Henry glanced at his companions.
Dave and Jack, the two firearms officers, sat in thoughtful silence with bored expressions on their faces. They were dressed in dark blue overalls, body armour, ballistic caps and black lace-up boots. Each had an HK MP5 across his chest and a pistol in a holder around the waist.
‘ OK?’ Henry enquired.
They both nodded, said nothing. Strong silent types.
Henry looked at the far more appealing Siobhan Robson, his partner.
She was in tight jeans, a tracksuit top and a fleece-lined zip-up jacket. Her hair had been pulled into a pony tail and tucked under a dark green woollen cap. With her hair thus taken up, her ears were going blue with cold. It didn’t stop them being nice ears, though. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at Henry and smiled with her eyes.
He responded with a quick grin, then raised his eyebrows and looked out through the window, mulling over the plan of action if Anderson turned up. It had been decided that he should be allowed to park his car, get out and walk to the front entrance of the warehouse. There he had to key a number into a pad to gain entry to the building. The teams should hit him just as he was doing this, grab him, flatten him, cuff him, search him, arrest him.
At least that was the plan. Everyone seemed to understand it and that in itself was a bonus.
He shivered and clamped his teeth together to stop them making a clattering noise like badly adjusted tappets.
Of course there was a good chance Anderson would never turn up. Ever.
It was five past six.
At which time John Rider was climbing into bed, having spent the night at the scene of the fire. He had made a comprehensive statement to the police, being as honest with them as he thought necessary. Yes, he had recently fallen out big-style with someone, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. What had happened was beyond the ability of the law to deal with. It was for him to sort out now, once and for all. To put an end to this madness with perhaps one more act of madness.
Munrow would have to die.
There was no other option now, he believed.
Isa had been with him throughout the night, watching him closely, trying to judge his mood, guess his intentions. But Rider was good. He showed nothing, kept a straight face, kept his anger controlled. Turned inside himself.
They had returned to the basement flat a little before six, both gritty and grubby from the smoke. They shared a shower in which they soaped each other down and washed each other’s hair. Shortly after six they climbed into bed and Rider made ferocious love to Isa in a way which brought her to a wonderful multi-orgasm, but which also left her feeling slightly afraid.
Afterwards, before they fell asleep, Isa asked him the big question.
‘ Are you going to kill him?’
A terrible, faraway look came into Rider’s eyes which made Isa’s skin crawl.
He nodded, rolled over and within minutes was asleep.
Isa buried her face in the pillow, unable to stop the tears.
Four hours later, Henry and his team in the van were beginning to warm up a little. A weak-willed winter sun poked its reluctant nose from behind the grey clouds and was making a little difference to the temperature inside the van. It had risen to freezing point, but it was better than nothing. Several cups of shared coffee from flasks were also having a positive effect on internal body temperatures. Unfortunately the liquid was having an adverse effect on the bladders of two of them, Henry being one. He was feeling an increasingly urgent need to pay a visit to a toilet, but not the chemical one fitted in the van, watched by the others.
It was becoming a predicament, one which would have to be addressed sooner rather than later.
Henry crossed his legs and gave Siobhan a lopsided grin which seemed to convey his inner torment.
To be honest, Karl Donaldson did not really expect to hear from George Santana again. So when he answered the phone he was amazed to hear the crackle of static that meant long distance, and the faint sound of Santana’s voice at the far end.
‘ I have some news for you, Agent Donaldson,’ Santana revealed after the opening exchange of pleasantries.
Donaldson waited to be told.
‘ We have been keeping your man under observation and there is nothing to report on that front,’ the Madeiran detective said. ‘However, we have learned that he has booked a seat on a charter-plane flight to the United Kingdom.’
‘ When and where does it land?’ He expected to be told Heathrow, next Monday… something like that.
‘ Around four o’clock this afternoon. Manchester.’
Donaldson closed his eyes despairingly. He scribbled down the flight details as Santana said them, thanked him and hung up.
Fucking Manchester in six hours!
Not impossible — but pretty godammed difficult to arrange for someone to greet him and drop onto his tail.
He fleetingly considered ringing Henry Christie and telling him to haul ass to the airport — like they’d done once on a previous job. Then he remembered Henry was now on local CID in Blackpool and didn’t have the roving commission that he’d had when on the Regional Crime Squad. He couldn’t come and go as he pleased any more.
It left Donaldson with a dilemma. Should he go to Manchester himself and risk being spotted by Hamilton, or should he arrange for the cops in Manchester to put a surveillance team on him?
Six hours. Short notice to get someone to drop everything and follow a man whom they did not know, who was not really suspected of doing anything. It was pretty unlikely they would wear that.
So, by a process of deduction, there was only one solution.
He reached for the phone.
Twenty minutes later, Henry was almost weeping with the agony of trying to hold it all in. He had to pass water instantaneously, otherwise he’d burst in a spectacular fashion.
‘ I need to pee,’ he declared, ‘and I’m not using that!’ He pointed accusingly to the chemical toilet.
‘ I could do with one too,’ said Philpot, the firearms officer.
‘ Right,’ said Henry. He looked out of the window. There was nothing moving on the Quay, vehicles, people, anything. He did a quick radio check using a prearranged code to find out if anyone had spotted the approach of Anderson and all came back negative. It seemed as good a time as any to break cover and dash across the road into the gap between two buildings and indulge in some blissful relief.
‘ We run across to that alley, go down to the far end of it and do it there. Then we wait for the all clear’ — he nodded towards Siobhan — ‘three clicks on the radio, and we’ll pile back into the van.’
‘ Gotcha,’ said Philpot, who for the last ten minutes had been fidgeting like he had a ferret down his trousers.
Henry opened the back door an inch. A blast of ice-cold air rushed in. He had another look to ensure it really was safe to go, dropped out of the van, sprinted across the road and disappeared down the alley, Philpot in hot pursuit.
They began to do what came naturally, their faces a picture of almost perfect pleasure.
Siobhan’s voice came over the radio, the words in rapid fire. ‘He’s here. Target One’s here. He’s pulled up at the front of the warehouse!’ There was a degree of panic in her speech.
‘ Fuck!’ uttered Henry. He had to finish peeing because he didn’t think he had a strong enough bladder to halt the process. Neither did Philpot. Both were in full flow, unstoppable. ‘How the hell did he get here without us knowing first? C’mon, c’mon.’ Henry urged himself. Down his radio he said, ‘You’d better get the ball rolling, Siobhan. We’ll be right behind you.’