Dead Heat (17 page)

Verner was deep undercover, watching the approach of the officers from the motorway. He wore a smile on his face as he thought of the way in which his captive, Henry Christie, had managed to get the better of him. The motherfucker, he thought, picturing Henry. I gave him half a chance and he took it. Verner uttered a cynical laugh.

He had not dropped the pistol, but apart from that, a knife and one other weapon, he had no other means of attack or defence.

There were armed cops coming towards him. Lots of them. Each armed with a pistol – a Glock – and an MP5 machine pistol. And there were two dogs, which frightened Verner more than the armed cops. And at least a dozen normal cops dressed in overalls.

He was outgunned and out manoeuvred, particularly with the damned helicopter hovering up there.

But he wasn't beaten yet.

The ambulance arrived eventually and, because they were facing east down the motorway, they took Henry to Preston Royal Infirmary. After the triage nurse told him he was nowhere near the top of the treatment list and applied a tatty dressing to the wound with instructions to keep it held on tight, he was then directed to the waiting room. He saw, and nearly cried with frustration, that the digital display in the waiting room said it would be at least three hours before he would be seen by a doctor. He sauntered to the newsagent shop and bought himself a bottle of water, a Mars bar and a newspaper, heading back to the waiting room to bed in for a long, mind-numbing wait on a plastic, bottom-numbing chair. He called Kate from the payphone – the battery on his mobile had given up – and spent some time reassuring her he would be OK. She was frantic and wanted to come to him, but he fended her off, saying he could cope . . . although he wasn't too sure how he would be getting home. Just as he'd set off in the ambulance, a recovery truck had arrived on scene to rescue the very sorry-looking Ford Mondeo from the grass verge. He hadn't had the heart to tell Kate what a mess the car was in. He told her he would ring later, when he knew more. Then she could come and collect him, but in the meantime he would be fine by himself.

In the waiting room a shroud of weariness engulfed him. His aches and pains were ebbing, thanks to the paracetamols doled out in triage, but the feeling of stupidity was like a tide coming in.

He unfolded the newspaper and flipped to the back page.

The dogs were eager. Lancon Griff and Lancon Bart were both highly experienced tracker dogs who knew their business well. They moved into the trees, controlled by their handlers, each dog alert, ready and sensing the possibility of flesh and bone. Juicy.

Their handlers were kitted out with ballistic armour, as were the firearms officers accompanying them.

They were as tense as the dogs.

But not quite as tense as the man hidden deep in the undergrowth, watching their relentless approach. He was being hunted, a change of perspective from what was his usual state of affairs. He was normally the hunter. He was the one who normally scared people. But he knew he was trapped in here. The crew of the helicopter had seen him enter the woods. They knew he was in there somewhere and they had all day to find him.

Verner knew he had to take a risk if he wanted to escape. Slowly he raised himself on to one knee, dug his toe into the soft ground and launched himself upwards and began running through the trees.

The dogs spotted him, howling with delight, whilst behind them their handlers shouted instructions which the dogs probably never heard.

Fang locked on to his target with all the speed, accuracy and tenacity of a Patriot missile. Bart was twenty metres behind him. Fang's head went down, ears back, as sleek as that missile, instinctively veering round objects such as tree trunks, flying over underbrush, his eyes wide with blood-scented anticipation.

Verner ran.

Fang closed in.

Suddenly Verner stopped dead in his tracks, spun on his heels and pointed the pistol at the onrushing canine.

Fang did not hesitate. A gun meant nothing to him.

Verner dropped the gun and presented the dog with his left forearm, which Fang gratefully took as he leapt like the Hound of the Baskervilles at his quarry, leaving the ground with all four feet and seizing the arm within jaws that could crush bone like biscuit. He forced Verner over.

Verner screamed as those powerful hinges bit into him.

‘Griff – down! Griff – down! Now!' screamed the handler.

Griff – Fang – held on a few moments longer than he should have, and in that brief period of time looked Verner straight in the eyes. Verner could have sworn he saw sheer disappointment in the wolf-like eyes. Slowly the big dog opened his jaws and released a nicely punctured arm.

