By this time he was out of the back door, hurtling down the service alley which ran behind the shops.
Danny skidded out after him, losing her balance momentarily. ‘Down Cheapside, heading towards Corporation Street,’ she relayed over the PR. ‘Armed with a knife, prepared to use it. Be careful.’
Trent stopped abruptly some twenty yards ahead of her.
Danny stopped too, puzzled, cautious.
Then she saw the reason why. A uniformed PC was walking up towards Trent, side-handled baton drawn.
A wave of euphoria hit Danny.
They had caught the bastard.
Trent crouched, left arm extended, hand palm outwards. His right arm was also extended but this hand held the knife in readiness to strike.
It was a slim knife, Danny saw. Blood dripped from it.
There was blood on his hand and partway up his sleeve.
He slashed the air menacingly, the message clear.
Danny and the PC circled him cautiously, just beyond reach of an attack thrust. The PC slapped the extended portion of his baton provocatively into the palm of his left hand. The officer’s message was pretty clear too: ‘You are going to get the full force of this right across your head.’
‘ Come on, Louis, put the knife down,’ Danny said reasonably. ‘This place will be crawling with cops in a matter of seconds. You don’t have a cat in hell’s chance, so just put the knife down. No one else needs to get hurt.’
Trent watched them both suspiciously. His gaze flickered from one to the other, his eyes afire.
The sense of Danny’s words seemed to permeate through to him. He stood upright, let his arms fall to his side. A submissive, resigned expression crossed his face and he nodded. His shoulders drooped, he exhaled a long deep sigh. Beaten.
Danny knew better than to trust Trent… but the PC did not. She was about to tell Trent to drop the knife, kick it away, assume the position, and all that crap, when without warning the PC stepped confidently into the danger zone. His eagerness blocked all common sense. This was going to be one hell of an arrest.
Before Danny could yell out a warning, he was too close to Trent for her to do anything.
The escaped prisoner blurred into life, as fast and as deadly as a bolt of forked lightning.
The knife shot up.
Danny, standing side-on, saw the point of the blade touch the PC’s blue shirt, then disappear up to the hilt behind the officer’s ribs and into his heart. Trent rammed it home, stepped in close to his victim, grabbed the officer’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him even further forwards onto the knife-blade. He screwed and twisted the knife all the way, doing maximum damage. At the same time he turned and laughed at the horror-stricken Danny, throwing his head back like a maniac. He gave the knife one more massive — flamboyant — jerk before withdrawing it like a magician.
He stepped to one side, pulled the PC round and pushed him towards Danny.
She could not begin to describe the look on the young officer’s face. Pain? Shock? Disbelief? Whatever, it was a face she would remember for the rest of her life.
The PC staggered towards her, walking with the misco-ordination of an infant learning to toddle. He stared down at his shirt and the very fast-spreading stain. Danny opened her arms to catch him.
He stumbled, dropped his baton which clattered uselessly on the ground and went heavily onto one knee. He placed the palms of both hands over his heart, lifted his face pleadingly to Danny. He looked like he was proposing to her.
Then he toppled over and died at her feet.
Danny tore her eyes away.
Trent had gone.
Other police officers swarmed towards her from the top of the alley.
She lurched to a doorway, sank to her knees.
‘ Just tell me this, Henry — why is it that everything you seem to get involved in ends up with police officers being killed? Are you fucking jinxed, or what?’
The questions were asked by Fanshaw-Bayley. He was pacing up and down on the already thin carpet in front of Henry’s desk, a return journey of no more than six feet. Henry watched him and decided not to respond. Instead, he pressed the paper towel against his temple. The cut appeared to have more or less stopped bleeding and maybe did not need re-stitching after all.
FB stopped mid-journey. ‘Eh? Come on, Henry — why?’
Henry shrugged and remained impassive. It was hardly true, but he did not want to get into an argument. FB was very upset that an officer had died, murdered on duty. He had every right to be, and was simply venting some of his emotions on Henry whose shoulders were big and wide enough to take any rot FB cared to dish out.
‘ So, c’mon tell me what happened. What the fuck went wrong? No, don’t.’ FB held up his hands and shook them dismissively. ‘It’s okay, Henry, don’t tell me. It wasn’t your fault the stupid young fool went out without his stab-vest on; it was his decision and unfortunately he died for it.’ FB ruffled his own hair frustratedly, scratched his head, flattened his hair and eventually sat down. ‘This man is a fucking mobile killing-machine. What the hell’s our next move?’
Henry blew out his cheeks, glad they had returned to practicalities. ‘It better be quick,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I doubt he’ll hang round town now.’
‘ Come on then, brainbox… what do we do?’
‘ Chances are he’s in a guest-house. What we need to do is increase the numbers of people on house-to-house, quarter the town and visit every guest-house physically. And I also think we should get a big switchboard installed and actually phone every guest-house and hotel too.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while to get that up and running.’ ‘How many phones are there in this police station?’ FB asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘ Dozens.’ Henry immediately caught on.
‘ There’s your answer. Get the people you want in now. Sit’ em next to a phone each with a copy of Yellow Pages and an unlimited supply of coffee or tea, and get them phoning.’
There was a sharp knock at the door. A Detective Sergeant came in without waiting and handed a sheet of paper of Henry.
Henry’s eyes closed despairingly after he’d read it. Without looking up, he handed the paper to FB.
Absently Danny picked up the Missing from Home report which was on the top of the pile of junk on her desk. She sat down slowly, read the name on top, and tossed it back. Claire Lilton could wait.
She leaned forwards and dropped her head into her hands.
Inside, everything was in turmoil. Guts, vital organs, brain… churning with a sensation never before experienced.
She had a terrible unshakable belief that she was totally responsible for everything that had happened. In particular the tragic death of the Police Constable, skewered and slaughtered right in front of her eyes. All because she had been too slow, had not shouted out a warning, had not pulled him away.
‘ Oh God,’ she mumbled desperately. Tears formed in her eyes. She rubbed them angrily away as she tried to control herself. Not here, she instructed herself. You will not break down here. You will hold yourself with dignity and you will convey yourself home. Then, and only then, will you allow yourself the indulgence of turning into a slobbering, self-pitying jelly.
But not here.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. She jumped and landed back on earth.
‘ Danny, how are you?’ Henry Christie.
‘ Not good,’ she admitted. ‘Dithering, almost on the verge of collapse. You know — woman stuff. What a bloody day!’ She gave a short laugh and wiped the new tears away with a snuffle. Her nose had started to run. She blew it, making a very unladylike trumpeting sound. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hell, what a mess.’
‘ It’s okay,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s understandable.’ He did not patronise her with sympathy or empathy, even though he had been in similar circumstances himself previously. Danny knew this.