Hidden Witness hc-15

by Nick Oldham

  Instead, Donaldson had to act immediately.

  Taking full advantage of the fact that, for the briefest moment in time, the gunman had his back to him, he charged across the room, powering low and hard into him, bowling him over, breaking his grip on Mark’s clothing. The collision sent both of them crashing into the back wall and into a radiator underneath the window.

  They fell into an untidy heap, but the man was very fast and strong, and highly trained. Donaldson held him in a massive bear hug, his arms wrapped tightly around him as they hit the wall. But the man managed to unpin his left hand and punch Donaldson hard on the side of the head. It was a blow that, despite travelling only a short distance, connected accurately and powerfully and with great effect. The strike of a man familiar with hand to hand combat. The knuckles smashed like brick into Donaldson’s temple, just above his jaw hinge. A shock wave surged through his brain, sending him sideways, and although he tried hard to keep hold of this extremely dangerous man, his whole body just went loose as the message relay system from brain to function crashed for an instant.

  The gunman broke free and rolled away.

  Donaldson sagged on to his hands and knees, his eyes watering from the blow, vision blurring.

  In a flowing motion, the man contorted back to Donaldson, his gun arcing around.

  Just as quickly as they’d deserted him, Donaldson’s senses returned like power being flicked on at a fuse box.

  Using his arms as pivots, he spun his legs through ninety degrees and kicked upwards at the man like a break-dancer. His right foot caught the barrel of the gun with such force he could not keep hold of it and it was banged from his grasp.

  Donaldson bounded up on to his feet and the two men faced each other, crouching low like wrestlers, both breathing heavily.

  The gunman smiled — but Donaldson had no time for that. He knew he was in a fight to the death and had to take the man down without hesitation or conscience. They went for each other, coming together like two stags in a contest that was evenly matched and brutal.

  Henry and Bill Robbins reached the front door of the house. Robbins had his MP5 strapped diagonally across his chest from left shoulder to right hip, ready for use. The Glock was in a holster at his hip. He also wore his chequered police firearms baseball cap. Henry, not wanting to feel naked, had grabbed the Taser as a security blanket.

  The door was open, led into a wide, tiled, vestibule, then through an inner door into the hallway, facing the central staircase.

  As they stepped side by side, Henry on the left of Robbins, through this second door, the two men who had been searching the first floor appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. Their guns came up.

  Robbins forced Henry away with a sweep of his left hand, and brought the H amp;K round into a firing position and screamed, ‘Police, drop your weapons.’

  The man on the right fired his pistol. Henry jumped to one side, whilst Robbins returned controlled fire with the machine pistol. Two bullets slammed into the man’s chest and he wind-milled backwards, as Robbins’ aim shifted across and he took down the second man with a burst of fire.

  It was a ferocious fight. The two men, both large, powerful, hard and determined, came at each other with a fighting style that combined brutal street battling — fists, headbutts, knees to groins, gouging and biting — with more refined, but equally violent, martial arts — chops to the neck with the side of the hand, throws, powerful short blows, thumbs to pressure points. Each man vied for supremacy. They both tired quickly and it would be the one who could just get the slight edge that would be the victor.

  Donaldson fought clinically and dispassionately, landing punches, some better than others, taking what the man had to offer and he felt he was coming out on top.

  For the men, the fight seemed to go on forever, even though it lasted less than a minute. Donaldson began to feel confident he would win as they clashed and tumbled across the lounge floor, toward the fireplace, but he slipped, his knee gave and the man was on him. He punched Donaldson hard on the side of the head again and the blow caught him perfectly. Everything suddenly gave up as the man pounded Donaldson’s head on the side of the marble hearth.

  Suddenly — amazingly — the man screamed, jerked and writhed and no longer held on to Donaldson, who rolled away and back up to his knees.

