The Nothing Job (30 page)

This time, as Henry surged through the door into the holding-cell area, he decided to let his instinct direct him. He ran in shouting, ‘Bill – you stay here, guard the scene, do the necessary. Georgia, you stay with him … Karl,' Henry held up the PR, ‘fancy a run out in your Jeep? Suspect vehicle spotted nearby.'

Instantly Donaldson said, ‘You got it.' He was a true man of action and didn't need a second invitation.

‘Follow me.'

Henry ran out through the shutter door and headed towards the front of the police station where Donaldson had parked up. Donaldson loped easily behind him, pointing his remote locking fob at the car.

‘Heading towards Worden Hall,' the officer, call sign Charlie Five, said coolly over the PR, referring to the fact that the vehicle he was following was now in Worden Park and heading in the direction of Worden Hall in the centre of the park.

‘I'll bet they have a change of transport lined up in there,' Henry guessed as he slid into the front passenger seat next to Donaldson, who started the massive four-litre engine and pulled out of his parking spot. ‘DCI Christie to comms – please reiterate – extreme caution. These men are armed and extremely dangerous.' He turned to Donaldson and pointed at the big Tesco supermarket over the road. ‘Right across the car park,' he directed the American, then sat back and added sourly, ‘A bit like World War Two … us Brits do all the hard work, then you lot come along and get the glory.'

‘Eh?'

‘Georgia Papakostas?'

Donaldson began to laugh.

‘Across here and right across the town square,' Henry said, directing Donaldson across the supermarket car park and instead of leaving by the usual route by road, he told him to drive across the flowerbeds, then over a tiny cobbled square to join Worden Lane, which led to the park. Henry knew where he was going. Not because he'd been a cop in these parts, but because many of the driving courses he'd attended had used these roads regularly because of their close proximity to headquarters. The area was often rife with cops on driving courses.

The Jeep scoured deep tracks into lawns and flowerbeds and bounced over the tiny square on to Worden Lane as instructed.

‘Straight on,' Henry said, holding on for dear life.

Donaldson rammed his foot on to the gas pedal, things becoming much more urgent as Charlie Five screamed, ‘Shots fired, shots fired …'

‘Faster,' Henry said, seeing the walls of the park approaching.

Charlie Five was a patrol crewed by one cop, Rob Howard, a rather grizzled PC who, though counting his pay days to retirement, was still as keen as mustard and still loved the buzz of coppering and loved seeing villains behind bars.

He was one of only two mobile-response officers on duty in Leyland that morning. If he was honest, it had been a dull early shift and he was anticipating buying a fried breakfast from the Tesco restaurant across the road from the station, his usual early shift treat.

In all honesty, Howard had been tootling, certainly not breaking any pots that morning. Very few jobs had come in and as the circulation about the Range Rover came up and the serious incident at the court, his whole demeanour changed. He had been lazily heading back to Tesco and when the wanted vehicle's details came over the radio he was, in old-fashioned police parlance, heading in an easterly direction along Langdale Road towards Worden Park. He reached the junction with Worden Lane, the road which skims the perimeter of the park, and stopping there just saw the tail end of a vehicle turn into the park gates some two hundred metres to his right. To be honest he wasn't sure if it was a Range Rover, but it was definitely an off-roader of some sort.

He screwed his Astra patrol car to the gates and plunged into the park, seeing that the vehicle at the far end of the car park was definitely a Range Rover – as described in the radio circulation.

His right foot hit the accelerator and his finger hit the transmission button on his PR.

The Range Rover flew out of the car park on to the narrow road snaking through the park and into the small car park behind the Arts and Craft Centre attached to the old hall. PC Howard was only seconds behind it as the 4x4 skidded to a spectacular, muck-chucking halt and two masked men leapt out, brandishing weapons in the PC's direction.

Howard, no coward, knew he was in deep trouble, as he had got too close in his enthusiasm. The two men jogged menacingly towards him, no hurry, and raised their guns at him. Howard slammed the gearbox into reverse, not the easiest gear to find quickly on that particular Astra, and slewed backwards away from them, screaming into his PR as two bullets thudded into the radiator.