Fang stepped back to reveal three armed cops half-circled around Verner, MP5s aimed at him.

‘Armed police!' one of them shouted. ‘Keep still and do as you are told and you will not be harmed.'

Verner cradled his injured arm. ‘I want to be taken to hospital, now,' he demanded, getting the request in straight away. ‘That dog bit me and me leg is also injured from the accident.'

‘I don't give a fuck what you want,' the armed cop responded. ‘You do as I say.'

Jane Roscoe rushed into the waiting room, desperate to see Henry. He was engrossed in the newspaper and did not see her arrive. He only looked up when he became aware of someone standing in front of him.

‘Jane – what are you doing here?'

Her face was white with worry, her hair a mess, clothes in disarray. ‘I was concerned about you,' she admitted. Somehow everything then seemed to drain out of her, energy palpably leaving her. Henry saw it go, like a spirit. He reached out and steered her to the empty chair beside him. ‘Sorry,' she said, ‘just tired. Been a bit of a busy night.'

‘I'll get you a tea, with sugar in it for energy.'

He left her and extracted two cups of sweet tea from the rather obstinate machine in the waiting room.

‘Ta,' she said, taking a sip, sighing as it went down, and regaining her composure. ‘Sorry, Henry. How are you?'

Before he could answer, she was called up on her radio, which was in her shoulder bag.

‘Receiving,' she said.

‘Just for your information – suspect arrested.'

Jane glanced at Henry. ‘Any further details?'

‘Not yet, except he is en route to PRI, apparently having been “dogged”.'

‘Is he being escorted by armed units?

‘Affirmative.'

‘Received, thanks.' To Henry, she said, ‘He's coming here.'

‘I'll bet the bastard gets treated before I do,' he moaned miserably.

H
enry checked his watch. It was almost 9 a.m. He was surprised it was not later. He felt as though he had been up for a day at least, not just a matter of hours. He and Jane Roscoe were standing outside the casualty department with plastic cups of tea in their hands, getting some warmth out of the sun which was still rising slowly in an ice-blue sky. Sitting in the waiting room had become stifling, particularly as it got busier and busier with more sick and lame people hanging about looking sorry for themselves. Henry had suggested they stand outside and Jane, now a little recovered from her energy-sap, agreed quickly.

They leaned on each other as they walked out of the door, but separated once outside by the ambulance bay.

‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘Go ahead.'

‘Do you have any idea what the hell is going on up at the Wickson's?' Henry probed. He watched her face, sure he would be able to tell if she lied. She looked away before answering and he knew he'd got her. She was about to fib.

‘No idea, but as you said, somebody's obviously got it in for them, though.'

Henry accepted the untruth. He could tell she knew more than she was letting on, but in some respects he did not blame her for not telling him. After all, he wasn't a cop any more. Not at the moment, anyway.

‘That's an understatement. They must have some very nasty enemies.'

‘Mm,' she agreed and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Very nasty.'

Henry chuckled, realizing he would get no further with her. ‘The guy they're bringing in here is a very dangerous individual. A bit mad, I'd say, but very dangerous. Now why would someone as dangerous as him, whoever he is, be connected to John Lloyd Wickson, local multi-millionaire and celeb?' It wasn't a question he expected to be answered. The expression on Jane's face told him he was right.

‘What exactly went on up the hill and in the car?' she asked.

Henry's side twinged. He winced, gasped and then creased over as pain shot through him.

‘Henry . . . ?'

‘I'm OK.' His voice was a croaky whisper.

‘Maybe we should sit back down?'

‘Yeah, maybe.'

Before they could move, a police convoy drove into the hospital grounds, one armed-response unit on either end of an ambulance. The ambulance cut dramatically into the bay outside Casualty whilst the two police units stopped and disgorged their armed occupants, MP5s draped across their chests, ready for deployment.

Henry and Jane stepped out of the way, but remained in a position from which they could see into the ambulance when the doors opened.

