Dead Heat (15 page)

The blow knocked him sideways.

Both men rose to their feet and faced each other, circling now. Suddenly Verner was holding a spray canister of something in his hand.

Henry did not want to get a face full of whatever was in it. Could have been anything from CS to acid.

He stepped back and held up his hands. But it did not make any difference to Verner, who sprayed it at Henry.

Verner turned and ran.

‘Henry?' Jane heard Henry's voice calling through the mobile.

‘Yeah,' he croaked. ‘I let him get away . . . Ahh, Jesus.'

‘What is it? You sound awful.'

‘I am.' He coughed and spluttered. ‘He just CSed me.' He coughed and made a choking noise. ‘Christ! And my windpipe's crushed, and I've been fucking stabbed . . . I'm tired, wet, beaten up . . . but other than that –' he coughed again –‘feelin' fine.'

‘Stop whining . . . where is he now?'

‘He can't be too far way . . . obviously I can't see a bloody thing either at the moment. My eyes are streaming. How about turning the helicopter out for a start, then get a dog and some ARVs up and around here.'

‘Already on their way,' she said crisply.

‘The guy's dangerous,' Henry warned.

‘I gathered that.'

‘Everyone down there OK?'

‘Well, nice of you to ask . . . yes . . . shaken and stirred.' Jane looked at Wickson and his security man, deep in conversation with each other again. Wickson was as pale as white paint, but the security guy, Coulton, looked cool and composed. ‘Do you need an ambulance?' she asked Henry.

He was sitting on a rock, holding his face into the breeze, desperately trying to keep his eyes wide open to get the CS blown out. His nose was running uncontrollably and his eyes burned like fire. He managed to look down at the cut on his side by pulling up his shirt. It was not as bad as he had thought, though the sight of it made him feel a bit woozy. It was just a slash across the skin. ‘I could do with looking at, I think, but I'm not ambulance material . . . at least I don't think so,' he said vaguely. Then: ‘I'm gonna make it back to my car, somehow. I'll be all right. It might be an idea to get a few checkpoints set up. This guy'll have transport of some sort. There was a car parked off the road not far away from mine, could be his.'

‘I've arranged some checkpoints to be manned.'

‘In that case, you're well ahead of me.'

He pressed the end-call button on his mobile and stood up shakily. The exertion of the encounter had left him feeling weak kneed. He was in need of food and drink, as well as TLC. He did not feel he had the energy to make it back to his car, but there was no way he could have got the helicopter to air lift him out of there.

His mobile rang again. It was Roscoe. ‘Henry . . . description of the guy, please.'

The cut on his side opened wider as he made his way back across the fields to his car and was starting to really hurt. By the time he reached his car, it was bleeding quite badly, causing him to reappraise the severity of the wound. He was glad to see his car and the thought of sitting in the driver's seat and resting was very nice.

He fished out his car keys and pointed the remote lock at the Mondeo. As he opened the door, Verner stepped out from behind the car.

Henry swore and thought, Shit really does happen, doesn't it?

There was a pistol in his hand, pointed at Henry's guts.

‘Keys please.' Verner extended his left hand, wiggling his fingers, indicating they should be given to him.

Henry shook his head and uttered a snort, furious for not thinking of this possibility. He held the keys out on the palm of his right hand.

‘Throw them to me,' Verner instructed. ‘Nothing stupid, or you're dead on the spot.'

Henry heaved them gently underhand. They handed with a clatter at Verner's feet.

‘Good guy,' Verner nodded appreciatively. Henry saw that he was not even breathing heavily, as opposed to himself. He was still close to needing a ventilator and though he thought himself pretty fit these days, he realized that gently jogging a few miles every day did not prepare you for a cross-country hike, a life-or-death struggle with a deranged gunman and arsonist, and another hike back with a slashed side and CS in your face. Verner bent down and picked up the keys with his free hand, never once allowing the gun to waver away from Henry's body mass, nor his eyes to leave Henry. ‘Now I want you to turn round and close your eyes.'

