The Last Big Job (4 page)

Crane sneered, pumped the action and swung the shotgun towards
Terry.

Both weapons roared as one. Both parties were flung
backwards.

Terry’s gun flew out of his hand as he stumbled, clutching his
left shoulder, then fell over, hard. Disregarding the possible
danger from Crane, Henry’s first instinct - and act - was to leap
up and run across to his friend, bawling, ‘Officer down! Officer
down!’ into his radio.

Terry’s right hand could not stem the flow of blood from the
wound. ‘Shite, shite, shite!’ he breathed on inspecting the damage.
It looked a bloody, mangled mess.

‘
Terry, Terry,’ Henry said desperately, kneeling down next to
him.

‘
I’m OK,’ he lied bravely, keeping his cool. ‘I’ve got another
shoulder. I think I hit matey - you go and see, Henry. I’ll be
fine.’

Henry nodded and drew his gun, twisting away from Terry. His
heart beating fast, he crept towards the Cosworth, aware that at
close quarters a shotgun was lethal every time; a revolver had to
be lucky.

The driver’s door was still open. There was no sign, or
sound, of Crane, making Henry think he was either dead or well
wounded. Henry Christie believed himself to be a moderately brave
person. He was no coward, nor was he particularly heroic, but as he
approached the stolen car, the wisdom of choosing - nay,
volunteering
- to carry
a firearm reared its ugly head again.

He decided to ease himself at a crouch down the passenger side
of the car and come around the back end quickly and decisively, gun
at the ready and in the right frame of mind to discharge it if
necessary. It seemed like a long journey, bent double, moving inch
by inch, holding a weapon suddenly weighing half a ton with
slippery hands, sweat dribbling down his face and into every crack
and orifice in his body. He took a deep breath, counted three,
pivoted round into the weaver stance and shouted ‘Armed police!’
for some reason he would never be able to adequately explain. The
words simply sputtered out on a surge of adrenaline.

There was no one there for them to have any effect
on.

Crane had gone.

Had the man who had been arrested in the police car park with
a mouthful of flesh missing from his thigh and a series of puncture
marks in his right arm, been arrested two years earlier in 1984, he
would probably have been flung into a cell and only been allowed to
see a doctor when the custody staff decided he could, a lot
depending on their mood.

The arrival of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act changed
all that. So now, handcuffed securely to Rupert, the prisoner was
put into the back of a police van and whisked immediately up to the
Casualty Department at Blackburn Royal Infirmary as soon as he had
been booked into the custody systems and searched. Custody
Sergeants did not want injured people in their cells any more - at
least not until a medical practitioner had stated they were fit to
be detained.

Ten minutes after his arrest, the man who had blown up three
police vehicles was face down in a treatment cubicle, with his
jeans and underpants rolled down exposing a very nasty-looking gash
on his right thigh. A nurse was dabbing it with antiseptic; the
patient jerked each time the cotton wool ball touched the wound.
Rupert Davison stood by and watched, feeling queasy. He was
astonished to see what damage a dog could do.

A very frustrated Danny Furness, who had actually made the
arrest, was pacing to and fro outside the cubicle. She was
desperate for a cigarette. The dreaded smoking habit had come quite
late into her life, but now she was a nicotine addict - who needed
a fix. What was particularly frustrating her was that she wanted a
chance to get into the ribs of this prisoner as soon as possible,
before anyone else got the chance; ‘anyone’ in this case being the
CID. She was aware that the two night-duty detectives were hovering
like hungry vultures back at the station to deal with him when he
arrived back. But she wanted him. It was her job. Hers and
Rupert’s. And she was not going to let it slide through her
fingers.

In her brain she was already making plans to out-fox the
detectives. Which was where a nicotine stick would have come in
useful. It would have helped her to think.

