Sacrifice (22 page)

When Gary Quinnell jumped out of the Volvo in front of him he looked so big that for a split second Mullany had trouble rationalising how he’d ever fitted into it in the first place. The cop wasn’t just tall; he was as broad as an ox, with a neck as thick as a telegraph pole.

‘Give it up, boyo,’ Gary Quinnell said menacingly.

Mullany hurled his phone over the nearest wall, hoping to Christ that it would land somewhere like a river or sewer from where it couldn’t be retrieved, and then tried to run again. Quinnell ballooned into his path. Mullany tried to change direction. But Quinnell blocked his way yet again.

The rugby tackle the big cop now put in was somewhat more successful than the one his female colleague had attempted. The brawny shoulder that smashed into Mullany’s capacious gut felt as though it had cut him in half. The fugitive was flung down on the concrete with so much force that the air
whooshed
out of his lungs. Quinnell landed on top of him, eighteen stone of bone and muscle, his ham shank forearm crushing Mullany’s windpipe.

‘You’re locked up, you little bastard!’

In The Hayrick, Cameron Boyd only heard the start of this commotion. He stood bolt-upright in shock, the phone clamped to his ear. White-faced, he pivoted around, gazing across the pub interior. There was nobody immediately, obviously suspicious. That slapper at the bar? No fucking way. The barman himself? That was a non-starter as well. He’d seen that fat bastard in here a dozen times. The kids in the corner were too young.

Then Boyd heard another phone ringing.

He peered left through the entrance to the pool room. There were two blokes in there, weren’t there? One of them had red hair, freckles and ludicrous ears. But it was the other one who Boyd saw answer the call – the lean, dark-haired fella –
he
now stood there with phone to ear, cue in hand. A rough-looking customer, but he seemed agitated. Then the one with the ears stepped back into view and gazed out into the main bar – his eyes locked with Boyd’s.

And he knew.

Both of them knew.

‘Sorry Heck, I got clocked,’ Shawna said into Heck’s ear. She sounded half-dazed. ‘Some fucking clown from years ago. We’ve had to lock Mullany up.’

With a crash, a table was upended as Gregson dashed from the pool room.

Heck spun around – just in time to see Boyd sprinting across the pub interior, glasses rolling in his wake, and vanishing through the door that led to the toilets. Gregson vanished through the door after him. Heck gave chase too. Both officers came under attack in the narrow, darkened passage. Boyd had hung on to his own pint glass and now flung it at them; it struck the wall and glass exploded, causing both to duck. Boyd ran on, leaving the pub by a rear exit.

‘You alright?’ Heck shouted.

‘Yeah!’

‘The bastard’s running … you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Pretty good idea, sarge!’

‘Whatever happens … whatever, don’t let him get away!’

Behind the pub there was a small car park. Its entrance was a rutted drive, which cut left around the side of the building to the main road. But a small alley branched away in the opposite direction. Of Boyd there was no sign. Heck and Gregson halted, breathless.

‘Check the front,’ Heck said, lurching to the alley mouth. ‘If you don’t see him, grab the van.’

Gregson nodded and galloped away. Heck was twenty yards along the alley, which veered downhill between sheer brick walls, when he heard a tin can clattering ahead.

‘DS Heckenburg, SCU … to Echo Control?’ he shouted, switching channels on his radio.

‘
SCU?
’ came the reply.

‘Chasing a suspect for the Desecrator murders – down the alley behind The Hayrick pub! I need support fast, over!’

‘
Received, sarge. We’ll get someone there, over!
’

The alley’s slope steepened. Heck passed a point where an empty can was rolling. Someone had just clouted it as they’d hammered past. The mobile bleeped in his pocket. He slammed it to his ear. ‘Heckenburg!’

‘Sarge, it’s me!’ Gregson shouted. By the rumbling engine, he was back in the van. ‘Where are you?’

‘Dunno … tell you in a minute. Try and get round to the back of the pub.’

He emerged from the alley on level ground. To his right a street led away between terraced houses, but directly ahead stood a one-storey, flat-roofed building, which looked like a working man’s club. Beyond this lay open rough ground with a few parked cars dotted across it. Past those stood the tall, monolithic shapes of tower blocks. A distant figure was fleeing towards them.

‘Got him,’ Heck shouted into his radio. ‘He’s running past St Mary Magdalen social club, heading towards the flats, over.’ He could hear sirens in the distance, but a long way off. The radio crackled in response, as messages were dispatched back and forth.

