De la Garde and Rufus T were patient men. Waiting was not a problem. They listened to more of the Jaguar owner’s collection of middle-of-the road music without complaint.
Then she came out of the side door of the pub, accompanied by another woman.
De la Garde tapped Rufus T on the leg. The driver came to attention and his hands took hold of the wheel.
De la Garde cocked the weapon.
The two women walked arm in arm across the car park. They had reached the prostitute’s car.
‘ What about the other woman?’ Rufus T enquired. The music had been switched off.
‘ Fuck her,’ growled the gunman. ‘GO!’
The Jag slewed out of its parking spot. De la Garde had the MP5 resting out of the open window. The car accelerated at an alarming rate.
The women looked in the direction of the approaching car. The prostitute screamed something and grabbed the other woman’s elbow to drag her out of the way.
The Jag drew level and the MP5, in its understated way, crackled a spray of bullets across the two women.
The prostitute went down as six splattered across her chest. She was dead before she hit the hard ground.
The other woman got four across her midriff. She went down onto her backside where she sat upright for a few moments, looking with disbelief at the spreading redness over her stomach and feeling a terrible, nauseating pain. This was followed by complete blackness.
Only feet separated the women in death.
A chasm had divided them in life.
But the activities of one man had drawn them together for this final, fatal encounter.
The Jaguar was long gone, racing towards Preston, then cutting left onto the M6. Twenty minutes later it was found abandoned and burned out in Wigan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daylight had gone. The blackness of evening came swiftly, and with it more torrential rain which, as they travelled eastwards, turned to relentless driving sleet. Typical horrendous northern weather which looked set to continue.
In the back of the police van it was extra dark. The light which illuminated the cage was controlled from a switch on the dash, but Gallagher steadfastly ignored Henry’s shouts to turn it on.
Henry glared across at Rider who sat there with his eyes closed, his face visible only in brief flashes of fluorescent orange when they passed under street lamps.
Fuming, Henry sat back, unable to do anything but brood and wait until they reached Preston before he told the DI what a cunt he thought he was. He folded his arms and tapped his feet, aware he was powerless to do anything other than bide his time.
The van reached Marton Circle outside Blackpool and picked up the A583 towards Preston.
Still restless, Henry shuffled along the bench seat until he was directly behind Tattersall and Siobhan who were squashed up on the double passenger seat. Henry peered through the toughened glass window, shading his eyes with his hands, watching the journey unfold through the poor headlights which struggled ineptly against the weather. Although the wipers worked at double speed, they were fighting a losing battle. Gallagher was forced to lean forwards constantly as though the extra inches would give him some sort of visual advantage.
They stuck on the A583, with the town of Kirkham to their left, eventually reaching the traffic lights at Three Nooks — and the junction with the A584 — where only a week before, Henry and Dave Seymour had made a decision to go towards Preston instead of turning back to Blackpool, and then found themselves in a life-and-death car chase with Dundaven. It felt like a year ago, not seven short days.
Half a mile later they bore left onto the dual carriageway which would take them into Preston. The River Ribble and the old docks were on their right.
Just a few minutes from the police station now. Then Henry could voice his feelings to Gallagher. He was relishing the prospect.
At the first set of traffic lights, Gallagher filtered into the offside lane and then into the right-hand lane specifically for vehicles turning right into Nelson Way. The lights were on red and he stopped.
Henry could see the indicator flashing a right.
‘ What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded suspiciously, alerting Rider who shook himself out of his reverie, opening his eyes at the sound of Henry’s utterance.
The lights went to green. Gallagher let out the clutch and turned the wheel.
‘ We should be going straight on here,’ Henry said. He rapped the window with his knuckles and shouted, ‘What’s happening?’
He was ignored.
He looked quickly at his travelling companion.
‘ This takes us onto the shit end of an industrial estate.’
Rider leaned forwards, concern on his face.
Gallagher gunned the van down the road which was lit for about a hundred metres. Then nothing. It was like driving into a coal mine. Open fields were on either side.
‘ Get me out of these, Henry,’ Rider said urgently. He pushed his hands forwards, presenting his cuffed wrists.
Henry looked at him, but Rider’s face was only shadow on shadow.
‘ Come on,’ the other man hissed. ‘If this diversion is legit, then put ‘em back on. If not, I think I’d be better hands free.’
Henry did not hesitate. Within seconds Rider was massaging the blood-flow back into his hands.
The van slowed down and turned. The beam from the headlights swept across the outer wall of an old factory. The van stopped about four feet from, and pointing into, the wall.
Henry knocked on the glass again.
‘ Hey, what’s happening, folks?’ he shouted, trying to sound jovial and unconcerned. The reality was that he was shitting bricks.
The interior light came on in the front cab. Siobhan handed something across to Gallagher. Something metallic. A gun.
Rider had seen it too.
Something inside Henry twisted like colic. He wanted to burst into tears.
Gallagher flicked a switch and the light in the cage came on.
With the engine still running and lights on, the three detectives stepped out of the van.
Henry caught Rider’s expression. He was just as petrified.
The back doors of the van opened. A burst of cold air whooshed in, making Henry shiver and feel weak.
Gallagher, Tattersall and Siobhan pushed their faces up to the metal grill.
Gallagher’s face, in the light given out by the interior bulb, looked evil. He smiled.
‘ End of the road, Henry.’
‘ What do you mean?’
‘ Exactly what I say. It’s been decided to whack you, pal — and you, mate.’ He indicated Rider and rested the muzzle of his pistol on the cage door. ‘Sorry an’ all that, but you should have taken the hint and done what you were told. Your life would have been good, with all sorts of perks, not least shafting Siobhan here as and when you liked.’
‘ I’d rather fuck a rusty drainpipe,’ Henry said.
‘ So you’re gonna shoot us, is that what you’re sayin’?’ Rider cut in.
‘ Yup.’
‘ And how you gonna explain that?’ he asked incredulously.
Gallagher jerked a finger at Henry. ‘He knows enough about us to answer that one, don’t you, Henry?’
‘ Creatively, I suppose,’ Henry conceded.
‘ Spot on,’ Gallagher said. He shrugged. ‘Just thinkin’ off the top of my head… you’re overpowered by the prisoner in the back of the van who has secreted a knife on him. We… ahh… realise that unless we accede to his demands he’ll kill you and so we play it safe. Drive down here as he tells us and open the back door. He’s got the knife to your throat… demands our guns… he shoots you in the back of the head. We overpower him and in the struggle he gets shot dead too. Something like that. And we’ll be heroes.’