They met at Rawtenstall police station, hijacked the inspector’s office once again, imported a few extra chairs into the cramped space and scrummed down behind closed doors.
‘There is good evidence against Phil Lynch regarding the murder of Keith Snell.’ Henry glanced at Roscoe. ‘Although Lawrence Bignall is still being interviewed, he’s put enough down on paper to put Lynch right in the frame. There are other circumstantial bits of evidence to support what he says and as far as I’m concerned, we’ve enough to arrest him now. But, at the same time as we arrest him, I want us to get into the safe in the property store at the Arena police station and seize the guns belonging to Snell.’ He paused, taking a breath. ‘Those actions will open floodgates, I guess. These could sweep us to the murder and attempted murder of Colin Carruthers, me and the chief. It will also open up links to the job on the M62 where twenty illegal immigrants died in the back of a truck, and from there on, a lot of international stuff — hence the presence of Karl, here, from the FBI.’
‘How do you want to play it, then?’
‘We need to get Lynch sewn up tight. I want everything done to the nth degree — forensics, house searches, clothing, all vehicles he’s had access to gone over by CSI, and I want to find that damned Citroen van. We’ve already got a lot of this information from Bignall, so my view is we need to act on it quickly. Once Lynch is nailed to the wall, we can go for the others.’
Henry saw nods of agreement. It was a plan and he was open to suggestions, but none came.
‘I take it this is OK with everybody?’ A murmur of assent came back. He would have liked to see a little more enthusiasm, but there you go. ‘Right, let’s work out some of the logistics.’
Henry and Donaldson drove out towards Manchester in an unmarked police car. Jane Roscoe sat quietly in the back as Henry whisked them down the M66. Why he had let her tag along with him he wasn’t certain. Maybe it was to further demonstrate to her that he was an OK guy.
‘It has to be better to pick him up at his home address,’ he was saying. ‘That way we keep a lid on it. None of his mates need to find out until it’s too late for them — hopefully. He lives alone, so there shouldn’t be anyone there to blab. It would be nice to keep him under wraps for some time at least.’
The journey did not take long, Henry exiting the motorway at Bury, where Lynch lived on a newish estate in the Walshaw area. Henry had a good idea where it was, especially after refreshing his mind from an A-Z map book he found at Rawtenstall nick.
‘Everybody happy?’ Henry beamed sitting at the wheel. He was buzzing, but there was no response from the other two, though he knew they were keyed-up for action. Even Donaldson, who would have to remain on the sidelines whilst Henry and Roscoe did the work of making the arrest. ‘Soon be there,’ he promised, as though to kids.
Henry reached a road where he could not quite be sure whether he should turn off first or second left.
He got it wrong, but it was just as well.
As he flew past the road end he should have turned into, a car drew up to the junction.
‘That’s him,’ Henry snapped, recognizing Lynch at the wheel. He held back the urge to duck down behind his steering wheel and kept going without swerving.
Donaldson eyeballed Lynch, getting a good, if quick, look at his face. ‘I recognize him,’ he said. ‘He’s the guy that gave me the hard stare from the back of the Citroen van on the motorway.’
‘Nice one,’ Henry said, watching Lynch in his rear-view mirror. He pulled out of the junction and turned right, going in the direction Henry had just driven from, towards Bury town centre. ‘Need to turn this bus round.’
Following a vehicle on a one-on-one is tricky. To effectively surveil someone travelling on four wheels generally requires at least four cars and, if possible, a motorbike. Henry was kicking himself for failing to anticipate this situation, but then again, he thought reasonably, it’s impossible to cover all bases with the limited resources available. But he had not expected to have to follow his target, and this made him twitch a little nervously. Judgement again? He took a breath. . go with the situation, keep assessing it and do your best, he told himself, gripping the wheel firmly. Then pick the best opportunity to lift Lynch.
‘Wonder where he’s going?’ Donaldson speculated.
Henry slotted in three cars behind, hoping to hell that Lynch was such a confident bastard that it would never occur to him he was being tailed. If he started to use anti-surveillance tactics, Henry would be stuffed at the first junction.
He led them into Bury town centre. Henry had problems staying with him here. Having to hang back all the time meant either missing lights or running them. Henry ran plenty, unscathed more by luck than skill, and stayed with Lynch, who wound through the town and dropped on to the A58, going in the direction of Heywood and Rochdale.
‘Doesn’t look like he’s going to the office,’ Henry said.
It was just after eight p.m., getting darker, making following even more of a problem. Henry often had to rely on recognizing the rear light cluster of Lynch’s motor.
All three were now getting jittery.
So much for a plan.
As for Lynch, it never entered his head he was being followed. For a start he thought he had done the job on those simpletons from Lancashire. Even though the two cops in the car he had forced into the ARMCO barrier had survived, it had given the Invincibles the chance to regroup and put a better game plan together. Sure, the cops from Lancs would come back, but then the gates would be firmly closed and they would find nothing. The chief constable was hospitalized, the DCI was off sick and Carruthers was now really dead as opposed to just brain-dead. A good job, well done.
Now all that remained was to sort Rufus Sweetman and his cocaine — and that is what he was en route to pull off.
Easton had arranged a meet at a uniquely brilliant location, ostensibly to hand the consignment of drugs back and therefore stop the random shootings of innocent cops. But Lynch knew that no handing over would ever take place. Secretly everyone knew that there would only ever be one outcome, but because the stakes were so high, they were all prepared to take the risk.
Someone was going to die and Lynch was damn sure it would not be him.
He checked his rear-view mirror as he pulled on to the roundabout under the M66. Damn sure. .
They travelled through the small town of Heywood, then bore right towards Middleton.
‘All the best places,’ Henry said.
‘I don’t like this,’ Donaldson said.
‘Nor me,’ Roscoe chimed in. ‘Something’s happening.’
Henry knew what they meant. That inner voice of the experienced cop, wittering in your earhole. He was hearing it, too. Over his shoulder he said to Roscoe, ‘Give Dave Anger a call, tell him where we’re up to.’
She nodded.
Henry was now only one vehicle behind Lynch. Traffic was light on the road and maintaining invisibility was getting more problematical. ‘He’ll clock us soon, if he hasn’t done already. .’ Then Lynch’s brake lights came on and he turned off the main road. Henry could not follow. He had no choice but to drive on and stop after a further hundred metres.
‘I know what’s down there. .’ He looked quizzically at his American friend. ‘It’s the Big City.’
That was its affectionate nickname — the Big City. It was housed in a massive warehouse on the edge of an industrial estate on the outskirts of Heywood, not far from the noise of the M62 at Birch Services. And although it was known as the Big City, it was actually more like a small town. It consisted of a main street, shops on either side, with side streets and alleyways shooting off this main drag, some leading into small squares, others to dead ends. Most of the buildings were merely shells, constructed of plywood, held together by four by two, some were merely frontages like a Wild West film set. Some of the buildings had stairs in them, leading up to first-floor landings and windows, from which rioters could pelt police lines.