‘Sarge?’ Gregson bellowed down the phone. ‘Can’t find you!’

‘This is the blind leading the blind, Andy! Follow the radio chat.’

Some distance ahead, Boyd vaulted over a metal crash-barrier, scrambled down a paved embankment and vanished into an underpass. Heck leapt over the crash-barrier as well and almost turned an ankle as he side-scampered down the flags. He staggered at the bottom and fell, only just avoiding scatters of broken glass. When he regained his feet, Boyd was already about eighty yards away, running full pelt.

‘
DS Heckenburg, we need your precise location, over!
’ came the voice of Comms.

Heck gave it as he ran, even though he knew his message would break up with so much concrete and steel above and around him. ‘Target is Cameron Boyd!’ he added. ‘White male, thirty-three years old, strong build. Well known to your lot, I’d imagine. Wearing a black canvas jacket, white t-shirt, khaki pants!’

Boyd swerved left at the end of the underpass and disappeared. Heck skidded around the corner a few seconds later, and saw him racing across a kiddies’ playground. The night was now filled with sirens. He spotted spinning blue beacons in his lateral vision, but they were still far away – hurtling over bridges in the wrong direction, or parked on flyovers, attempting to locate him. Meanwhile, Boyd ducked through a wire-mesh gate at the far side of the playground. Heck ran on, chasing him down the next street. Terraced houses stood down either side, and a row of concrete bollards sat at the far end, but just as Boyd reached these, a pair of headlamp beams slashed across him and a vehicle screeched into view on the far side. It was the Bedford van. The driver’s door burst open and Andy Gregson jumped out.

Boyd came to a sliding halt. He whirled around, spotted Heck … and darted left towards a fence made from front doors nailed together. With the athleticism of the truly desperate, he sprang up, catching the top of this rickety construction with both hands, and in a single smooth movement, threw himself up and over.

‘Back in the van!’ Heck shouted to Gregson. ‘Keep trying to head him off!’

The younger cop nodded and doubled back.

Drenched with sweat, lungs aching from the exertion, Heck scrambled up the fence and levered himself over – into a shadow-filled yard, where a small, bullet-like shape came at him, snarling. It was a pit-bull, but thankfully it was chained. Heck edged around it and stepped out through an open gate, beyond which a narrow entry cut left to the foot of a flight of steps. At the top of these, a single bulb glowed over an arched brick entrance. There was a clamour of splintering wood.

Heck galloped up there, three treads at a time. The entrance opened into a passage connecting various council flats. The first door on the left had been reduced to a mass of shattered softboard. Heck shouldered his way through. On the other side, a heavy, middle-aged man had clearly been seated in an armchair watching the small television in the corner; he was now on his knees, one hand cupping his nose, from which blood was flowing copiously. He regarded Heck with dazed eyes, and pointed through an open door.

‘What address is this?’ Heck asked.

‘G– Gornall Rise,’ the man stammered.

Heck relayed the details via radio as he raced through into a small bedroom, the window of which hung open. Beyond this lay a sloping roof. Heck climbed out, jumped down and hurried forward, rubber soles sliding on the rain-slick slates; on the far side he found an eight-foot gap between this roof and the next, from where a fire-escape zigzagged down twenty feet or so into a dismal alley. Boyd was already down there, dashing around a corner, scattering a clutch of wheelie-bins.

Heck backtracked a few yards, then sprinted forward and dived for the fire-escape. His body smashed against it hard and he just managed to catch hold, dangling there by one hand – rusty iron burning his twisted fingers – before he got to grips with it properly, and scrambled down. He charged around the corner, only to find himself peering over a steel fence into a vast canyon-like abyss. Below, traffic sped by in both directions. About fifty yards to his right, Boyd was making his way across an arching steel bridge. He reached the far side and disappeared up another entry.

Heck followed wearily. The entry became a tiled tunnel. Heck ran through it, to deafening vibrations from overhead. It sounded like a train, and indeed, a few seconds later, he bounded up another flight of stairs and came out onto the westbound platform of Ashburys station. As he’d heard, a train had just pulled in and was now idling there. It was a local connection, four compartments only. From what he could see through its grubby windows, quite a few passengers were travelling. He glanced along the platform. An elderly lady and two children were boarding at the train’s farthest end. A young guy with a backpack was getting on closer at hand. There was nobody else in sight but the train doors had been open for at least a minute – Boyd could have got on board before Heck arrived. He loitered there, torn with indecision. A sharp electronic bleeping, warning that the train doors were about to close, jerked him to life. He threw himself forward, entering the nearest compartment. The doors hissed closed and the train jolted into motion. He’d moved so quickly that he almost overbalanced. But no sooner had he steadied himself than a figure seated not five yards away with back turned, jumped to its feet and spun around.