‘Shots fired, shots fired,' the PC's voice squawked distortedly over the PR, the sound of his engine revving in the background.

Donaldson swerved in through the park gates, urged on by the voice and that of Henry Christie yelling in his ears.

‘Go, go, go,' he said dramatically, even though a little voice in his skull told him how stupid that sounded, despite the circumstances.

A woman walking her dog had to leap out of the way, dragging her poor pooch, almost strangling the little beast.

‘Straight on,' Henry said.

The Jeep bounced across the tarmac and ahead of them they could see the Astra reversing, but not the gunmen who were hidden by the hedge surrounding the Arts Centre car park.

The Astra reversed wildly back down the road, but then the PC lost it and ran it off the edge of the road into soft grass, the wheels spinning.

‘There!' Henry said. He pointed across the wide meadow towards the far end of the car park as the Range Rover emerged on to the grass and sped towards the park exit. Donaldson grimly yanked the steering wheel down and bounced the Jeep off the road on to the grass, going diagonally for the Range Rover, even though it was some two hundred metres ahead of them.

Donaldson's pride and joy was now in its element, but so was the Range Rover, which tore across the open space, bounced back on to the park road and raced towards the park gates.

Henry gave the commentary over the radio: ‘Range Rover now on the road leading to the park exit. Three on board, I think, all males. For your information I am following in a green Jeep, a private vehicle …' Henry held tight as Donaldson's 4x4 shot up the banking from the grass and on to the road. Even though he was strapped in, he bounced high and smacked his head on the roof, and was thrown hard against the door. Undeterred, Henry continued into the radio, ‘Vehicle heading at speed towards Worden Lane.' His voice was level and controlled over the air.

The Jeep screamed its way through the automatic gear box.

Ahead of them the Range Rover reached the park exit, skidded out on to the main road and went right. Henry relayed this, then turned to Donaldson. ‘Won't this bus go any faster?'

The American shot him a warning glance.

‘Big car, little dick,' Henry said spitefully.

‘Up yours,' Donaldson said as his car passed through the gates and emerged on to the main road – and was broadsided by a large articulated milk lorry coming in the opposite direction.

‘T
hat was lucky.'

‘Luck is comparative.'

‘We got out alive, unscathed – a miracle.'

‘Admittedly that
was
lucky.' Henry could still feel the impact, the unbelievably loud crash and crunch, the tearing of metal. He could see the Jeep being spun and lifted across the road into the front garden opposite. The airbags deploying. The thoughts made him go cold. ‘The other side of the coin is that – actually, the other
sides
of the coin are – your precious American piece of shit is a write-off and your reckless driving allowed three major villains to escape.'

‘You sound pissed at me, but do I detect an undercurrent of hostility, even deeper than the facade?'

‘Fancy talkin' for a Yank,' Henry said. ‘Maybe your brain got mashed after all.'

‘Hey!' Donaldson stopped and spun Henry around. They were at the front of Leyland police station having returned from a four-hour sojourn at the infirmary at Preston for a check-up following the crash. Bill Robbins had collected them and was walking behind them as they bickered their way towards the station. ‘You got somethin' to say, say it, pal!'

Henry glowered at him and shook his arm free. ‘I'm annoyed because villains got away – OK? And once again, no doubt, I've had the proverbial investigative rug pulled away from under me. Duh!'

‘OK, fair enough.'

Henry shook his head, annoyed.

‘I thought you were pissed at me for more fundamental, personal reasons.'

He shook his head again and walked in through the front revolving doors of the station to find the small foyer crammed full of the media, a hum of anticipation reverberating around the room. A double murder at the Magistrates' Court. Juicy stuff. Great headlines and a story that would probably run for weeks.

