Seizure (26 page)

Two strides and he was across the kitchen floor, stepping over the tarpaulin, the brace rising in his right hand.

He brought it down as hard as he could on to the back of the man's skull nearest to him. It landed with a dull clunk. The guy went down silently and instantly with legs that had turned to water.

The man in front hadn't even realized his mate had been poleaxed. This was fortunate for Henry as he stepped over the crumpled body, swinging the wrench less effectively in the confined space.

Some instinct must have told the guy all was not well.

He twisted tightly, his head jerking around, saw the wrench coming down towards his head, his eyes opening wide behind the balaclava mask he wore. He ducked away and tried to bring the sawn-off around to blast Henry.

Henry was an instant quicker and hit him hard across the side of his head.

The shotgun jumped up and discharged with a deafening blast, somewhere above Henry's right shoulder.

The man sagged sideways against the wall, dragging a picture with him. He managed to regain his balance, swung the shotgun around again, one-handed, to fire it again at Henry who was open, vulnerable, believing for an instant he was about to be killed. Using the wrench as a baton, he knocked the gun sideways and at the same time punched the man in the face with his left fist. The shotgun discharged into the ceiling, blasting away a light fitting. Henry followed up the punch with another blow of the brace, crashing it down on to the man's shoulder with a satisfying connection.

He screamed, a sound muffled by his mask, and cowered away.

But Henry's rage was up. He hit his assailant once more across the side of the head with the brace, somewhere in the region of his jaw joint, and no further sound came from him as he fell to the carpet.

He stood over the two gunmen, breathing heavily.

FOURTEEN

B
y the time the fire service arrived with two appliances, the house was blazing. Flames from the living room spread upwards to the bedroom above, setting the wooden-clad dormer alight.

Henry, coming shakily down from his adrenaline sluice, watched from a distance while standing guard over two unmasked, moaning prisoners. The two gunmen he'd dragged roughly from the burning house were now deposited on a neighbour's lawn and handcuffed together using the pair of rigid cuffs he carried in his car.

The local cops were being directed by an inspector, sealing the avenue, evacuating nearby houses where necessary and treating the whole area as a crime scene.

Two ambulances had also arrived. A paramedic had inspected the petrol burn on the back of Henry's neck, squirted some cool cream on and covered it with a gauze and plaster.

‘These guys look as though they've had a good whacking,' the paramedic said to Henry, pointing to the two offenders.

Henry nodded. ‘I hit them as hard as I could,' he admitted – and would say no different if he ended up in court over the matter. He had no illusions about this: he might well have disarmed and disabled two people prepared to kill, but there was every chance he would find himself answering charges and facing a judge in this topsy-turvy world of criminals' rights. But he didn't give a stuff. If they'd both been dead at his feet, he would've been glowing with pride.

‘Better get them to hospital,' the paramedic said.

‘Yeah.' Henry beckoned the inspector across. ‘I want three officers to go with each of these boys and I want you to arrange an armed guard for them while they're there. They're dangerous bastards.' He glanced down at them. They were nothing more than kids, as he'd initially suspected. ‘They shouldn't be trusted. I've arrested and cautioned them, so when they've finished their treatment I want them back at Burnley nick ASAP.' He stuttered a long breath, feeling himself returning from the heights.

‘OK boss,' the inspector said.

Henry squatted down on to his haunches. There was a severe pain in his right knee and he winced as his joints cracked. The two gun-boys glared at him, disrespectful and scowling despite their injuries. ‘You guys got anything you want to say to me? Like who sent you, who you're working for? No? Don't think there's a rescue package in place, guys. You're out on a limb here. I just hope it was worth it.'

‘Fuck you, twat,' one said.

‘Likewise,' the other backed up his pal.

But Henry could see the flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, so he added, ‘You'll be going down for a long, long time for this. Life probably. Get used to the thought of friendly shower times, because young kids like you are just meat.'

He watched the two ambulances drive away – he'd insisted they be kept apart as much as possible – then looked at the scene.

