Donaldson gave up trying to dislodge the wounded McClure, whose shirt-front was a soggy mass of bright red blood.
He lay there under McClure’s dead weight, unable to move. Hinksman stood arrogantly above him.
‘ Well now, Fibbie,’ he said. ‘So you wanted him to shoot me? Naughty, naughty. This is England. They play by the rules here. You should know that. Not like you fuckers… Anyway, can’t stay even though I’d love to chat. Y’know, I ain’t never done an officer of the law before today, but I guess there’s always a first time for everything… and in your case, Fibbie, a fourth time.’
Hinksman pointed the gun at Donaldson’s head as the significance of the words sank in.
The detective swallowed something big and hard and it stuck in his throat. His eyes squinted as he braced himself for the impact. He wondered what it would feel like.
Hinksman eased the hammer back. His forefinger curled onto the trigger. Only the lightest touch was now needed.
Donaldson thought of blackness for ever.
There was a shout. A female voice.
‘ Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
Donaldson and Hinksman looked. Twenty metres away stood two uniformed officers from the firearms team. Both had their revolvers drawn, both were in exactly the same weaver stance: left foot forward, guns held in the right hand, supported by the left, fingers on triggers — aimed at Hinksman.
A tense moment of silence passed when nothing happened.
‘ Drop your weapon and raise your hands,’ the female officer reiterated.
Hinksman’s gun was pointing at Donaldson. He glanced back down at him and smiled briefly. Donaldson thought he was going to pull the trigger.
Without warning the American moved quickly, becoming a blur of speed. He pivoted on his heels, crouched down and cracked three ear splitting shots off at the officers. He threw himself to one side, grabbed his holdall and did a body roll down in front of his car. He leapt to his feet in one flowing motion and sprinted away without a backward glance, keeping low as he went.
The male officer had gone down with a scream, clutching his right bicep, his gun skidding away under a car. The woman dived sideways for cover behind a car after managing to fire one shot in reply.
Donaldson, powerless to do otherwise, simply watched Hinksman run down the street and turn left into an alleyway and disappear. He looked at the female officer who was flattened on the floor, breathing heavily, as white as a sheet.
‘ It’s safe now,’ Donaldson called out. ‘He’s gone. He won’t be back.’
It took a while for her to pluck up enough courage to stick her head out for an instant.
The other officer, the one who’d been shot, struggled up into a sitting position, leaning against a low wall where he remained, sobbing as he held his injured, limp arm. Blood poured through his fingers.
Donaldson gently eased McClure off him and laid him out on the pavement. Thankfully he was unconscious.
‘ Shit,’ said Donaldson on seeing his colleague’s bloody front.
He ripped open the shirt to inspect the wounds. They were very bad. The bullets had gone into the left side of his chest. Brilliant, deadly shooting.
McClure was breathing, but with every breath big bubbles of blood were being blown out of the holes. He wheezed and gurgled as the breath came and went.
‘ Shit,’ Donaldson said again, hopelessly.
McClure’s eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused.
‘ It’s OK,’ Donaldson said. ‘Just hold on, pal.’
The eyes came to life. He looked up at Donaldson.
‘ Can’t feel a thing,’ he gasped with a twisted smile.
‘ Don’t worry, it’s not bad. You’ll be fine,’ he lied smoothly.
‘ No… no, I won’t be. I should’ve shot him shouldn’t I?’
‘ Yep,’ Donaldson acceded.
‘ Couldn’t do it… couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Not the way we do things round here.’
‘ I know… Now don’t speak… save your energy.’
McClure coughed, spraying Donaldson with a fine mist of blood. Donaldson ran a hand over his face.
When he looked, McClure’s eyes were closed. Donaldson knew he was dead.
Crosby’s face was ashen, his eyes sunk into black, hollow sockets. His breathing was laboured, but for the time being he was stable and surrounded by machines that continuously monitored his condition. He was also awake and quite compos mentis.
FB sat at the bedside. Crosby’s wife stood out in the corridor talking in hushed tones to the Chief Constable.
‘ You saved my life,’ Crosby said quietly through the oxygen mask.
‘ Thank you.’
FB nodded. ‘Training took over. It was nothing.’
‘ As good a cliche as any,’ said Crosby. ‘Now you make sure you get that investigation back off that cow.’
‘ I will,’ said FB.
‘ And do her. Do her well. If you can, get her thrown out of the job. Do it for me.’
‘ I’ll do it, even if it takes for ever.’
‘ Good man.’
Crosby’s head dropped back onto the pillow. His eyes closed.
FB actually felt a tear form and roll down his cheek. ‘I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do,’ he said softly.
The machine which monitored Crosby’s heart-rate changed its tone to one continuous note. It took a moment to register with FB — by which time two nurses had rushed into the room and an alarm bell was sounding somewhere. More medical staff arrived within seconds, crowding round the patient, pushing FB out of the way.
He retreated to the door, standing by Mrs Crosby and Dave August.
Five minutes later it was over.
Crosby was dead.
FB stormed down the corridor muttering, ‘That bitch is history.’
Karen sat alone in her borrowed office at Preston police station. She did not want to see anyone. She wanted to sit by herself for as long as possible as the day darkened to try and comprehend the enormity of what had happened.
Three policemen dead. Another injured. Shots fired. A member of the public dead too — that being Pepe Paglia whose body the firearms team had found on entering the hotel. He’d been shot through the head. And to cap it all the person responsible had got away. Been allowed to escape.
Basically the biggest single fuck-up in the history of Lancashire Constabulary. And it was all her fault.
Karen rubbed her face with her hands.
And for a classic post-script, Jack Crosby had died. Apparently she was to blame for that too.
How long was it since she had had any sleep? Many hours. Yet she doubted whether she could sleep now even if she had the opportunity. Her dazed mind raced around and around like an Indy car on an oval track.
There was a soft knock on the door. Donaldson crept quietly into the room. Bloodstains had dried on his clothing. He hadn’t had a chance to change yet.
‘ OK?’ he enquired.
‘ No, not really,’ she admitted truthfully. She was on the verge of tears, struggled to keep them back.
‘ I have a little more bad news, I’m afraid.’
She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go on.’ She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
‘ I’ve just spoken to Joe Kovaks; he tells me that the guy who gave us the information has been killed. Stabbed to death in his hospital bed at the prison. Even had his tongue cut out.’
‘ Oh God,’ she uttered. She stood up shakily and crossed to the window which overlooked the town. In the distance the River Ribble snaked away towards the sea. She shook her head in disbelief.
She couldn’t stop it. She began to cry with gut-wrenching sobs that racked her body, made her shoulders judder.
Donaldson crossed to her and placed an arm around her. She turned instinctively into him and buried her face in his blood-stained shirt. It was a great effort to prevent himself from crying. Ever since McClure had died, he’d shut his mind to it so that he could get on with what had to be done. Now that time was over. Family had been told. Statements had been made.