Henry stopped, not expecting the sea of humanity, some might say dregs of the earth, but knew immediately that such a serious, violent incident would be a magnet for all sections of the communication trade. There were probably about thirty people crammed in there, but through them all he caught sight of Georgia sitting squashed on a chair in one corner. She did not spot him or Donaldson immediately. Henry eased his way towards her.

‘Why are you here?' he asked.

She jumped to her feet, hugged him, then hugged Donaldson longer and said, ‘How are you, how are you?'

‘To say we came face to face with the business end of a milk truck, we're doing fine – a remarkable story of survival. If either of us had been going any faster …' Henry left the words unsaid. ‘As it is, I've got a bruised arm and he's got a thick head. But that doesn't answer my question – what are you doing out here?'

‘I was asked to leave by Chief Superintendent Anger.'

Henry left Donaldson and Georgia in the foyer, the American chivalrously saying he would stay and keep her company and that he had some arranging to do re his car and its recovery and replacement anyway.

Henry went through into the guts of the station and up the steps to the second floor, where he knew all the activity would be located in terms of the investigation. He found that the canteen had been transformed into a Major Incident Room as if by magic. It was hardly recognizable as the room he'd had a coffee in earlier.

It was buzzing with activity, many people having been brought in quickly at short notice. Henry recognized some old regulars, those detectives who were brought in for investigation after investigation. Those who knew their roles backwards and could be relied upon time after time to do the business.

He walked through the hastily arranged tables, which were already starting to conform to the model in the MIR operating manual.

Henry loved it. He felt like he was in his element. There was nothing better than being part of a murder squad, no buzz to beat it.

And it was something that had been cruelly taken away from him by the advent of Dave Anger at the helm of FMIT.

Henry knew he would probably have no part in this investigation and it hurt to think so. He'd already been informed that Jack Carradine had been put in charge and was calling the shots. That had been revealed to him whilst in the casualty waiting room.

Henry spoke to a detective sergeant he knew, one of those reliable specialists brought in for his knowledge of evidence-logging.

‘Hello, Henry.'

‘Where's the SIO?'

The DS pointed in the direction of the corridor. ‘CID office … There's a briefing going on.'

Inside, Henry growled. ‘Thanks.'

‘Henry – you don't know where Jerry Tope is, do you? I know he was doing a bit of work for you, wasn't he?'

‘On his mobile, I assume. Why?'

‘We've been trying to contact him for this job, to run an intelligence cell.'

‘I'm not sure exactly where he is.'

‘OK, ta.'

Henry went to the CID office. He paused outside, his hand on the doorknob, suddenly feeling a little woozy. He wondered if he was suffering from delayed shock from the crash. Maybe he shouldn't even be at work, but back home being tended by Kate.

He knew that if it had been a normal day, not one on which a double murder had occurred, or one which he'd been shot at by a gang of assassins, then he might well have gone home, put his feet up and watched
Diagnosis Murder
, rooting for Dick van Dyke.

However, today wasn't like that.

He'd stumbled across a murder being committed, almost took a bullet himself, chased the offenders and almost come to another sticky end under the wheels of a heavy goods vehicle. So there was no way on God's earth was he going to go home and suck his thumb.

He recovered his composure and opened the door to the CID office.

The office was not particularly large and it didn't take much to fill it, and the twenty-five to thirty detectives, some sitting, most standing, did just that. Henry had to ease his way behind them, then stand on tiptoe to see over their heads to the front of the office where the SIO was addressing them.

DCI Carradine was the centre of attention and it was clear from what he was saying that Henry had missed the briefing almost in its entirety.

‘So that is where we stand,' Carradine said, drawing the briefing to a conclusion. ‘That will be the focus of the enquiry, because we believe that the second man in the cell was just unfortunate – wrong place, wrong time – and he was killed simply because he was a witness.' Henry guessed that Carradine was talking about Downie. ‘These men,' Carradine went on, ‘are obviously very dangerous individuals and we are dealing with a highly organized group of people who will stop at nothing to further their aims and stay free.'

Henry caught sight of Dave Anger sitting down at the front of the office next to the standing Carradine. Henry's nostrils flared.