’m just one screwed-up individual.’
Her face crumpled, but he turned away and without a backward glance walked out of the police station. It was four miles to his home. He walked there without stopping.
In the end, after much argument, Dix relented and allowed Debbie to go to her house to collect her things. Her reasoning that it was safe to do so was fairly sound now: Marty was dead and Ray had been remanded in custody charged with murder; their two henchmen, Miller and Crazy, were no longer in the land of the living. Debbie argued that Ray wouldn’t be bothered keeping tabs on her house now as his organization was in total disarray. She said that it would be better to go there sooner rather than later, because if they left it too long Ray could well get his act together from prison. Dix was pretty impressed by her thought process. She was starting to think like a crim and he felt flushed with pride. Even so, he was still nervous about it.
They had
been lying low in hotels in the Lake District, staying in nice places, one night here, a couple of nights there, but not flashing the money around. But both knew they could not maintain such an unnatural lifestyle for ever. They decided they had to get out of the country and settle somewhere cheap and cheerful, so Debbie wanted to get some stuff before they left, including her passport. This had caused further friction, because Dix said he knew someone who could get her a passport, but she said she wanted her own, real one. And she wanted to know why he wouldn’t go back to his flat and retrieve his own passport, but he declined to tell her. That, he had said, was too damned risky. He would get a passport done for him by a man he knew who lived in Crewe. It would only entail a short stop off on their way south.
On the morning in question, he drove them down to Fleetwood. They were still using her car. He parked within a quarter of a mile of her house, near enough for her to walk the distance. He was feeling very tense.
She went in by the back door, not noticing the slightly damaged window frame, nor the slightly raised square underneath the lino on the kitchen floor.
She was quick and efficient. She knew what she wanted, where it was, and within five minutes everything was in a small suitcase and holdall. Then she was out, never to know she had activated a radio alarm which was not received anywhere as the box in Miller’s car had been damaged beyond repair when he had driven into the side of the ARV.
Debbie hurried back to Dix, flopped into the passenger seat and breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled victoriously at him, threw her arms around him and gave him a big smackeroo. She was getting very used to being with him night and day and it was a great feeling.
‘Let’s get out of this hell hole,’ she said. ‘Never bloody liked Fleetwood anyway. Too many bloody fishwives.’
He spun the car round and headed for the motorway. His intention was to keep driving south, stop in Crewe for his passport, then go, go, go. Eventually they would catch the ferry to Santander and drive south to one of the less developed Costas and see if they could settle down in the sun.