  His opponent had been Tasered by Henry Christie and was having fifty thousand volts of electricity pumped into him through the probes discharged by the gun-like device in Henry’s hands. He was experiencing what was described by the Taser manufacturer as neuromuscular incapacitation. It lasted for only a few seconds, after which he would immediately regain all his functions. This was a fact that Donaldson knew. He waited for the spasms to cease then leapt on the man before he even knew he had recovered, flipped him on to his front and forced both his arms behind his back and yelled, ‘Could do with some cuffs, here, pal.’

  Henry went over to him and handed him the pair he’d brought in with him, which Donaldson ratcheted on tight and turned the man back over.

  They made eye contact.

  ‘What the hell, Don, what the hell?’ Donaldson said breathlessly.

  ‘Had to be done, pal.’

  Henry watched the exchange, then turned to Mark Carter who was still crouched by the end of the settee. He rose on unsteady legs and Henry went over to him, said, ‘C’mere pal,’ and drew him tenderly to him and held tight.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘ You know I won’t have a choice on this one,’ FB said. ‘It’ll be taken completely out of our hands. The IPCC will have a field day with it, as will the press, and we’ll just have to hunker down and take it on the chin.’

  ‘We have nothing to hide,’ Henry said. ‘It was a fast moving scenario, two people had been murdered and another life was at risk, and from all accounts a third person, the social worker was murdered trying to protect that person. I’ll go with it and take the flak about procedure and processes. It’s not about doing things right, it’s about doing the right thing and I’m happy we did the right thing. My concern is about Bill Robbins at this point. He needs complete protection here.’

  ‘I have no choice but to suspend him from firearms duties,’ FB said firmly, ‘including the delivery of firearms training and related matters. He won’t even be allowed to pick up a gun until all this has been dealt with.’

  ‘I know that, he knows and accepts that, but he still needs our support.’

  FB nodded. ‘You have my assurance. We’ll be behind him all the way,’ he said without conviction.

  ‘In the meantime, I’d like to have him transferred on to FMIT, temporarily.’

  ‘Done.’ FB said without hesitation, surprising Henry with this move, although this was tempered when FB said, ‘I’d been wondering where to dump him.’

  Henry breathed out and looked sideways at Karl Donaldson. It was gone midnight, the raging fires of the initial incidents had died down slightly and there was a slight calm in the proceedings. The three men had decamped to the office of the Divisional Chief Superintendent at Blackpool police station, which they had commandeered. They were trying to work out how best to handle the situation. The best idea they could come up with was to tell the truth. FB had taken up a lofty psychological position behind the Chief Super’s desk, separating him from the other two, as though he wanted to distance himself from the mess of three dead bodies in a children’s care home, two of which had been shot by one of his firearms officers. And two other bodies in a terraced house in the town, one of who was a police employee who had possibly been a thief in uniform, living with a known druggy, and had unfortunately stolen the item that got her killed, a mobile phone. There were going to be uncomfortable times ahead for the force.

  ‘And you, Mr Donaldson,’ FB said, turning sardonically to the American. ‘It looks as though your speculation that an FBI hit squad was involved in numerous killings was correct.’

  ‘It does.’ Donaldson remembered the slightly disbelieving
remark FB had made in the earlier briefing Donaldson had started, but not finished, the one rudely interrupted by the fact that the mobile phone signal had been reactivated. However, Donaldson’s reply did not have any hint of triumph in it. He was completely and utterly devastated by what had happened and who was involved.

  ‘So, you’d better pick up where you left off — and then bring me up to the point as to why two FBI officers have been shot dead by one of my officers, and another one is in custody on suspicion of murder.’

  Donaldson stirred uncomfortably, pursed his lips and said, ‘I’ll try my best, sir.’

  FB raised his eyebrows. They went up in an inverted U-shape. It was the first time Donaldson had ever called him sir.

  Fortunately for Henry, because everything had happened within the confines of Cleveley House, it was a relatively straightforward task, not an easy one though, to control the scene. Two bodies at the top of the stairs, another in the kitchen, one prisoner in the TV lounge, one terrified witness — and lots of resources on the way.

  The first job was to keep a calm head and save life and limb, even if it meant compromising any evidence at the scene, but when it became obvious that three people were definitely dead and no one else was about to die, next on the agenda was securing the scene. There were many simultaneous things Henry had to think of.

