Before joining him, Donaldson leaned forwards and laid a reassuring hand on Karen’s shoulder. He knew she was worried about the operation and troubled about something else, but he didn’t know what. ‘Relax, it’ll be OK,’ he told her.
She nodded numbly. ‘Yeah, sure it will’
Events were now out of her hands. All she could do was wait. And wait. And wait.
The two detectives confined their search to a small cluster of roads, back streets and alleyways about 200 metres in a direct line from the hotel. McClure had the PR in his pocket turned up loud enough for them both to be able to hear what was going on. It remained eerily silent for quite a number of minutes as the firearms team moved into position using verbal and visual signals only.
In the first few roads they checked there was no sign of Hinksman’s car. They didn’t really expect to find it.
As they turned into another street there was a brief transmission on the radio.
‘ Alpha in position.’
‘ Roger Alpha,’ they heard Macintosh reply. ‘We’re at the front door now.’
McClure nodded at Donaldson, who said, ‘Knock, knock,’ in his best John Wayne drawl.
‘ Sierra — we’re in through the front door. No opposition.’
They were inside. It was rolling.
Everything went dead again. For ever, it seemed.
Two things then happened almost simultaneously.
McClure and Donaldson walked into a quiet side street. And there it was: Hinksman’s car.
‘ Bingo,’ gloated McClure.
And the radio went berserk.
‘ Civilian down, civilian down. Head wounds, looks bad.’
‘ Sierra to Alpha, Sierra to Alpha — take care at the back, he may be coming. Get ready.’
‘ Alpha received.’
They heard Karen interrupt. ‘Superintendent Wilde — situation report, please.’ She sounded wound-up.
‘ Sierra to Superintendent,’ Macintosh began, then was cut off.
‘ Shit, I wonder what’s happening,’ gasped McClure.
‘ Don’t sound good,’ commented Donaldson.
Macintosh’s transmission was cut into: ‘Basement door opening.’ It was a calm, clear message. A woman’s voice. ‘Someone’s coming out.’
McClure and Donaldson looked at each other, neither caring to speak.
A moment’s silence descended on the radio. Then a male voice screamed, ‘It’s him, it’s him.’
A transmission carrier must have stuck down then. There was the sound of footsteps running. Breathlessness. Rustling of clothing. A shout: ‘Armed police. Stop and drop your weapon. I said throw down your weapon!’ Panic rising in the voice. A gun shot. A heavy, rushing noise. A groan. More footsteps. Panting. Rustling. Then: ‘Officer down! Assistance, assistance…’ This was the female voice again. Another sharp crack, like a whip, very loud, distorted, as though next to the microphone: a gun shot close up. Then silence. Again.
‘ Fuck!’ uttered McClure. ‘What’re we going to do?’
‘ Sit tight,’ said Donaldson firmly.
The radio traffic started again. ‘Charlie One, in pursuit on foot.’ It was another female voice. The message became garbled. More panting. More running.
‘ He’s gotta be making for here,’ said Donaldson. ‘Gotta be, c’mon.’ The radio crashed to silence once more.
Donaldson grabbed McClure’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get hidden — and get that fuckin’ gun of yours ready. It is loaded, isn’t it?’
‘ Yes, yes,’ said McClure.
They vaulted over a low garden wall and ducked down into a crouch behind it. Out of sight, but with a direct line of view to Hinksman’s car.
‘ You can’t give him a chance,’ Donaldson whispered urgently into McClure’s ear, prompting him. ‘We take him by surprise and you shoot the bastard. Got it?’
McClure nodded.
He had the two-inch-barrelled Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. His sweaty hand. His shaking hand. His slimy forefinger quivered uncertainly on the trigger.
The seconds ticked by with a slowness that was physically painful.
The radio stayed silent, almost as though it had all been a nightmare. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Had he gone in another direction? Had they got him? Had he been arrested — or shot?
A figure appeared out of an alleyway about halfway down the street and walked in their direction. Seventy metres away. More of a trot than a walk. But there was no concern in the stride. No sense of urgency. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be in much of a rush. A bag was being carried in the left hand. A holdall. It couldn’t be him, surely.
‘ It’s him,’ said Donaldson.
The heads of the two detectives dipped an inch instinctively.
‘ Let him get to the car,’ Donaldson said between his teeth, his lips not moving. He glanced sideways at his nervous partner.
‘ If he goes to the driver’s door we’ll have the advantage because his back’ll be towards us.’ That was McClure thinking out loud, his mind racing.
Hinksman got to the car, checking his shoulder as he fumbled briefly with the key for the door. He went to the driver’s side, dropped the holdall to the ground and slid the key into the lock. He hadn’t seen the detectives. They rose slowly from their hiding place.
‘ Armed police,’ shouted McClure, pointing his gun at Hinksman’s back and stepping over the garden wall. ‘Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle or you’re a dead man — understand?’
Hinksman froze. Then nodded.
‘ Shoot him,’ Donaldson encouraged McClure. ‘Do it now.’
McClure motioned to Donaldson to keep quiet with a chopping action of his free hand. ‘Now put both your hands on the roof of the car so I can see them.’
Hinksman’s left hand slid up and he placed it on top of the car, empty, the key in the lock. His right hand was still tucked up at the front of his body. Out of sight.
‘ Don’t give him the chance, Ken. Shoot the bastard,’ said Donaldson, verging on sheer anger.
‘ Both fuckin’ hands,’ yelled McClure at Hinksman.
‘ OK, OK,’ said Hinksman.
McClure was moving forwards, concentrating totally on the killer in front of him, forcing fear and everything else to the back of his mind into a compartment to be unlocked later at leisure.
Donaldson was a wary two steps behind him. His head was shaking.
His eyes kept moving heavenwards. ‘Come on Ken, put him down.’
‘ No, Karl, it’s not the way we do things over here.’
There was one more garden wall to step over. No higher, no broader than the last. But McClure’s concentration was so absolute he misjudged his stride as he stepped across, snagging the top of it with the toe of his left shoe.
He stumbled, lost his balance and crashed down onto one knee with a yelp of pain.
Hinksman, who’d watched the approach in the wing mirror of the car, swung round fast, the gun in his right hand hot from previous firings.
McClure had regained his feet, but for a few seconds he was open and totally vulnerable. These were the few seconds Hinksman needed to loose off two rounds. They slammed into the detective’s chest, blowing him backwards like a candle flame being snuffed out by a gust of wind.
The impact of the bullets propelled him into Donaldson who caught him with a hand under each armpit and, winded himself, staggered sideways with the weight and momentum of McClure’s body. The two detectives crashed to the ground in a macabre embrace. McClure landed half on top of Donaldson, pinning him there, trapping him.
As they’d fallen, McClure’s gun had skittered away out of reach.
Donaldson desperately tried to heave McClure off.
Hinksman sauntered up to them, a smile of victory playing cruelly on his face. His gun hung at his side, literally smoking. He was full of confidence.
He tossed his gun across to his left hand, clicked the magazine out and dropped it onto the ground where it tinkled merrily on the concrete pavement. His right hand delved into his jeans pocket and emerged holding a new magazine. He slotted it in without looking, his eyes holding Donaldson’s in a death-warrant gaze. He transferred the gun back to his right hand.