The circus had turned out and the place was crawling with detectives, uniform and CSI, fire service and the press. He found Sharon at a neighbour's house down the street.

‘You OK?' he asked.

She looked at him through slitted eyes and blew out a fog of smoke. ‘First time I've ever had a cop on top of me.'

Henry raised his eyebrows. She was OK. ‘Witness protection – at least for the short term while we sort this out.'

She nodded glumly.

‘And going back to the point we were at before being rudely interrupted by a Molotov cocktail, I asked you about Deakin. When is he going to run?'

‘Today.'

‘I can't help thinking I wish you'd told me that up front.' Henry looked at his watch, then scurried out of the house towards the inspector and almost dragged the man's PR from around his neck. The devices came equipped with the facility to directly call another officer anywhere in the county by simply typing in his or her collar number, as well as a mobile phone/text facility.

Henry typed in Bill Robbins's collar number.

Court finished at three that day.

Johnny Cain was bustled down to the holding cells and from there into the waiting prison bus. Once his security escort had organized itself, the roll-up doors clattered open and the convoy moved off. It headed north up the A6, varying the route, to join the M6 at Broughton, and then headed south towards Manchester. It was a smoothly run operation, no hitches, no signs of anyone showing interest in the progress other than annoyed motorists either held up or swept aside.

When it was certain that Cain had gone, Felix Deakin, who had not been called to give evidence, was brought down from the police room. His escort vehicles were reversed into the secure garage beneath the court. Handcuffed, he was put into the middle car and flanked on the back seat by prison guards.

A check that everyone was ready – and on a signal from Bill Robbins in the lead car to the outrider motorcyclists, the escort emerged into daylight, swung into the Preston traffic and headed down Ring Way out of the city.

The journey, a reverse of the morning's, was planned to take less than fifteen minutes. Deakin would then be ushered back into his cell for another night of incarceration.

It was an uneventful journey. The escort left the city limits on to the A582, crossing the River Ribble, and staying on that road before cutting on to Flensburg Way, across the roundabout at Schleswig Way, then turning right at the lights on to Dunkirk Lane and into School Lane/Ulnes Walton Lane. Lancashire Prison was about two miles along, nestling alongside the more established prisons of Wymott and Garth.

The journey along Ulnes Walton Lane was non-negotiable. Whichever way the escort chose to leave or return to the prison, Ulnes Walton Lane, a quiet country road with high hedges, hardly any traffic and no pedestrians, had to be driven along one way or the other because no other road led directly to the prison.

The lookout secreted on the corner of School Lane simply phoned ahead to give the ETA of the convoy.

As the convoy approached a right-hand bend near Norms Farm on the left, the tractor driver had a good clear view of the leading police motorcyclist. With perfect timing he emerged from the concealed entrance, swerving into the path of the cop on the bike. Affixed to the front of the tractor like two massive horns were a deadly pair of sharp-ended baling spears. The motorcyclist saw the point of one of them coming, but could do nothing to avoid it as it pierced his chest and impaled him like a whole chicken on a kebab.

The cars behind screeched to a halt, already going into anti-attack mode, but the rear motorcyclist lost control. The bike wobbled then slewed from under its rider. He slid off, ripping gaping holes in his leathers and slicing his skin off as the bike skidded and wedged itself under the rear end of the last police car, which had already started evasive measures by reversing. The two vehicles were mangled together as one.

On cue, two stolen Toyota Land Cruisers burst out from behind the high hedges at the roadside. They had been fitted with huge bull bars across the radiators and came out like two massive charging buffaloes, hammering into the sides of the front and rear police cars, smashing them sideways into the drainage channel on the opposite side of the road, effectively trapping the occupants.

The middle vehicle, the one carrying Deakin, was untouched.

The masked drivers of the Land Cruisers leapt out as four other hooded men emerged from specially cut gaps in the hedge, armed with a variety of weapons between them. Two held sawn-off shotguns with which they blasted the front and rear tyres of Deacon's car. Two held Skorpion machine pistols aimed menacingly at the vehicle. Then a fifth man appeared and pointed a .357 Magnum revolver at the driver.