Another frustration was that - by law - she was not allowed to
question the prisoner here at the hospital. Not officially, anyway.
Pity really, she thought, hearing him squeal in agony behind the
curtain. A few probing questions in his present state might get
good results. On the other hand, courts took a dim view of torture
and intimidation.

From where she was standing Danny had a clear view along the
corridor to the ambulance bay outside; as she stood there, an
ambulance came roaring up and screeched to a halt in the bay. Its
rear doors were flung open and several Casualty staff nurses,
porters and a doctor - raced out of the hospital, obviously
pre-warned of the arrival. A body was stretchered out, accompanied
by a uniformed police officer who, Danny observed, was openly
armed.

What the hell’s all this? she thought, her attention suddenly
riveted. She looked quickly down at her personal radio, checking it
was still on and working - it was - and wondered if she had missed
something. She was pretty sure she hadn’t.

The person on the stretcher was wheeled hastily past her,
surrounded by medical staff, to the emergency treatment
room.

With some shock, Danny saw it was a cop and that he looked
very poorly. She did not recognise him, but she did know – by sight
- the armed officer who was with him. He was called Henry Christie.
Danny knew he presently worked on the Headquarters Support Unit and
that he was a very highly thought-of cop who might just go far if
he applied himself. She had never spoken to him, but they had
occasionally caught each other’s eyes and she fancied him like mad
even though she knew he was married. Having said that, Danny was
going through a phase of fancying several men. At the moment she
was having discreet liaisons with two - both detectives - both,
coincidentally, on duty that night. Not an ideal situation, but one
Danny was happy to deal with.

As Henry Christie pushed past her that night, their eyes did
not connect. His worried face was completely focused on his partner
on the stretcher. Danny glimpsed a good deal of blood soaking
through the sheets and clothing around the man’s left shoulder and
upper chest as he was wheeled past.

Danny watched as the stretcher disappeared into the ETR. She
thought it was a really weird kind of a night.

Billy Crane stumbled and fell heavily. He picked himself up
with some difficulty and rolled over a low garden wall where he
laid himself out, making an attempt to control the shaking which
raked his body. Dragging the Balaclava off his head, he threw it
away.

The bullet fired by the cop had ripped into his neck muscle
just above the collar bone and exited straight through, drilling a
perfect hole. Crane knew it was a perfect hole because he had been
able to insert his forefinger and push it out the other
side.

Under normal circumstances this would not have been a
life-threatening wound, but because of his predicament - on the run
from the cops, having just peppered one of them with a shotgun - it
could easily prove to be so. A lot of blood had been lost and he
needed medical attention quickly. But medical attention meant
cops.

Unless he got it on his own terms.

His breathing came in short jerks. A wave of nausea rippled
over him and he gripped the shotgun tightly in front of him as he
lay there behind the garden wall.

A car pulled up nearby. The engine kept running. A door
opened, the sound of voices drifted across to Crane’s ears. Despite
the burning surge of agony which came with movement, Crane raised
himself high enough to see over the wall.

Not many yards away from him, a car was stationary. Someone -
a man - was leaning in through the passenger window, talking to the
driver. A young woman stood nearby on the pavement. Crane blinked
and shook his head. A few seconds passed before he realised he was
seeing someone paying off a taxi.

He forced himself up, staggered over the wall and lurched
towards the rear door of the car which he wrenched open. He threw
himself across the back seat, much to the surprise of the driver
and the man who was paying him.

‘
Sorry pal,’ the Asian taxi driver said over his shoulder.
‘Got a fare already booked. I can fit you in in half an hour if you
like. See ya mate, thanks.’ The last four words were directed at
the man who had just paid and turned away to his
girlfriend.

The taxi driver looked over his left shoulder.

What he saw would remain with him for the rest of his
life.

A reincarnation of the devil, hunched up in the back seat. An
indescribable, terrifying look across the countenance. Eyes sunken
in their sockets, hair in disarray, blood gushing from the neck -
and a shotgun aimed squarely in his direction.