  The living prisoner, once secure, was the first to be dealt with. With his face swelling like a distorted balloon, he had been held firmly down until reinforcements arrived, and then dragged bodily out and thrown head first into the cage in the section van. He’d been thoroughly searched before this, by Henry and a Support Unit officer who’d been one of the first to arrive on the scene.

  ‘Don’t trust him an inch,’ Donaldson had chirped in as he watched the search. He was exhausted by the exertion of the fight and had stood well back when the uniforms came in, although the prisoner continued to look dangerously at him through his good eye. Once satisfied he’d been searched and everything that needed to be taken off him was, two burly SU officers took him to the van. He hadn’t put up any further resistance, but Donaldson had thought his warning was necessary, considering the prisoner’s background. He had followed the officers out of the house and watched his boss, Don Barber, being hurled into the van.

  He tugged Henry to one side. ‘I want to go with him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Henry’s face scrunched up.

  ‘I want to go in the back with him.’

  ‘Not a good idea.’ Already Henry was thinking how he would explain a dead body in the back of a police van. He had enough to deal with, without a death in police custody. He knew Donaldson was eminently capable of doing something like that.

  ‘I won’t touch him.’ Donaldson held up his hands. ‘Honest — and he needs to have someone in with him. Getting out of those cuffs will be a doozy for him if he isn’t supervised. And as well searched as he was, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find more weaponry on him when he gets searched again. He’s ex-special forces.’

  ‘I’ll need to put someone else in with you.’

  ‘I need to talk to him, ask him why,’ Donaldson persisted.

  ‘Someone else has to be in there — and no funny business,’ Henry insisted.

  Donaldson nodded. Henry turned to the support unit officer who’d assisted him with the body search. He looked a useful lad and he had already earwigged the conversation. ‘You up for this?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  Henry gave Donaldson a meaningful look, then jerked his head to the back of the van, hoping to hell he wouldn’t regret this. ‘Everything off the record between you — and no thumping him.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  The van pulled away. Henry watched it with trepidation, then went back into the house where he found Bill Robbins at the top of the stairs inspecting the two bodies he’d shot. Donaldson had looked at the deceased men, but had been unable to identify them — neither, surprise, surprise, carried any ID — although he pointed to the unmasked face of one of them which was very swollen underneath an eye. Maybe a broken cheekbone from a fight in Malta?

  Robbins looked distraught. Only to be expected, Henry thought sympathetically. His mind must be in a dreadful state. Henry was keen to get Robbins off-scene, both for evidential reasons and also to get him into the clutches of his firearms bosses, for a debrief and perhaps the start of the counselling process. ‘Bill, you OK?’

  Robbins glanced at Henry, who then found out why his old friend was looking so put out. Not, it transpired, because of the ‘Oh shit, what the hell have I done; what the hell’s going to happen to me and my pension?’ thought. Or the ‘I’m so deeply affected by having killed two people that I’m going to have post-traumatic stress,’ thought either.

  Robbins said, ‘All that friggin’ training and it comes to this.’ He pointed disparagingly at the bodies of the two men. ‘I aimed for their chests, their body mass, their hearts. I intended to get two bullets into each of them, but looking at this — pah!’ He threw up his hands in disgust. ‘This one, not too bad. Chest shots, I’d say, one in the heart, the other a lung shot… so, so, but the grouping leaves a lot to be desired. But this one! Jeez — a neck and shoulder shot. What is that? Just plain bad shooting. It’s a wonder he’s still not breathing.’

  Henry blinked at him in astonishment. ‘You’re bothered about your aim?’

  ‘Well it’s what I train for, innit? If I shot like this on the range, I’d suspend myself.’

  His eyes were malevolent, yet dead. As he sat back with his cuffed hands uncomfortably behind him, he kept them unwaveringly on Donaldson sitting on the steel bench opposite, virtually knee to knee in the tight confines of the cage. They rolled with the movement of the police van as it slowed, rounded corners and accelerated. The tough-looking constable accompanying them sat tucked in one corner, watching the dangerous prisoner for any sudden moves.

