Bill Robbins trotted around a distant corner. Full firearms kit on, a Heckler and Koch machine pistol slung diagonally across his chest, ready for use, his Glock holstered at his hip, Taser, a CS canister, rigid cuffs, extendable baton, PR — the business. Henry felt some relief, but also a bit of concern: firearms officers were supposed to work in pairs.
Bill came up to Henry.
‘You alone?’
‘Partner’s got the shits. He stayed on for as long as he could, finally had to go sick. Bad turkey. So what’s happening?’
Henry glanced back through the porthole. Freddy was still face down. The wounded porter was being tended by the doctor and the nurse.
Henry explained quickly, and Bill said he hadn’t seen anyone on his way up. Henry said, ‘Let’s get this porter and the nurse who was held hostage to A amp;E. I also want to get Freddy out of here and transported to Blackburn cells, then we’ll go and have a mooch around for these armed chappies.’
A few moments later, the porter had been gently laid out on a trolley and with Henry propelling Freddy — who was now in a completely different world to anyone else, allowing himself to be manhandled without complaint — and Bill Robbins leading the way, they reached A amp;E with no further incident.
By this time the section van had arrived and Freddy was shoved into it. With specific instructions from Henry, who handed the van driver Freddy’s knife, Freddy was removed from the scene. One less thing to worry about.
He returned to A amp;E reception, where Janine was waiting. The porter was being attended to and the nurse-hostage was being soothed and treated by her colleagues.
‘Any comment?’ Henry asked Janine. She shook her head. Not convinced, Henry said, ‘But you know what’s going on, don’t you?’
‘Not as such.’
Henry screwed his face up at her. ‘Not as such? That’s a yes, then?’ He was about to launch himself verbally into her when his PR came to life, the comms room at Blackburn calling him urgently. ‘Go ’head,’ he said.
‘Report of shots being fired near ward C10 at the hospital. That’s on level three.’
‘Roger — attending with Romeo Seven.’ Bill Robbins had heard the transmission and was ready to go. Henry looked at Janine, jerked a forefinger at her. ‘You don’t go anywhere. We need to have words.’ Then he set off behind Bill, bringing his PR up to his mouth, shouting instructions to comms: basically, send everyone they could to A amp;E, which would be the RV point for this incident, and ensure the patrol inspector got a grip of things.
Henry and Bill jog-trotted away from A amp;E, up two flights of stairs that took them onto level 3, on which gunfire had most recently been reported. The corridors, in the main, were deserted. Official visiting times to the wards were over and virtually all hospital activity was now taking place on the wards themselves.
Henry was curious as to why Bill Robbins was out and about operationally — his job, after all, was in firearms training. But Henry did know there was a requirement for training staff to perform operational duties from time to time to keep their hands in. Up until recently, as Henry also knew, Bill’s authorization to carry firearms had been revoked following a shooting incident over two years before, but now it had been reinstated following a long drawn-out inquiry and — sadly — an inquest at which a verdict of death by misadventure had been recorded and Bill had been exonerated.
But there was no time for discussion.
They came out onto level 3, turned right towards the wards.
The radio chatter was unceasing and all very excitable, so Henry cut across it and told the comms operator to stamp his authority on it as he and Bill approached the scene warily.
They stopped at the entrance to a long, wide corridor, partitioned by several sets of fire safety doors, off which were the wards. Looking along its length, Henry saw it was deserted.
They shouldered through the doors, walking side by side. On the left was the entrance to ward C14. They stopped, glanced into it. No sign of untoward activity. Next along, this time on the right, was the Spiritual Care centre. The door to this was locked.
Next on the left was C10.
Henry moved to his left, up to the wall, fighting the urge to push Bill ahead of him and use him as a human shield.
Bill, his round face serious, had the H amp;K in a firing position and the two men crept the last metres to the ward entrance, hearing nothing.
They exchanged looks.
Then a terrifying scream emanated from the ward.
There was a gunshot. Henry ducked instinctively as a slug slammed into the corridor wall opposite the ward entrance.
There was the thudding of running feet.
Another shot. Then a man tore out of the ward, running hard and fast, too hard and fast to stop, and slammed into the wall ahead of him, where the bullet had entered the plasterwork only seconds before. He crashed into it with his right shoulder, pushed himself off and ran in the opposite direction to Henry, not even having noticed the two officers, who watched him in amazement. The man was clearly running for his life — on the wall, he had left a thick smear of blood from a wound somewhere around his right shoulder.
He was pursued by another man who followed almost exactly the same route, moving so quickly he too hit the wall, bounced off and went for his quarry.
Difference was, this guy wasn’t injured.
And he was carrying a handgun.
Fifteen metres ahead of him, the first man stopped and turned, and for the first time Henry saw that he also had a gun. This was in his left hand, and the weapon wavered.
The second man weaved to one side, and holding his own handgun — a large pistol of some sort — in the manner of a film gangster, he fired at the first man.
Four shots, quick succession.
The gun jerked at each discharge.
Each bullet hit the first man in the abdomen, sending him staggering backwards, arms windmilling, his gun flying out of his hand, until he tipped sideways and over.
By which time Henry and Bill had moved.
Bill screamed, ‘Armed police — drop your weapon. Armed police — drop your weapon — or I will fire!’ The words were loud, clear and unambiguous and Bill could not have been mistaken for anything other than an armed cop — full regalia, including the chequered baseball cap.
But the man was at that moment probably charged with a super-shot of adrenalin. He spun — Henry recognized who it was — not reacting to Bill’s words, but driven on by the situation and his own heart rate and red-mist rage.
Bill — rightly — took no chances.
The man had just murdered someone in front of him, may have killed others, might try and shoot at them.
So he cut down Iron-man Bill Grasson with a four-bullet strafe across the chest, sent him pirouetting like a demented ballet dancer down the corridor, where he stumbled and tripped over his own victim, their blood mingling and spreading fast on the highly polished tiled floor.
Bill lowered his weapon, his chest rising and falling.
‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Times like this I wish I’d had the shits, not my mate.’
NINE
As a police manager, the key to success at an ongoing, complex incident was to detach yourself from it, keep an overview, bring calm to chaos and in the process keep a firm eye on securing and preserving evidence. But above all, to ensure that people were safe and the danger had passed.
It was easy to become an imitation of Miracle Mike, the Headless Chicken, particularly when blood was being splattered — but as soon as Bill pulled the trigger on his MP5 and two people lay dead at his feet, Henry went straight into auto-mode, took charge of the scene and imposed his authority.
Once it was confirmed that the two men in the corridor were first, no longer a threat and second, dead, Henry went to check there was no further danger in ward C10. There wasn’t, but there was another dead body also containing several chunks of lead. And he needed to confirm that no one else had made good their escape. The process itself was just like dealing with a burglary scene, using the same skill set — but with the addition of more blood, emotion and chaos.