Henry had been intrigued about what the next step would be. Presumably the man did not intend to kill him. He could have done that already. Henry guessed that what was going to happen was that he was now going to be whacked from behind with the pistol butt. If aimed correctly and with the required force, he would be driven into unconsciousness and hopefully the blow would not kill him or, worse, cause irreparable brain damage.

He tensed himself, then almost jumped out of his skin when the muzzle of the firearm was poked into the back of his neck, just below his right ear.

‘You're a pretty resourceful guy,' Verner complimented Henry. ‘Thanks for letting the tyres down on my car.'

‘Pleasure.'

Verner's mouth was very close to Henry's ear. He could feel the hot breath on it. ‘How did you know where to look?'

‘Reflected light.'

‘Ahh . . . mistake number one . . . sunlight on binocular lenses . . . it's a good job you're not a martial arts expert, otherwise I'd have been right up the shitter.'

‘You are up the shitter,' Henry said through clenched teeth. The muzzle, still pressed hard into his neck, was terrifyingly unsettling. He was finding it impossible to breathe properly. The thought of a bullet tearing itself through his brain cortex was sending him close to the edge.

‘How do you work that one out?'

‘There's cops everywhere looking for you. You'll never get away.' Despite the fear he was experiencing, Henry was trying to sound utterly convincing. He knew the reality of the situation was that they'd be lucky to rustle up half a dozen officers. ‘There's cops and cop-dogs everywhere.'

‘British bobbies. I shit 'em for breakfast.'

Suddenly both men were overpowered by a massive, buffeting sound which rocked them on their feet.

‘And of course the force helicopter!' Henry yelled as, on cue, there was the beast itself hovering less than a hundred feet above them in the morning sky. The sound of its approach had been effectively muted by the surrounding trees.

‘Stay exactly where you are and drop your weapon,' a God-like voice boomed down through the 750-watt skyshout PA system attached to the underside of the helicopter. Also, under the nose of the helicopter, was a video camera pointed directly at the two men.

‘As if,' Verner said.

The helicopter adjusted its position above them and both men swayed with the immense downdraught from the rotor blades.

‘Change of plan,' Verner shouted above the noise. ‘You can drive me out of this.'

Henry shook his head bravely and said, ‘No.'

Verner spun him round roughly and held the gun to his head, forcing it into the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.

‘Or you can die now, if you like.'

Henry looked down either side of the pistol into Verner's eyes. He was not kidding and it showed in his pupils. Henry said nothing.

‘I'll take that as a yes,' Verner said.

W
ith the very dangerous-looking pistol pointed unwaveringly at Henry's abdomen, Verner backed away and gestured for Henry to get into the car behind the wheel whilst he slid into the passenger seat alongside his hostage. He tossed the keys back to Henry and said, ‘Get driving.'

Henry started the engine after his dithering hand had only just managed to slot the ignition key in.

‘This isn't going to happen,' he insisted. ‘Now the helicopter's here, you'll never get away.'

‘In that case, you'll die and I'll go to prison,' Verner responded with indifference. ‘Now drive the car.' He raised the pistol and levelled it at Henry's head, ‘or I'll splatter your nice grey brains all over it.'

‘Can't argue with that,' Henry said, selecting first with a crunch.

As soon as the vigilant crew – known as the Air Support Unit – of Lancashire Constabulary's Eurocopter EC135 located Henry Christie's car and the incident taking place next to it, the observer began a radio commentary. At the same time, video footage was being transmitted by way of the microwave downlink to the comms room at Blackpool and at the force control room at police headquarters, near Preston.

It so happened that this was the first day at work for the newly appointed Chief Constable, who, instead of going into his office, had decided to start the day as he meant to go on: by scaring the staff shitless by turning up early and unexpectedly – which was why he wandered unannounced into the control room, just to see what was going on and to put the wind up people.

The Force Incident Manager – the FIM – the duty inspector in charge of the control room that morning, nearly had heart failure when the new Chief appeared. But he pulled himself together very quickly and briefed him on the events of the morning.