  Blood dribbled out of Donaldson’s nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  ‘Talk to me off the record. Tell me why, Don. It’s over now and you’ve nothing to lose.’

  Don Barber, Donaldson’s boss, tilted back his head on to the cage wall and continued with the intimidating stare. Then his mouth curved into a smile and, as often happens with prisoners caught in the act, he said, ‘Nothing to say and you’ve got it all to prove buddy boy.’

  The smile mocked Donaldson who, still with adrenaline pulsing through him, held back the urge to pound his fist into the face of the man who, he was certain now, had taken the law into his own hands and murdered people purely as an act of revenge. ‘And anyway, why are you so bothered? You and me, we’re just the same. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.’

  ‘No, you got it wrong there, Don. My actions are always authorized and necessary and right, or they protect the lives of others in immediate, life-threatening danger.’

  He snorted. ‘Wrong, you fucking simpleton.’ Barber laughed harshly and shook his head.

  Donaldson regarded him in the darkness of the cage. The streetlights ran continuous bars of yellow across his face as the van travelled. Then he sat back. ‘I will prove it all, Don,’ he declared. ‘From the moment Shark was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, through every revenge killing you and your little team carried out. Right up to here.’ Donaldson’s index finger jabbed downwards. ‘To this point where you went beyond all comprehension and started to kill innocent people simply to protect yourself, and would have killed another boy just because he saw your face.’

  Barber shrugged confidently. ‘I’ll be protected.’

  ‘No, you’ll be thrown to the wolves,’ Donaldson said. ‘No one will come near you with a cow-prod, even.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  The van slowed, turned and pulled into the yard at the back of the police station. The momentum caused the two men to rock forwards and for a moment, their faces were an inch apart.

  ‘So getting into the van was a waste of time?’ FB
said, annoyed at having been denied a punchline. ‘He admitted nothing?’

  ‘Yeah — nothing.’

  FB looked worriedly at Henry. ‘But the stuff here, on our patch, we can prove that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry was certain. ‘When everything’s bagged together, so long as we do it all slowly, methodically and professionally, we have him. From the moment he killed the old man to the point where he held a gun to Mark Carter’s head, and everything in between. We’ll match clothing, fibres, firearms and vehicles. We found a Volvo saloon on false plates in a street behind Cleveley House and that’ll be a treasure-trove for the scientists, I suspect. There’ll be bits of the old man all over it.’

  ‘Good — make bloody sure,’ FB said.

  ‘I will,’ Henry said.

  FB rolled his heavy body up to his feet and emitted a sigh. ‘Looks like you’ve got a hell of a lot of shite in your organization.’

  Donaldson took the remark silently, but it hurt him badly and he fumed as he watched the Chief leave the room. As the door closed and he was certain the man had gone, he said, ‘Hate that guy.’

  ‘He obviously touched a nerve,’ Henry said, feeling slightly defensive of FB for once and not enjoying the sensation, so he added, ‘but I get your drift.’

  ‘Jeez.’ Donaldson touched his battered face gingerly. ‘He didn’t half hit hard. I have a horrible feeling he would’ve beaten me if you hadn’t turned up and zapped him. I owe you one. You are a bit of a Taser expert, I take it?’

  ‘Never used one in my life,’ Henry admitted. ‘Lucky I didn’t electrocute you.’

  Donaldson shook his sore head and chuckled.

  ‘Coming back to the subject, I take it that it was the computer thing that put you on to him? You haven’t really had chance to explain

  …’

  ‘Yeah. Nothing else, no suspicions whatever. Until I couldn’t get on to files I knew I had the right to access. These were the ones with detailed information about the Camorra killings, with weapon details and everything. I’d looked at the general stuff that anyone can access and noticed, as I said, there were some that didn’t seem quite Mafia-like. Truly professional hits. I told Don I was looking into the patterns, which he didn’t seem overly keen on, and that was probably when his radar started shitting itself. There was something else, too.’