Substantial Threat (26 page)

He trotted down the back steps to the lower-ground floor. He crept along the corridor which went past the custody office gate and emerged in brief daylight before going back under the cover of the car park. He drove out, approaching the shutter doors which opened automatically. As he went through, he glanced in his mirror and caught sight of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him, waving her arms.

He pretended not to notice. In fact, he accelerated away.

There were two doctors walking down the corridor. Green skull caps, long coats, clip boards, stethoscopes, surgical masks covering their faces. They were deep in conversation about some patient or other. Their manner was relaxed, but it was apparent they were in disagreement over the benefits of a particular surgical procedure.

The policeman by the door of the private room did not take much notice of them. Doctors scurried past all day long. He'd seen enough doctors for a lifetime. He was sitting on a chair, browsing with little interest through a magazine for middle-aged women. He was wearing a ballistic vest, had a Glock 9mm strapped to his side and an MP5 slung high across his chest. He was guarding the patient inside the room. Stationed inside was another officer, similarly equipped and bored. They conversed with each other by means of a ‘talk group' on their personal radios with earpieces in. They had not spoken to each other for ten minutes and the cop in the corridor half believed that his mate had nodded off. Typical.

The discussing doctors stopped about five feet away from him. Their talk was quite heated, but still amicable.

‘I say he's got to have the lower part of his bowel removed,' the younger-looking doctor said.

‘That's a typical stance of the younger surgeon these days. Cut 'em open and chop it out. That's your answer to everything.'

‘In this case it is. The patient will die otherwise. His condition is too far gone.'

The older doctor guffawed. ‘You're wrong. Give the fucker an aspirin and I'm sure he'll get better.'

The cop on the door had only been half listening, but the remarks made by the older doctor made him lift his head.

‘Just kidding,' the doctor said to the policemen. ‘Come,' he said to his junior colleague, ‘the bowel it is.'

At which point the hand of the younger doctor withdrew from underneath his long coat. Before the cop could react, he had pushed the barrel of the gun into the unwary cop's ear. The older doctor moved quickly. He drew the officer's Glock out of its holster and used a scalpel to cut through the strap of the MP5 and remove it from round his neck.

‘Bulletproof vest is no good if you get shot in the head,' Crazy whispered. ‘Now get up and go into the room using the same procedure you always do. Nothing outrageous, or you're a very dead cop. Are you with that scenario? Behave and you live, okay?'

The officer nodded.

He pressed the button on the side of his radio. ‘Bob, coming in in . . . Yeah, no probs.' His frightened eyes moved from one false doctor to another. He was annoyed at being caught out.

‘Stand up and lead the way,' said Miller. He was armed with the MP5, having pocketed the Glock.

The officer stood on quaking legs. This should not be happening, he thought. Bad guys are not so foolish as to do things like this. His own bowels reacted in a way which made him think he should perhaps have them removed. He opened the door and walked in ahead of Crazy, whose gun was now held at his neck, ready to blow his head off.

The patient was asleep. Drips fed nourishment into his body. A monitor blipped by his side.

The cop in the room was on a chair next to the bed. He was not dozing as suspected, but, like his comrade in arms, he was reading a magazine. He did not look up initially when the door opened, so blasé was he. He only sensed something amiss when his buddy squeaked, ‘Bob?'

Bob raised his eyes, then closed them.

‘We're not here to harm you,' Miller said from behind his mask, pointing the commandeered MP5 at Bob, ‘but if you don't do what we say, you'll both be dead and that's fact.' His voice was cool, controlled and he came across as being very much in charge. His matter of fact tones were steeped in the menace of certain death. ‘Drop your weapons, Bob, and don't even think of being a hero. There's too many cops on the roll of honour. Don't join them.'

Bob nodded. He was no fool. He unslung his MP5 and placed it carefully on the floor. Next he unfastened his holster and drew out the Glock. Miller stiffened and prepared to waste him, but Bob put the gun on the floor and sat upright.

‘Each of you take out your handcuffs.'

They complied with the order, knowing what was coming. They could see Miller's eyebrows rise as he smiled behind his surgical mask. ‘Now, Bob, I think you've guessed. Please handcuff your mate here, hands behind his back. You' – Miller turned to the first officer – ‘what's your name?'

