Dundaven hared easily away. The gap increased with each second. There was no escaping the helicopter, however, which had a cruise speed of 125 m.p.h.
Seymour confirmed their position to Control Room, and that he believed their ultimate destination could well be Greater Manchester.
He asked for their patrols to be alerted.
‘ Unless we get him stopped on the motorway, we’ll lose him,’ Henry concluded. ‘Here, give me the radio again. Perhaps there is something we can do.’
A traffic patrol officer called Sharp sat behind the steering wheel of his pride and joy: a brand new Volvo estate car, kitted out in the new orange, blue and white livery of the Lancashire Police.
He was parked on Anderton Services on the M61, literally only metres from the boundary with Manchester and about six miles south from the current position of the chase which was less than five minutes away from him.
His call sign came up and the Control Room operator asked him a question to which he replied, ‘Yes, one on board.’
He was given authority to use it.
It was his lucky night.
He drove quickly down to the bottom of the services exit road and stopped on the hard shoulder. He turned on every light his car possessed so no one would fail to see him. He scurried around to the tailgate of the Volvo, opened it and pulled out his new piece of kit.
He was shaking with nervous anticipation.
History in the making.
The first officer in Lancashire to use ‘The Stinger’.
Dundaven drove hard down the motorway, leapfrogging as necessary. Overtaking on the inside or hard shoulder. Followed all the while by that fucking helicopter.
Resting on his knee was the shotgun.
Holding the steering wheel with his right hand and left knee, he deftly broke the weapon with his free hand. The remnants of the two cartridges which had killed McCrory were expelled. Without letting the speed drop, he reached back between the seats and felt under the blanket where the shotguns had been secreted originally. He found a box of cartridges and dumped them out onto the bloodstained passenger seat. He skilfully slotted two into the empty barrels and closed the weapon.
Once loaded, he transferred the steering to his left hand, the shotgun to his right. Then he attempted to do what he always did to people or things which annoyed him.
He leaned out of the window, braced himself against the doorframe, aimed as best he could and wrapped his forefinger around the double triggers.
This was happening as he sped past Anderton Services.
He hardly noticed the place really; vaguely saw the police car with its lights ablaze and thought he might have seen the figure of a cop standing by the car. But that was all. What he was bothered about was getting a good shot at the helicopter.
The Hollow Spike Tyre Deflation System is its technical name. Better known as ‘The Stinger’, it consists of a lightweight plastic frame with metal spikes protruding from it and is designed, in manufacturer’s parlance, ‘to safely resolve pursuit situations’. By rolling out the frame like a red carpet across the path of a vehicle, the hollow spikes imbed themselves in one or more of the tyres. Gradual deflation and subsequent loss of speed follow. That’s the theory.
The Stinger had been used in several police forces with a good deal of success, though vehicles had been known not to pick up spikes in their tyres. Lancashire had eventually bought a large number of the systems.
This was the first time one had been deployed.
Sharp was ecstatic as he watched the fleeing Range Rover bump over it. He yanked it back in and bundled it into the back of the Volvo.
Had it done the trick, was the next question.
Dundaven fired both barrels upwards, remembering to keep hold of the weapon. At the same time he felt a dull ‘thu-dud’ when the wheels went over something in the carriageway. A hump or something. Maybe raised tarmac over a repair. Nothing really.
The observer in the helicopter saw Dundaven’s head and right shoulder leaning out of the window and the shotgun aimed at them. He informed the pilot and both of them said, ‘What a wanker he must be if he thinks he’s going to even come close.’ They stayed exactly where they were on station above him.
He missed completely, all of the shot eventually falling harmlessly away.
‘ That’ll show the fuckers,’ Dundaven said with satisfaction.
He dropped the shotgun onto the passenger seat and returned his concentration to driving. Not that far to go now.
The Range Rover slewed to the right.
He corrected the steering, thinking nothing of it. A gust of wind.
It happened again.
‘ Wooaw,’ he gasped. The wheel almost ripped itself out of his grip. This time it was a little harder to control at 117 m.p.h. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ he demanded out loud. Puncture, maybe?
It veered to the right again. Dundaven held tightly to the wheel, trying to keep the speed up but finding it increasingly difficult. With each second the vehicle became more and more unstable. Next it went left. Something was very definitely wrong.
With a flash he remembered the cop on the motorway.
And the bump on the road.
He groaned angrily and reached for the shotgun.
‘ The Stinger!’ he hissed.
Sharp, the traffic officer, had caught up with Dundaven in less than two minutes. The speed was now lower than fifty and dropping.
The helicopter radioed the apparent success to all patrols.
Within another minute Henry was back in the chase.
Seconds behind him was another traffic car and an Armed Response
Vehicle (ARV) — which was double-manned — each officer armed to the back teeth with a variety of weapons.
Another helicopter appeared in the sky, the one belonging to Greater Manchester Police.
Dundaven saw everything converging on him. He fought to keep the speed up, but could not halt the decline. Having picked up spikes in both front tyres, the Range Rover was proving impossible to control. It seemed to have had enough of him and wanted to stop the whole crazy business. He was powerless, like the rider of a horse which had a mind of its own. He slowed and stopped in the centre lane.
The helicopters hovered above, lights blazing down on him.
There were no other cars about other than cop cars, because three miles back Control Room had activated the overhead matrix signs and brought the motorway to a standstill.
Dundaven fondled the shotgun for a few moments. Deep in thought he tossed it out of the window, sat there and bowed his head.
It was over.
Henry talked Dundaven out, giving him precise instructions through a loud-hailer.
Slowly. No sudden movements.
There are armed officers. Their guns are pointing at you. If you make any sudden movement, or do anything other than what I say, you will be shot. Be in no doubt about that.
Open the door with your right hand. Push it fully open.
Put your hands on your head. Interlock your fingers.
Get out very, very slowly.
Right leg, left leg. Slowly. Get out. Stand up. Face me.
Walk very slowly towards me.
Keep looking at me.
Slowly or you will be shot… that’ s it… another two steps.
Stop there.
Keep facing me… keep looking at me… do as I say.
Keeping your hands on your head, go down onto your right knee.
Now stretch out your arms at shoulder height. Pretend to be Jesus.
Keep your left arm stretched out. Lean forwards and place your right hand on the road. Now your left. Lower yourself to the ground, keep your nose flat to the road, lie face down on the road.
Put your arms out again.
Stay exactly where you are.
An officer will now approach you. He is armed and if you move, he will shoot you in the back.