‘So Carter did a runner?’ Rik said. ‘Think he’s guilty?’
Henry screwed up his nose. ‘Famous last words, but no, I don’t think he did it. He’s a decent lad, really.’
‘You go all soft around him,’ Rik said.
‘He’s had a tough life.’
‘He’s a little shit and I wouldn’t put it past him.’ Rik was very unforgiving, never able to accept that an individual’s upbringing or situation was any excuse for criminal behaviour. It was a point of view Henry knew well.
‘Take your freakin’ blinkers off,’ Henry whined — a slightly ironic statement as at that exact moment a Ford Fiesta with a cracked windscreen drove past them on the main road in the direction of the motorway, one Asian male on board.
Henry’s adrenaline spurted into his already fast-pumping blood flow as he bagged his food and clicked the Mercedes into drive. He moved smoothly off the forecourt, slotting in three cars behind the Fiesta which was in the nearside lane.
‘See,’ Henry said. ‘You get lucky if you do the work.’
Rik glowered, stuffed his uneaten meal back into its package then picked up his PR.
The Fiesta peeled left on to the M55, picking up speed but not excessively so. This made Henry frown slightly. He hung back as cars in front of him moved out to overtake the Fiesta leaving a sixty metre gap between himself and the Ford. The speed edged slowly upwards to the seventy mark as Rik relayed the position to comms. The force control room at headquarters then muscled in and took over the running of the ‘follow’, diverting and deploying traffic and motorway patrols. The FIM made the decision that if the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, a rolling road block would be instigated to box it in and bring it to a halt on an appropriate stretch of hard shoulder when enough patrols were there, together with armed officers.
Henry was instructed to keep his distance, simply report progress, and not to get involved directly.
First to join was a big Volvo traffic car, overtaking Henry and dropping into the space between his Merc and the Fiesta. The speed was still around the seventy mark.
‘Doesn’t really give the impression of a desperate man,’ Henry commented dryly.
‘The Fiesta isn’t a fast car, especially a shit heap like that one,’ Rik said.
‘Granted… but…’
‘Yeah, I know… I’ve been in a car chase with a Reliant Robin three-wheeler going faster than that.’
Another traffic car tore up alongside Henry, then moved ahead so that it was abreast with the first one in the nearside and middle lanes of the motorway, both still hanging back from the Ford. Control room said that other traffic cars were a few miles ahead of them on the motorway, waiting.
Henry’s mobile rang.
‘Henry — it’s Karl.’
‘Yeah — we’re with the Fiesta,’ Henry said. ‘Something odd, though.’ Henry explained the lack of urgency in the demeanour of the supposedly fleeing felon who’d knocked over a cop and been back-up for a suicide bomber. ‘He’s just trolling along at seventy, no evasive tactics, dangerous driving, attempts to force cop cars off the road or anything.’
‘Did you get a look at the driver?’
‘Not a good one,’ Henry admitted, and arched his eyebrows at Rik, who shook his head: he didn’t get a good look either. ‘Just enough to see an Asian male.’
‘Tell them all to take care,’ Donaldson said. ‘Could be a set-up — oh, and by the way, I shot the driver.’
‘You what?’ Henry blurted, but Donaldson ended the call on that note. ‘Shit,’ Henry said.
Another traffic car joined the chase as the convoy reached the exit for Kirkham, but the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, which meant that the next exit was at Broughton, north of Preston, about eight miles distant and eight minutes at the current speed. That was enough time and distance to pull the car if they could get their act together. This was already being discussed over the airwaves and Henry could see this would be the preferred option, rather than allowing the Fiesta to get on to the M6 where life would become much more complicated and far busier.
Henry picked up the PR and put that point across to the FIM, his only reservation being that there were no armed officers present at the moment. That problem was negated when a plain Volvo sports saloon roared up behind with two AFOs on board. Added to that there was another traffic car further ahead, waiting on the hard shoulder. That gave three liveried traffic cars and an armed response vehicle… game on.
Two miles had shot by while that short discussion was taking place, so they had to move now.
Henry dropped further back in the Merc. The firearms vehicle slotted into his vacated space. As if on cue, all the traffic cars switched on their blue lights. One then took up a position behind the Fiesta, another drew alongside it in the middle lane, and then they tightened up their positions. Further ahead, the traffic car that had been waiting on the hard shoulder accelerated into the nearside lane.
The Fiesta now had a police car alongside it, one behind and one in front, with nothing on the nearside except for the hard shoulder.
Then, like jet fighters escorting another plane down to earth, they edged the Fiesta across on to the hard shoulder without touching it, slowing the car down bit by bit.
Henry watched the operation being executed with precision from his position at the back of it all.
It wasn’t far now to the Broughton exit, maybe two miles.
The police cars continued to slow down.
The Fiesta made no effort to avoid what was going on, seeming to accept the inevitable, slowing down as indicated.
‘Far too easy,’ Henry remarked. He could feel the tension increasing as if a band were tightening across his chest.
Then they were at a crawl.
Then at a virtual standstill.
Then stopped.
For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the two AFOs in reflective jackets got out of the ARV — which was parked ahead of Henry on the hard shoulder — handguns drawn, and stood behind the open doors of their car, using the V-shape for support and protection. One had a loudhailer. Then the doors of the traffic car in front of them opened, the officer jumped out and ran back, whilst the AFOs ran forwards at a crouch, each taking up a position behind the open doors of the traffic car, directly behind the Fiesta.
Meanwhile, normal traffic continued to roll past and, without exception, every vehicle slowed down and the occupants gawked at the incident unfolding in front of their eyes. Traffic may have been light, but it was a problem, and it needed to be completely stopped behind them somehow.
Henry and Rik climbed out of the Mercedes which was parked about fifty metres behind the ARV on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on.
A gust of wind buffeted Henry, causing him to stagger. Then he was almost spun full circle by the slipstream of a passing lorry. He felt extremely vulnerable and suddenly realized what a very dangerous place a motorway was, even at the best of times. He went to the boot of his car and fished out a couple of reflective jackets that he always carried, handing one to Rik. Then, keeping to the side of the motorway, he strode up to the traffic officers, the wind in his face, amazed by how strong it was on such a nice day. The fact that the motorway was exposed and slightly raised made it cold and forbidding.
The man in the Fiesta had not moved. Henry could see his outline in the driver’s seat.
Henry mentioned the passing traffic to one of the officers who shouted back at him, raising his voice because that was the only way to be heard against the combined thunder of passing vehicles and swirling wind. He told Henry that the gantries had been activated further back down the motorway and blocks had been set up on the slip roads to keep anyone from coming on. The overhead signs were telling drivers to stop because of a police incident. The officer added, ‘No one ever does, though.’