‘Ted.'

‘Oh, Bob and Ted. Okay, Ted, kneel down, hands behind your back and let Bob fasten those nasty handcuffs on you.'

‘Shite,' said Ted. He dropped to his knees and, his face angry and annoyed at being hoodwinked so easily, put his hands behind himself, wrist to wrist.

‘C'mon, Bob, do the business.'

Bob secured his colleague's wrists with rigid handcuffs and without having to be told, sank down to his knees and allowed Crazy to cuff him next to Ted.

‘Now then, lads, just shuffle on your knees up to the wall and press your faces right up to the plasterboard,' Miller directed them.

They did as told, Crazy covering them and urging them on with an occasional poke of a gun and a tap of the foot. Crazy was having trouble stopping himself from giggling. When they got to where Crazy wanted them, he ripped out their radio wires.

‘Let's see if we can waken sleeping beauty,' said Miller, turning to the patient on the bed. He was propped up at 45°by nice clean white pillows and had not stirred during the confrontation. ‘He can talk, can he?' Miller asked the kneeling officers. Neither ventured an answer. ‘Bob? Speak to me?'

With a deep, pissed-off sigh, Bob said, ‘He can talk all right, he's just a big groggy with sedatives.'

‘I'll soon wake him up,' said Miller. He recognized the prisoner as the one Crazy had blasted in the groin. Miller slapped his hand over the man's nose and mouth, constricting all airflow. It took a moment or two before his body reacted. He woke with a panicky start. Miller removed his hand and replaced it with the muzzle of Ted's Glock, which he jammed hard into the guy's mouth.

‘Nice man,' Miller cooed. ‘Keep very cool, keep calm.' His voice was a whisper. ‘Talk to me, tell me what I want to know. Just whisper it to me and things'll be just fine – okay?'

He gave the man enough leeway for him to nod his head.

‘Now then, one simple question. Who set up the raid on the counting house? I'm going to remove this gun from your mouth and give you three seconds to answer. If you don't respond within that timescale, I'll shove it back in and kill you.'

Slowly he eased the gun out.

‘One,' he breathed, ‘two . . .'

The man uttered a name just loud enough for him to hear.

‘Three.' Miller forced the gun back between the man's teeth, breaking several teeth in the process and pulled the trigger. He left the Glock dangling out of his mouth because he had no further use for it but he kept hold of the MP5 because he thought it could be a useful tool.

Henry fully expected his mobile phone to ring, so it was no surprise that it did even before he reached the motorway.

‘Yes,' he answered abruptly.

‘Den Craven, Scientific Support. Is that DCI Christie?'

‘Yes, Den, sorry about the snappy answer, I'm driving,' he said lamely. He wondered what Craven wanted. Henry knew he was an expert in footwear.

‘No, it's all right. I just wanted to let you know something about the death of Carrie Dancing.'

Henry perked up. It seemed so long ago. ‘Go on.'

‘I looked at the marks on the side of her head at the request of the pathologist and I'm a hundred per cent certain that it is an impression from a shoe, a trainer to be exact, and a right foot. Beyond that, I'd estimate a size nine. I am sure, however, that the make is Nike, the model is the Air Max Specter – they have an unusual and easily recognizable pattern on the sole, so it was easy to match it. Made in China. Not very much wear on the sole, so quite new I'd say, but there is a mark across one of the ridges, just a single line, which makes it quite identifiable. If you arrest someone wearing these shoes, we'll go a long way to get a conviction. Oh, and I checked the shoes Johnny Jacques was wearing – they don't match.'

‘Brilliant, Den, thanks very, very much,' Henry said. He wanted to ask, ‘Do you get out much?' but refrained because this was a major breakthrough and people like Den were worth their weight in jewels. ‘Can you fax me those details to the MIR at Blackpool?'

‘Will do.'

‘Thanks again.'

Henry punched the air. Okay, it wasn't a name, but it was bloody good. He pushed the car up to eighty, smiling, then not smiling any more as his phone announced a text message had landed. The noise set his teeth on edge. He read it as he drove along in the fast lane.

