As the radio was not on talk-thru, Henry could not hear Taylor’s transmission.
‘Inspector Christie,’ communications called.
‘Yes.’
‘Message from PC Taylor. If you do not withdraw, the little package will not be found. Understood?’
‘Received.’ Shit, the bastard was making demands now.
‘PC Taylor also requests talk-thru be put on.’
‘Denied — we keep with him. Keep deploying patrols. I want him stopped and arrested.’
Henry was now right up behind Taylor in his hijacked car, leaving just enough room between the two cars to brake if necessary. Taylor’s car surged ahead.
‘Change of plan,’ Henry said, ‘put talk-thru on.’
‘Talk-thru on.’
‘Inspector to PC Taylor. Come on, pull in, it’s over, John, there’s nothing more for you to achieve.’
No reply.
‘Talk-thru off,’ Henry ordered again, and when it was off he almost shouted, ‘Where is my assistance? I haven’t seen another cop car yet. Just passing the junction with Chapel Street — he’s just run a red light, I’m going through too.’ Henry shot through, unscathed.
The Tower rose above them on the right. At the next junction was another set of lights, again on red. Henry watched as Taylor’s car hurtled towards the lights, accelerating all the time, obviously with no intention of stopping. He must have been approaching 60 mph as he crossed the junction. Suddenly a police transit van shot out in front of him, blue lights flashing, and skidded into the path of Taylor’s car.
Instinctively Henry braked.
Taylor’s stolen car broadsided the police van, driving into it like a piston. The Transit van was hit right on the seam in the centre of the side panel, the impact bursting it open. The van flipped over onto the tram tracks and Taylor’s vehicle skidded off at right angles from its original south-north path, slithering out of control, brake lights flashing, towards the sea-wall railings. It crunched into them probably still doing in excess of 40 mph, with a shredding, tearing of metal.
Henry skidded to a halt. He leapt out, shouting the situation down into his radio, requesting an ambulance, and ran towards the smashed police van which had rolled to a halt on its roof. The back wheels were still spinning, the engine roaring. Henry was terrified of what he might find.
As he got there, the driver was extricating himself out of the shattered driver’s door window, unscathed. He stood up shakily. It was Dermot Byrne. He smiled coolly, if a little wonkily, then leaned on the van for support as his legs buckled under him.
‘I’m OK. . I think. . go get him.’
Other police cars were now turning up. Henry moved away reluctantly and trotted to the mangled wreck of Taylor’s car. The owner would not be well pleased to be told that a car commandeered by a cop — who had assaulted him in the process — was now a write-off.
Steam hissed out of the engine block. Henry could smell petrol. Taylor was slumped over the wheel. There was a head-shaped indentation in the windscreen. Henry shone his torch in and could see that Taylor’s body was contorted under the steering column and dashboard which had crumpled with the impact. There was a lot of blood about, a lot coming out of Taylor’s right ear. Not a good sign.
‘Don’t be fucking dead,’ Henry said.
He pulled at the door. It would not budge. He used his feet for purchase and wrenched at it as hard as he could. It opened, twisting on broken hinges, but only about eighteen inches. Just wide enough for him to shoulder in and lean towards Taylor’s mangled body.
He reached for Taylor’s blood-soaked head and lifted his face away from the rim of the steering wheel, turning it towards him. It had been smashed beyond recognition into a bloody pulp. The eyes were closed, there was no sign of life. Repulsed, Henry was about to lay Taylor’s head down when suddenly his eyes flicked open, startling him. It was like something out of a horror movie. He almost dropped the head in shock. One eye socket was just a black hole and Henry could not work out where the actual eyeball was. It had either been pushed into his head, or was in the car somewhere.
Taylor’s breath blew bloody bubbles from his lips as his mouth worked. He was speaking. There were words there. Henry put his ear close to the lips.
‘Vince, is that you?’
‘Yeah,’ Henry said immediately.
‘I did it. . I did everything you said, didn’t I?’ He coughed, spraying Henry’s face with blood and spittle.
‘Yeah,’ said Henry, keeping in there, trying to ignore the blood, ‘but you have to tell me where Roscoe is.’
‘I did them all for you. . is it done?’
‘Yeah, it’s done. Where have you put Jane Roscoe?’
‘Have we won?’
‘Yes, we have.’ Henry knew that in a matter of seconds Taylor would be dead. He asked again. ‘Where is Roscoe?’
‘In the garden, buried,’ he gasped and died. Henry dropped the head back onto the steering wheel. With his handkerchief he wiped the blood and saliva from his face.
‘Shit,’ he said, drawing out of the vehicle. He sank to his knees and in despair, held his head in his hands. He was overwhelmed with horror that he had been unable to prevent the death of another woman. He rocked, choking back the sobs.
A hand touched his shoulder. Through his fingers Henry looked up at Byrne who had staggered from the Transit. Other cops were behind him.
‘I’ve lost her,’ Henry wailed. ‘I’ve lost her.’
‘Who — lost who? What’s going on, Henry?’ he demanded.
‘Jane — it was him. He did it. Killed Mark Evans, too. Took Jane and now I’ve fucked it up and we’ll never find her. She could be alive, he talked about her still being alive. She won’t be for much longer.’
Byrne was still dazed from the accident. He slumped down by Henry and placed an arm across his shoulders. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘In the garden — buried in the garden — that was all. Christ, she must be in a tomb somewhere.’
‘No, no, wait,’ Byrne’s mind cleared quickly. ‘Taylor was on the pre-conference search team. He searched and sealed the Winter Gardens. He called them the garden.’
The words permeated only slowly into Henry’s brain. ‘How many search teams are on nights?’
‘Two, I think. One at the Winter Gardens, one at the Imperial.’
‘Let’s get moving then.’
FRIDAY
Twenty-Four
He watched all the faces around the table very carefully, judging their reactions as the voices on the tape recorder spoke. Only he and Andrea Makin had heard the tape fully before and knew what to expect. Makin was sitting impassively, deep dark rings around her eyes, probably wishing she had never ventured north of Watford. Karl Donaldson was another at the table. He had a good idea of what the tape contained, so was not surprised.
The other two men had not heard the tape and it would be a shock to them. They were ACC Fanshaw-Bayley and the British Prime Minister.
They were in the main restaurant of the Imperial Hotel. The only other people in the room were the PM’s two protection officers lounging by the doors, out of earshot, preventing any unauthorised entry.
The first tape they listened to was an edited version of the interview between Makin and Martin Franklands. It began with criminal matters concerning the murder of an undercover police officer on Blackpool promenade. Franklands named the two men who had beaten the cop to death. The interview progressed to the planting of a bomb in the Pink Ladies’ Club, a bomb which had been sourced from an American terrorist whom Franklands claimed he could not identify. Franklands went on to freely implicate Vincent Bellamy, leader of the right-wing organisation called Hellfire Dawn, in the murder and the planting of the bomb, saying that both had been carried out on his instructions.
Makin stopped the tape. ‘He’s singing like a demented budgie,’ she said, ‘telling us everything about Hellfire Dawn. Bombs in Soho, Birmingham and Brighton, not American sourced, but all planted and planned by Bellamy. Also the murder of two Pakistani youths in Tooting and the firebombing of a Jewish family in York, which killed two little kids. All Bellamy’s work.’