Crane growled, ‘Take me to the hospital now or I’ll kill
you.’

Henry Christie was shooed out of the ETR. He retreated with
reluctance, wanting to be with his friend throughout this
ordeal.

‘
Go on, go and get a cup of tea,’ a nurse told him
firmly.

Henry turned and walked back down the corridor, rubbing his
face and shaking his head, muttering to himself He almost collided
with Danny who pushed a plastic cup towards him. It contained hot,
sweet tea.

‘
Oh, thanks,’ he said gratefully, eyeing Danny up and down. ‘I
need it. I’m parched.’ He took a sip, which tasted wonderful. He
noticed there was a faint trace of lipstick on the other side of
the cup. She had given him her drink.

‘
What the hell’s going on, Henry?’ Danny demanded to know.
‘That’s a cop in there, isn’t it?’

‘
Yeah, yeah it is.’ Henry chewed his lips. He looked at Danny
again, impressed by what he saw, as he always had been. A slim,
slightly gangly girl with a figure worthy of worship, and fantastic
Oriental-style eyes, a seductive shade of green. ‘RCS job,’ he went
on. ‘A burglary at a Building Society just off Preston New Road.’
Then realising he’d better not say too much to Danny in case she
was interviewed later about what he’d told her, he shrugged and
muttered angrily, ‘Obviously a cock-up.’

‘
Is he your partner?’ She nodded towards the ETR.

‘
Yeah.’

‘
How is he?’

‘
He - we - both thought he’d just taken a shot in the
shoulder, but it looks a lot worse than that now. He’s hurt pretty
badly, I think.’

‘
God, I hope he’s OK.’

‘
So do I.’ Henry took a ruminative sip of tea. ‘What are you
doing here?’

‘
Caught some guy blowing up police cars in the yard at
Northgate. He got dogged; half his back leg bitten away.’ A smirk
of evil crossed Danny’s face which made Henry smile. ‘He refused to
give his details to the Custody Sergeant.’

‘
Blowing up cars, you say?’

Danny nodded.

‘
I wonder if he’s connected to the burglary? The guy we were
after tonight is known to use diversionary tactics to keep everyone
busy while he does the business.’

‘
We’ve had a few hoaxes tonight - big ones.’

Henry said sagely, ‘I’ll lay odds he’s involved.’

‘
Ahhhh - you bitch!’ came a scream from behind the cubicle
curtain.

Danny drew the curtain back to reveal a female doctor suturing
the dog-bite on the patient’s leg.

The man’s mouth clamped tight shut when he saw Henry
Christie.

‘
Well, hello there, Callum, me old mucker - and just what the
hell have
you
been up to tonight?’ Henry asked, approaching and leaning
towards him in an intimidating manner. He had recognised the
prisoner immediately. ‘But more to the point -
who
have you been working
with?’

The taxi pulled up in the hospital car park within view of the
Casualty Department.

‘
Switch the engine off and get out of the fucking car,’ Crane
ordered the Asian who was trembling so badly that control of his
bodily functions was now becoming an issue.

‘
But boss, I ain’t done nothing. I won’t tell no one,
honest!’

‘
Just get out, you little turd.’

The taxi driver, whose name was Jyoti, got out, covered all
the while by Crane’s shaking shotgun. Crane was becoming weaker by
the moment; his head was starting to swim, his vision misting over.
He willed himself to get a grip. ‘Now, you bastard, you walk into
the Casualty Department just in front of me and you stay with me
all the way. You try to get away and I’ll shoot your stinking head
off. I’ve already killed a cop tonight, so a Paki won’t mean
anything to me - got it?’

They walked the fifty or so yards to the entrance. Crane slid
the shotgun out of sight underneath his zip-up jacket.

At the counter the receptionist looked up with a professional
smile into Jyoti’s troubled face. Crane leaned over his shoulder.
‘I want to see a doctor now,’ he insisted.