As this was happening, two Transit vans appeared on the scene from their hiding place on a farm track, reversing up to the convoy.

The door of Deacon's car was wrenched open and, still manacled, the prisoner was heaved out from between his guards and bundled into the back of one of the Transits. The vehicle set off as all the remaining men leapt into the back of the second Transit, which also left the scene.

Bill Robbins sat shocked and shaken in the front passenger seat of the lead police car. He was unable to move as he was trapped against the driver, with the huge nose of the Land Cruiser right up against him, having crushed his door. He was unhurt – amazingly – and was unable to take his eyes off the police motorcyclist skewered on to the baling spear on the front of the tractor. His body still twitched and jerked obscenely in its death throes.

The whole enterprise had taken perhaps thirty seconds.

The mobile phone facility on Bill's PR started to ring.

By the time Deacon's getaway van had reached the first corner, his handcuffs had been snipped off his wrists by bolt cutters.

The van sped across the flat, tight, winding roads from Leyland across Longton Moss before coming to a stop on Wholesome Lane, near the village of New Longton. There he was transferred into a waiting Range Rover with smoked-out windows. The Transit van did a tight U-turn and accelerated away in the opposite direction. The other Transit was nowhere to be seen.

The driver of the Range Rover drove unhurriedly on to the A59, never once speaking or acknowledging Deakin, who sat winded but exhilarated in the passenger seat. They drove past police headquarters and into Preston, then on to Riversway Docklands, the city's old port. It had been redeveloped into a retail park, marina and apartment blocks, some new, some converted warehouses. The driver stopped near Victoria Mansions, a warehouse now converted into apartments, and handed Deakin an envelope with an address on it and a key inside.

The driver pulled away almost before Deakin had set foot on the ground.

The key opened a first floor apartment with a balcony and a view across the marina – which had once been the port itself – to a supermarket, a McDonalds and a DIY store. Deakin entered, sure that no one had seen him get out of the Range Rover or walk into the apartment block. Once inside he bolted the door and heaved a sigh of relief, a smug expression crossing his face.

First part completed. Now all he had to do was get his cash together and get out of the country.

‘So what are you telling me?' Deakin demanded. His face tilted aggressively.

His solicitor blinked nervously. ‘That these guys cost a quarter of a mill – up front.'

Deacon's jaw dropped. ‘Up front, you say?'

‘Look, you wanted out without mistakes. I had to get the best people – and these guys are the knees.'

‘OK, I understand that. They were good, fast, effective.'

‘Worth the money.'

‘So where does that leave me?'

‘You've got the residue from the two robberies, say sixty grand.'

‘And?'

Baron hesitated. ‘That's it.'

‘Sixty grand?' Deakin said in disbelief.

They were in the rented apartment, now behind locked doors, closed curtains. Baron had brought round an Indian takeaway and more beer and spirits. The remnants of the feast were spread around the coffee table in the lounge.

‘Yeah, not bad.'

‘Sixty grand is shit. A quarter of a mill, you say?'

‘Yeah.'

‘So that leaves, what, sixty grand plus . . .?'

‘Plus nothing.'

‘The money from the last job, the money you were supposed to retrieve? Forty grand?'

‘Never found.'

Deakin stood, paced the room. ‘Let me get this straight. You're saying that Dick Last and Jack Sumner didn't tell Cromer and Jackman where the money was?'

‘That's what I'm saying.'

‘Even though they were tortured and mutilated?'

‘That's what they said.'

‘And so you sent these two jokers to find out where my other money went, the money that the cops stole from me –
one million fucking quid!
– and now Jackman and Cromer have disappeared? Doesn't that tell you something, you stupid, dim twat?'

‘What – they found your money and did a runner with it?' Baron asked incredulously.

Deakin leaned into his face. ‘Yeah – one million and forty Gs of my money!'