‘Shit,' he said and pressed harder on the gas, taking the Vectra up to the ton and trying not to throw the damned phone out of the window.

He arrived too early at Manchester Airport, but was quite happy to kick his heels for half an hour while waiting for the shuttle to arrive. He stowed his very hot car in the short-term multi-storey and sauntered into Terminal 3, which dealt exclusively with domestic arrivals and departures. He went to the café/bar and paid an extortionate price for a straight coffee, which he drank while propping up the counter. He would have liked something stronger, lots of something stronger, but that blow-out would have to wait.

Standing there like a seasoned international traveller, he mulled over everything he was presently involved in. Professionally he had just bottomed a domestic murder in Blackburn; had been handed a cold-case review; was involved in the suspicious deaths of JJ and Carrie Dancing, the latter most definitely a murder. Then he found himself running a triple fatal shooting, drugs related, which, somewhere along the line, tied in with a gangland execution and maybe a shooting incident at McDonald's.

Violent Britain, he thought. Why the hell do I live here? It rains a lot, it's always cold, the roads are jam-packed, the infrastructure is crumbling, the health service is a joke, the government is as corrupt as a Third World country's and the police have lost all control. The justice system was weak and ineffective, biased towards the accused and not the victim and he still owed a fortune on his mortgage with the probability that the endowments wouldn't pay out enough to cover it.

He knew why he stayed. He loved catching villains. He loved being pitted against very bad people and beating them, even if the courts were lenient with the bastards. It was his life and death was his trade. He just loved it.

His thoughts moved on to more personal matters. Love. Affairs. Deceptions.

He took a deep breath to stop himself having a panic attack. His personal life was a mess – again – but he knew he had the power to do something about it and end this foolishness with Jane Roscoe before it got on a roll and people really got hurt. He could stay with Kate and make something of his life with her, he knew. It would be a good life, too. Safe, secure, comfortable – yet, some reckless inner demon seemed to push him to self-destruct.

He finished his coffee and checked the arrivals screen to see that the Heathrow shuttle had just touched down. He strolled over to the arrivals hall and waited for Karl Donaldson.

Miller and Crazy could not speak to each other. Miller paced around the small bedsit they had chosen as a base for their operations. Both men had washed and showered since the shooting at the hospital and changed clothes completely, down to underwear and socks, bagging everything up for disposal.

‘Not good,' Miller said eventually.

‘Understatement,' said Crazy.

‘What's one of them?'

‘It's like a pair of knickers.'

Miller stopped his pacing. ‘We have to tell him.'

‘I know.'

‘Toss you for the honour. Heads you tell him, tails I don't.'

Crazy sighed. ‘I've known him longer, I'll do it.'

‘Good luck.'

A
s the passengers filed out into the arrivals hall, Karl Donaldson stood head and shoulders above everyone else. He always reminded Henry of Superman, but without the underpants. He was big, wide, good-looking in a square-jawed sort of way (bastard, Henry thought), still had a college crew-cut and piercing blue eyes which had women drooling over him. His muscular shoulders tapered to a slim but proportionate waist and his thighs were tight against the inside of his trousers, muscles rippling. He saw Henry immediately across the heads, smiled and ploughed towards him.

They greeted each other like old buddies. Lots of backslapping and hugging, but no tears of emotion.

‘Good t'see ya, pal.' Donaldson beamed.

‘And you. Let me take that.' Henry reached for the shoulder bag the American was carrying. ‘The car isn't far away.' Then his mobile rang. ‘Hang on,' he said, putting the bag down. Henry had input Jane's mobile number into his phone's memory so that when she rang him from that phone, his display read, ‘Roscoe: mob'. Which it did.

‘Henry Christie,' he answered formally.

‘I think you're purposely avoiding me,' Jane teased. Henry did not respond. ‘Yeah, I'm right, aren't I?' Still nothing from Henry.

Then he said, ‘It's not that – it's just . . .'

‘Don't bother. I know when I'm not wanted,' she said crossly. ‘Anyway, this is a business call. There's been an incident at BVH. Two of our armed officers who were guarding one of our shooters from McDonald's got jumped by a couple of guys pretending to be doctors and got tied up with their own handcuffs, and the prisoner they were guarding got shot to death.'