Inside, it was pretty busy. Two armed cops, one paramedic and the casualty on a stretcher.

The hospital had been informed of the arrival previously and a small team of nurses, a doctor and a porter turned out to the back of the ambulance.

‘I didn't get that treatment,' Henry said. Jane smiled.

The casualty was handcuffed and strapped on to the stretcher. He was expertly removed from the back of the ambulance and slid on to the wheeled gurney brought by the porter. The paramedic was explaining to the doctor what had happened. Henry caught a few words, ‘Car accident . . . been unconscious . . . some sort of leg injury . . . bitten by a police dog,' as the stretcher was wheeled swiftly past.

The man on the stretcher did not look particularly unwell, but Henry knew why he had been brought to hospital rather than taken straight into a custody office. His injuries would have meant that he would have had to come to hospital at some stage, so by bringing him in first and getting him sorted meant that his medical condition would be gotten out of the way and the custody sergeant would be booking someone in who would be fit to detain. It was always a royal pain in the bum taking prisoners back and forth to hospital. Best to get it done and dusted before they actually came in if at all possible.

Henry glanced briefly at a fancy Lexus with smoked-glass windows being driven on to the hospital car park, then followed the procession back into the hospital. He needed to sit down.

Jane said, ‘I'll go and sort this out.' She hurried ahead, leaving him to hobble along unassisted. When she got a few yards ahead of him, she stopped and turned back. ‘Henry . . . I just want you to know it's great to see you again, even if you did bin me . . . and though I was really worried about you in the car and all, I really am over you. Honest.' She came back and patted his shoulder patronizingly, then legged it.

Henry shuffled on. The painkillers were wearing off already.

He had gone only a matter of feet further when he heard a voice calling him that made his blood freeze.

‘Henry Christie,' it boomed.

Henry felt the colour drain from his face.

‘Henry! Come here, you shit.'

Slowly, he eased himself round.

It was the new Chief Constable of Lancashire Constabulary calling him. His name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, often referred to as ‘FB' by those who loved and loathed him.

‘Fuckin' bastard,' Henry breathed.

The hospital staff wheeled the injured prisoner into an emergency treatment room, well away from any public view. It was tight in there with two armed cops, two nurses, a doctor and the patient himself, all crammed in behind the drawn curtains of the ETR.

The doctor was making an initial assessment.

‘These'll have to come off,' said the harassed and overworked young man, indicating the rigid handcuffs. ‘I can't treat anyone who is shackled.' He shone a torch into Verner's left eye. Neither of the cops made a move. The doctor's head swivelled and his tired eyes locked on one of the officers. ‘These handcuffs come off.' There was no room for argument in his voice.

Henry found a chair in one corner of the waiting room from which he could view the comings and goings. Within minutes of the prisoner arriving the place was swarming with cops. At the head of all this activity and loving every moment of it was the strutting figure of Fanshaw-Bayley.

Henry knew FB well. Over the years Henry had worked for him in a number of different roles as FB had risen through the ranks of the Constabulary as a detective. He had last been in the force as an ACC in charge of Operations but had left to take up a job in Her Majesty's Inspector of Constabulary. Since Henry had been on suspension, FB had applied for and been successfully selected as the new Chief Constable when the old one moved down to the Metropolitan Police as a Commissioner.

And now he was back.

Henry's nemesis.

His experience of FB had, more often than not, been negative, although Henry secretly believed that FB quite liked him. A bit. It was just that FB tended to use Henry and his skills without consideration of the damage it might do to him. Henry had suffered under FB, but in some respects had also thrived.

When FB left the force for the HMIC, his leaving present to Henry had been to transfer him on to the SIO team. But it was whilst he was a member of that team that Henry had been suspended from duty.

The reappearance of FB on the scene did not make Henry feel any more confident about his future.

FB took no prisoners. He was ruthless and vicious.

Henry watched him coming towards him. He did not stand up.

FB beckoned him out of his seat.

Despite himself, Henry stood up grudgingly and reopened the cut on his side again.