It was Boyd. He was ghost-white and gleaming with sweat, his hair a tangled, oily mop. ‘Pig bastard!’ he spat, spittle seething through rotted brown teeth. ‘Had to fucking push it, didn’t you!’ He stuck his right fist under his left armpit and pulled out a long screwdriver, maybe twelve inches, its handle bound with duct-tape, its blade sharpened to a needle point.

Heck braced himself, but Boyd didn’t charge. Instead, he retreated along the aisle. The passengers had finally realised something was happening. They froze or shrank away, terrified by the sight of the drawn steel. One of them was close on Boyd’s right: a girl, about eighteen – a Goth, with fancy make-up, piercings and spiked, sprayed-green hair. She shrieked as Boyd grabbed her by the collar of her heavy black coat and hauled her to her feet, the point of his spike pressed against her throat.

‘Pig bastard!’ Boyd hissed again.

‘Everyone relax!’ Heck shouted. ‘I’m a police officer, and there’s no need for anyone else to get involved.’

‘Yeah … let ’em know who you are, you fucking pig bastard!’ Boyd laughed. ‘You’ll get this tart killed, and the rest of ’em. I’m fucking warning you … back off!’

‘You’d better think this through, Cameron.’ Heck advanced warily. ‘You’re in deep shit and you’ve got nowhere to go.’

The girl whimpered. The point was jammed so hard against her white throat that beads of blood were appearing.

‘I’m warning you, I’ll kill this bitch!’

‘And I’ll shove that thing so far up your arse you’ll be picking your teeth with it!’

Neither saw the compartment door behind Boyd swing open as the conductor, a tall West Indian guy, came through. Even Heck, who was facing that way, only saw him when it was too late. At first the conductor looked startled by what was going on, but then his expression hardened – perhaps people had been mugged on his train before. He approached, lifting the strap of his ticket-machine over his head, only for Boyd to sense him at the last second. He planted a foot in his captive’s backside and propelled her forward into Heck, before whirling around. The conductor swung a right, but Boyd blocked it with his left, and struck with his spike, not stabbing, but smashing it downward like a club, cracking the conductor on the bridge of his nose, splitting it crosswise.

The conductor tottered backwards and fell over a seat.

Somewhere between being thrown at Heck and colliding with him, the girl had fainted. Heck had to catch her and lower her to the floor. He looked up – just in time to see Boyd spinning the ticket-machine by its strap and hurling it. It was a heavy piece of steel and it came at him hard; he ducked, but it struck him a glancing blow on his temple, which sent him to his knees.

Hot fluid streamed down the side of Heck’s face as he looked up again, trying to refocus – he glimpsed Boyd vanishing through the door at the end. Groggy, Heck blundered in pursuit, stopping briefly to check on the conductor, who still lay on the seat. The conductor, his handsome ebony face a mangled, gory mess, was dazed but conscious.

‘Look after this guy!’ Heck yelled to the other passengers, continuing along the aisle and at the same time shouting directions into his radio. When he entered the next compartment, the train was pulling into another station. The doors hissed open. Passengers who hadn’t realised what was going on got up to disembark, blocking his passage. ‘Out of the way! Police!’ He tried to push past them.

At the far end, Boyd jumped out onto the platform. Heck swore as he shoved sideways, exiting through a nearer door. People were crammed around him and he had to shoulder them aside, attempting to identify himself as he did. He looked up and glimpsed Boyd already crossing the narrow footbridge towards the station exit, which he would reach in a few seconds.

Heck glanced around and behind him.

Ardwick station was elevated over another busy road. Some forty yards away from him, across the westbound tracks, there was a chest-high stone balustrade. Two rusty iron hoops revealed an emergency ladder dropping down the other side. It would mean crossing two railway lines, but it would be quicker than trying to push his way over the crowded footbridge in pursuit. Heck didn’t hang around to ponder the wisdom of this, just leapt down from the platform, and after checking the way was clear, sprinted over the tracks and vaulted on to the balustrade – only to discover that it was more of a drop to the road than he’d reckoned with. Some forty feet below, rivers of traffic shunted back and forth, engines echoing in the tunnels under the bridge. The ladder should have alighted on the pavement far below, though from this precipitous angle it didn’t look as if it reached all the way.