‘ Eyeball to back-up,’ Henry said crisply.
There was a crackle of static. ‘Go ahead.’
‘ Back-up, make ground,’ said Henry, ‘then confirm eyeball.’
‘ Received.’
Moments later, from nowhere, the second car in the four-vehicle Regional Crime Squad surveillance team — a high-powered Vauxhall Carlton — smoothed effortlessly past them. The two detectives in it flashed V-signs at Henry and Terry, who returned the gestures.
‘ Fuckin’ cops,’ said Terry. ‘Think they can get away with anything.’ He dropped his speed back to a respectable ton as they approached the bridge over the River Lune. Two miles away to their right stood the city of Lancaster.
Henry fidgeted on his seat, adjusting the uncomfortable shoulder-holster which held the lightweight pistol under his left armpit. Crime Squad detectives were often armed when there was the possibility of confronting criminals believed to be carrying weapons — but it wasn’t something Henry felt easy about.
Danny Carver was young and ambitious but not too intelligent. He had good looks and the muscles of a pit bull, and did not hesitate to do any ‘sorting’ — if any had to be done. But like most young and ambitious hoodlums who lacked the ability to look ahead, he didn’t realise when he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Which is why, as he settled down in the back of the Daimler, thoughts of Corelli were far from his mind.
His mind was on one thing only — the woman sitting next to him; Leila, aged nineteen, had cost him almost?2000 for three days of service from a ‘respectable’ escort agency.
Two grand, he thought with a chuckle — but so what?
He could afford it. The deal he had just pulled off was going to net him millions. And that big fat Italian bastard could just fuck off! Who the hell did he think he was?
The Daimler sped silkily down the motorway.
Danny opened the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a generous measure of Glenfiddich. He leaned back and stretched his legs. There was plenty of room.
‘ Go down on me,’ he told Leila.
She smiled and got to work on him without hesitation. If she made this one extra-special, she thought as she spied a bottle of Taboo in the cabinet, it might be worth a bonus.
The driver checked his mirror and saw what was going on.
He adjusted it downwards for a better view.
By the time they were approaching the Preston exit of the M6 — Junction 31- which passed over the River Ribble — Henry and Terry were the last car of the team. They almost dawdled along at ninety, listening to the flashes of transmissions between the three cars ahead, all of which were well out of sight.
They still had the Porsche though. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Leila used all her experience and know-how on Danny. Time after time she brought him slowly to the brink, and had him writhing in ecstasy across the back seat. Nibbling, licking, chewing, biting, sucking, gently blowing. Stopping. Starting again.
‘ Jeez… aahh… Jeez!’ was all that Danny could say. He gripped her head, her shoulders, the car seat. He wanted to explode. And he wanted it to go on for ever.
‘ This is worth an extra two-fifty,’ he gasped in a rare moment of lucidity.
Damn right it is, she thought, and reached for the bottle of Taboo.
‘ What the hell..?’ blurted Danny. She kept hold of him with one hand and unscrewed the cap with her teeth. She put the bottle to her full lips and swirled the liquor around like a mouthwash, then swallowed it. She looked wickedly at Danny.
‘ You’ll like this,’ she said, lowering her head to his lap.
Danny screamed. He shot bolt upright and banged his head on the car roof. Leila kept a grip and would not be swayed from her task, consummate professional that she was.
‘ God, that stings! It’s fantastic!’
He ejaculated in her mouth exactly sixteen minutes after starting the journey.
They were halfway across the Ribble Bridge, in the middle lane of the motorway, travelling at 87 mph, when the timer, which should have been flicking open a bowl full of Pedigree Chum, brought together the two contacts of the bomb which Hinksman had stuck to the underside of the Daimler.
The device exploded bang on time. Just four seconds after Danny’s climax.
The explosion ripped into the petrol tank, turning the fuel into a massive fireball of white heat which vaporised everything in its path.
The Daimler was hurled sixty feet into the air like a toy car thrown by a child. It somersaulted a dozen times before crashing back down onto the carriageway and then bouncing off the bridge into the river below.
Two BMWs which had been in the process of overtaking the Daimler on the outside were tossed like cardboard boxes in the wind over the central reservation, right into the path of the oncoming traffic.
On the inside lane, a Minibus containing kids from a special school took the sideways brunt of the blast. The windows and side panels were destroyed as the ‘whoosh’ of the explosion ripped into it and sent it skidding on its roof across the hard shoulder, where it smacked into the safety barrier. The barrier simply acted like a foot, tripping the vehicle up and sending it over and down into the river.
Two hundred metres back, Henry Christie saw everything happen in slow motion — images he would relive time and again in his dreams and in his waking hours. The horror was imprinted on his brain for ever.
Even from that distance, the force of the blast struck at their car like an angry demon on the rampage.
Terry fought valiantly to control the steering wheel, breaking his right thumb in the process. Despite his efforts, the Cosworth careered across the carriageway.
Henry wasn’t sure whether he screamed or not.
They glanced off another car on the inside lane, skidded across the hard shoulder and onto the grass verge. They were jolted in their seats like dummies in a car commercial, held loosely in place by seat belts whose buckling inertia reels were tested to their outer limits. Henry cracked his head on the door jamb and on the side window. Fleetingly he felt his scalp split open.
Suddenly the front of the Cosworth caught something underneath. The vehicle flipped over, rolling along the verge until it spun back onto the hard shoulder and came to an unexpected standstill — on its roof.
Hanging upside down, like giant bats, Henry and Terry had a brief moment to exchange sidelong glances and check that the other was alive, before another car clipped them. Like a movie stunt, this car then screeched down the motorway on its side, sparks flying, for about 50 metres before it righted itself and abruptly stopped.
‘ Let’s get out of here,’ shouted Henry. Terry, cool as ever, switched off the ignition.
Simultaneously they smacked their belt-release buttons and tumbled into an untidy heap on the inner roof. They scrabbled wildly for the door handles. Outside, they rolled onto their feet and sprinted up the banking to a height where they felt reasonably safe.
‘ You okay?’ Henry gasped.
‘ My thumb hurts,’ said Terry. He showed it to Henry. Already the joint was swelling. ‘You’ve cut your head,’ he observed.
‘ I know,’ said Henry. He touched the open wound gingerly.
‘ And you screamed.’
‘ I thought so,’ Henry admitted.
‘ We got off light,’ commented Terry as they surveyed the scene.
The motorway was in chaos. Both carriageways were blocked by a mangle of vehicles of all descriptions — a total of seventy-two, reports would say later. Bodies were strewn about. Some moved and twitched, others did not move at all. Many were torn into bloody pieces. People were wandering around stunned. Others, uninjured, offered what assistance they could in the circumstances. On the northbound side the blue flashing lights on the first police Range Rover approached the scene.