The Chief peered at the downloaded pictures from the hovering helicopter which were as clear as a bell on the FIM's monitor at his desk. He gasped with the sound a tomato makes when squashed as he saw the figures on the screen.

The FIM stared quizzically at the new boss of the force, whose head was tilted sideways as he looked at the monitor. ‘Surely not,' the FIM thought he heard the Chief whisper with complete disbelief. ‘Surely not – not on my first day?'

‘Pardon, sir?'

The Chief shook his head. ‘I said, “surely fucking not”!' He was not known to mince his words.

Jane Roscoe, isolated from events back at the Wickson household, could only listen to what was happening over her personal radio. There was a feeling of utter, empty dread inside her as the ASU observer described in detail the armed man getting into the car with his weapon pointed at Henry.

As Henry's car moved off with Henry at the wheel, Jane listened intently, her heart thumping loudly, breath short.

The management of the incident in terms of what was now happening on the road was the responsibility of the FIM. It was down to him to take charge, deploy personnel, get tactical firearms advice from the on-call adviser, and also to keep the people informed who needed to be informed. This included the on-call superintendent who took overall strategic command of the incident and the ACC (Operations), who was required to quality-assure the whole thing as it panned out.

Jane felt powerless. All she could do was tell the helicopter crew that the man being held at gunpoint was a colleague, albeit one on suspension, and that he was most definitely acting under duress. She could only then sit back and let it unfold.

But there was something she could do, she thought firmly: pin John Lloyd Wickson down and demand he tell her what all this was about.

The radio crackled busily as ARVs, a dog patrol and other uniformed officers converged on the scene as they were deployed by the FIM, who, despite having the new Chief hovering over his shoulder like an old woman, was keeping very cool and laid back about the whole thing.

Also trying to keep cool and laid back about the whole thing, but actually fighting back sheer panic which rose up in him like bile, was the man who had been taken hostage, Henry Christie.

‘Where do you want to go?' Henry asked. His sweating and very slippy hands were having major problems gripping the steering wheel.

‘Head for the motorway,' said Verner, who definitely was cool and laid back.

Henry shook his head. ‘Bad move.'

‘I'll be the judge of that,' Verner retorted, impressing and frightening Henry with his attitude. This was a guy who was actually enjoying himself.

Henry worked his way along the country lanes surrounding Poulton-le-Fylde before emerging on to the A585 and picking up the signs for the M55. It was an area he knew well, as he did most of Lancashire. He drove carefully but quickly and the pace seemed to be keeping the kidnapper happy. Overhead they could hear the beating sound of the helicopter, but it remained out of their line of sight, just tailing them.

As Henry motored towards the motorway, the first police car appeared in his rear-view mirror. It was a liveried Ford Galaxy with smoked windows. Henry recognized it immediately as an Armed Response Unit. Two constables would be on board, both, he guessed, having had permission from the FIM for covert arming at the very least.

It slotted in behind, keeping its distance, as Henry expected it would as there were now many tight rules and procedures governing police pursuits and firearms incidents which would be rigorously enforced by the FIM.

The gunman saw the car and grunted. ‘Company.'

‘You should have laid low in the fields,' Henry told him.

‘Maybe . . . anyway, shut your fucking face.' He rammed the gun into Henry's jaw – hard. Henry emitted a cry of pain when he felt the squidgy inside of his mouth split on a molar and tasted blood. ‘You a cop?'

‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Suspended.'

‘A bent cop . . . my favourite type.' Verner twisted round and saw that another police car had joined the chase. ‘We got a convoy,' he smirked. His attention reverted to Henry. ‘What were you doing at the stables?'

‘It's a long story and I doubt you've got time to listen to it. I also doubt you'll have time to listen to very much, actually.'

Up ahead was a set of traffic lights controlling a junction at which five roads converged on the main road. It was known, unsurprisingly, as Five Lane Ends. The lights were on red. Traffic was starting to build up.

‘Should I stop?' Henry asked hopefully. He saw Verner's lips twist.