Henry veered onto the forecourt off the road.
Dundaven put all his weight on the accelerator and aimed the huge Range Rover purposely towards the oncoming police car. Intention: to ram and disable.
‘ Hold on,’ Henry cried out and wondered fleetingly whether his right, left, or both legs would be broken.
The two vehicles met virtually head-on. The bull-bars wrapped around the front of the Range Rover crunched into the front lights and radiator grill of Henry’s motor, bringing both to a skeleton-rattling halt.
Dundaven kept his foot rammed to the floor and pushed Henry’s car across the forecourt, causing it more and more damage. Then he slammed his brakes on, went into reverse and put his foot down again. With a screech of tearing metal the Range Rover extricated itself, tyres squealing and smoking on the concrete surface.
When he had enough space to manoeuvre, Dundaven was back into forward gear and was pulling away.
Dundaven’s right hand appeared out of his window, waving the shotgun in the general direction of the police car. He loosed off both barrels at the two officers who cowered down like frightened rabbits. It was a badly aimed shot, taken as the Range Rover was speeding past, and the discharge missed them completely. Once again the recoil was very great and he was unable to keep hold of the gun which jerked out of his hand onto the forecourt Then he was gone, slewing across all four lanes of the dual carriageway and accelerating away towards Preston. The massive engine responded superbly to the throttle.
In contrast, the rather smaller engine of Henry’s car had conked out. He twisted the key in the ignition and prayed there was not too much damage. The starter motor coughed pathetically. Henry almost threw up his hands in despair, got out and kicked the car in anger.
But before he did, he tried it once again.
Roughly it fired up. He dabbed the gas pedal a couple of times and the unwilling engine came back to life like it had been in shock.
The process of restarting seemed to take for ever. Time which was allowing those two bastards to escape. In actual fact he was only a matter of seconds behind his target when he re-crossed the road, which by now was becoming accustomed to dangerous driving.
The view down the front of Henry’s car was no longer smooth and sleek. Instead it looked as though a heap of tangled metal had been clamped to the radiator, the bonnet having creased up like a blanket after a bad night.
He pushed the car to the limits of its performance in each gear and all the while he expected it to die on him. Surely, he thought, the collision must have damaged some of the workings.
‘ Keep going, y’bastard,’ he intoned under his breath.
Because now he was mad. The driver of the Range Rover — apart from shooting a police officer — had rammed him and tried to kill him. He did not take kindly to that.
Seymour, cool as ever, was talking slowly into his radio.
Henry threw a quick glance at him. Blood was pouring out of a cut just below the left side of his scalp where he’d cracked it on the door. When he’d finished passing his message, Henry asked him if he was all right to continue.
Seymour scowled at Henry as though he was a complete prick.
‘ Let’s catch these cunts,’ he said grimly.
If Dundaven had been given the chance, he would have dumped the Range Rover at the first opportunity and stolen another car. That would have been the sensible thing to do.
He did not have that option.
The cargo in the back made it impossible. So he was stuck with what he’d got and had to make the effort to get it back to safety.
He was pleased by the way things had gone at first. He’d got out of Blackpool easily. The problem he next faced was that he needed to refuel the vehicle. The big engine was guzzling petrol faster than a tramp guzzled cider, and he didn’t have enough left to get back to Manchester. Not at the speeds he’d be travelling at.
The refuelling had been going well.
McCrory, still stunned, was responding with blind obedience to everything. He made an excellent petrol pump attendant.
Then the detectives spotted them.
Dunny had hoped to ram the cop car into oblivion, but the manoeuvre had been nowhere near as effective as intended. This was confirmed by McCrory, who was keeping tabs out the back window.
‘ They’re there, they’re behind us,’ he shrieked.
‘ I should’ve wasted ‘em,’ growled Dundaven with regret.
‘ There’s another cop car with ‘em now,’ McCrory said.
Dundaven checked the mirror and glimpsed the blue light. He overtook a slow-moving bus, causing oncoming traffic to avoid him, then cut back in and shot through the next set of traffic lights which were on red. In the middle of the junction he had to slam on, twist and turn, accelerate away, keeping going all the time.
McCrory leaned forwards and peered up through the windscreen.
‘ Now the fuckin’ helicopter’s there,’ he howled in anguish. ‘We haven’t got a hope in hell, Dunny. We are fucking doomed. On my daughter’s life, we are doomed.’
‘ Shut yer pathetic hole,’ Dundaven warned him. ‘We are not doomed.’ Well, I’m not, he added silently.
He mounted the pavement with the two-nearside wheels and overtook a series of cars on the inside, pulling back onto the road inches before he hit a lamp post.
He was thinking quickly, weighing up the odds which were shortening against them. McCrory was a liability. If they did get caught, he would definitely talk till the cows came home. Though he didn’t know much, he knew a little and the cops could follow up on it. Dundaven made a decision.
The shotgun McCrory had used on the police car was at McCrory’s feet where he’d dropped it in disgust. Dundaven pointed at it. ‘Put two more shells in that and hand it to me.’
Without enthusiasm, the other man picked the weapon up. His fingers were shaking as he did what he was told.
‘ What you gonna do with it?’ he asked and placed it into Dundaven’s beckoning left hand.
‘ Open yer door just a crack an’ I’ll show ya.’
‘ Eh?’
‘ Just fekin do it!’
McCrory pulled back the handle. The door was unlocked and slightly open.
‘ This is what I’m gonna do.’
He put the weapon to McCrory’s head and pulled both triggers. This time when the gun recoiled he made sure he kept tight hold of it.
McCrory was catapulted out the side door.
By the time the chase hit the outskirts of Preston, Henry had been joined by a traffic car and the force helicopter. Other police vehicles in the area were converging.
The Control Room at force headquarters had taken over all communications. Their first instructions to Henry were that he should withdraw from the pursuit immediately and let the traffic car take up the following position.
It was one of those radio transmissions that, for some reason, Henry did not quite receive. This was one he was not going to give up. He’d face the consequences later.
He managed to stay in sight of the Range Rover as it bobbed and weaved through traffic. His own driving was more restrained and careful… but not by much.
They were about fifty metres behind, with nothing between them, when the passenger door opened and the body of a man seemed to leap out of the vehicle.
It corkscrewed out, appeared to stick gruesomely to the side of the Range Rover for an instant before suddenly losing grip, flopping onto the ground and bouncing into the road in front of Henry.
‘ Jesus, look out!’ bellowed Seymour, losing his composure for the first time.
Henry’s reactions had now become fine-tuned. He had a micro-second to react and steered brilliantly around the body, his car lurching madly on two wheels, close to overturning. The body continued to roll and bounce along behind them. The driver of the traffic car didn’t have a chance in hell of missing it. He did well, but ran over it with all four wheels.