‘ What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go through there, mate.’
A hand crashed down onto Henry’s shoulder and spun him away from the automatic doors. He was ready to punch whoever it was.
‘ Jesus, thank God for that!’ he breathed in relief when he saw the heavily armed police officer staring sternly at him. An MP5 was draped across his chest, a handgun was in a holster at his side and he wore body armour and a peaked cap. The epitome of a friendly, helpful bobby.
Henry pulled out his warrant card.
They were so far ahead of the other passengers, having gone through the green channel unchallenged, that when they hit the corridor between the customs and the international arrivals hall, there were only the three of them walking down it — Danny, Tracey and Patrick Orlove.
This is easy, Orlove thought. Portugal, here I come! Pop her here, and the other one, then I’m away and two dead bodies will be lying there ready for collection.
He was only a matter of feet behind his targets. His hand went underneath his jacket and withdrew the gun from his waistband. He upped his pace slightly.
The women were strolling casually along, totally oblivious to his presence.
He concentrated on the spot at the back of Tracey’s head which, when penetrated by a bullet, would take the girl down as effectively as a vet shooting a horse with a captive bolt.
The firearms officer could not believe this was happening. The moment for which he had trained so hard, for which he’d been put through his paces so many times. And now, just like the cinetronic screen, it was being enacted in front of him. But this was no video clip. This was for real. He clearly saw the gun in Orlove’s hand.
It was coming swiftly up.
There was no time to shout a warning, as had been drummed into him, time after time in the training environment.
He was learning at supersonic speed that no amount of time on a firing range, or dealing with situations in a training environment, could prepare someone for the real thing. Fuck the psychological tests. They meant nothing when you were actually faced with a life-and-death decision right in front of your eyes.
If he did not shoot now, an innocent person would die. Orlove increased his speed. He was right behind the intended victim. The gun was almost there, at the back of her head. The officer needed to shoot, to bring him down, to kill him, if that’s what it took to stop the bastard.
And if he missed there was an awfully good chance of killing one of the females.
The time for considered thought was over.
It was a sound, not unlike someone slapping a table top with the flat of their hand. Smack, smack.
Danny turned to look.
The male passenger walking behind her crumpled to the ground and the gun in his hand clattered across the tiled floor.
Behind him was an armed cop, of the type seen so often in British airports these days, except his MPS was in his hands, having just been fired. Beyond him stood the figure of Henry Christie, now moving towards her.
Tracey turned and saw the tableau.
She did not scream, cry, become hysterical. She just looked through tired eyes at it all.
A dead man and a cop with a gun.
So what else was new in her life?
‘ I’ll swear out a warrant this afternoon,’ Henry said quietly to Danny. She lifted her head from Stanway’s letter which was in her lap and looked at him, her eyes glazed as she thought of all the misery, suffering and death wrought by Gilbert and Spencer over the years. ‘Then,’ Henry went on, ‘I’ll get some search teams together and start digging up his lovely garden. Probably first thing tomorrow.’
They were heading north on the M6, filtering into the lane which would take them west towards Blackpool.
‘ He claims at least twenty bodies,’ Danny said, referring to the letter. ‘At least,’ she said, stressing the words. ‘I can’t get my head around that.’
‘ Fred West, eat humble pie and God rot your soul,’ Henry said. He nodded back towards Tracey, splayed out asleep across the rear seats. ‘She was one of the lucky ones.’
Danny snorted. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘At least twenty… and that’s only in his garden. What about all those buried elsewhere?’
‘ I imagine they’ll stay buried and undiscovered, unless Gilbert or Spencer start blabbing, which I doubt. Twenty’ll do for a beginning.’
Danny felt silent. Then she touched Henry’s thigh. ‘Thanks for saving her life, and mine probably.’ She negotiated her seat belt and leaned across, pecking him on the cheek.
‘ Pleasure… but I do want payment in kind, you know.’
‘ Henry, you can have me any time. I’m too knackered to resist anyway. Just pull my nightie down when you’ve finished.’
The prison mini-bus trundled laboriously up Richardson Street towards the rear doors of the police station yard at Blackpool.
A killer lurked near the pay and display car park which overlooked the street, waiting for the chance to strike, but not really knowing where. Just looking for the right moment.
The ‘why’ was known and fixed in the killer’s mind.
That was no problem.
The ‘how’ was in the killer’s pocket. That was no problem either.
The mini-bus transporting the three prisoners pulled up at the entrance to the police yard, and waited for the roller door to rise. And now the killer saw a chance. The door rose slowly; controlled by a button in the comms room and when there was enough headroom, the vehicle moved slowly forwards into the yard.
The killer ran down the steps from the car park and strolled casually in behind the bus, all the way to the top of the yard where it stopped.
The killer walked to the front of the vehicle, trying to look confident, not out of place.
The side door of the bus opened. A prison guard stepped down, closely followed by the first prisoner, Ollie Spencer, wearing rigid handcuffs.
Next came the immense figure of Charlie Gilbert, wearing the specially ordered cuffs which fitted his enormous wrists.
Then came Louis Vernon Trent, also cuffed, looking as nasty and as evil as ever.
All three were made to stand in line behind each other. The ‘where’ now became real easy.
The killer stepped quickly forwards. There was a fully licensed. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in the killer’s right hand, loaded with wad cutters.
It was over in seconds. No one reacted until all of the six bullets had been discharged into the prisoner in the middle of the row.
Then, Mrs Ruth Lilton dropped her husband’s weapon and stood there waiting to be taken into custody for the murder of Charlie Gilbert and of her husband Joe Lilton, who was lying dead at their home, another six bullets in him.
Ruth Lilton felt good. The two men who had destroyed her daughter Claire were now incapable of doing the same to any other child.
Louis Vernon Trent was the first person to take advantage of the situation. Handcuffed though he was, he was always on the lookout for any chance, slim or fat, to escape. He turned and ran for the rear door of the police station yard, his instinct to be free driving him on.
He fully expected to be brought down by a flying rugby tackle at any moment.
It never happened.
He ran through the pedestrian entrance, out across Richardson Street, up the short flight of steps to the car park and, keeping low, ran for his life and freedom.
Seconds later, Henry Christie turned his car into Richardson Street, Danny’s hand resting on his thigh, blissfully unaware of anything that had just taken place in the back yard of Blackpool Central police station.
Epilogue
Danny stood underneath the shower. Jets of hot water cascaded down her body and she soaped herself again and again, luxuriating in the sensation which was making her tired body feel alive.