He eased open the door, activating the car’s interior light. Reaching up, he switched it off and swung his legs out onto the footpath.
It was fucking freezing, he muttered under his breath, pulling his jacket around him.
For a few seconds he stood by the car, watching and listening. The only sounds he picked up were those of the rain and sleet peppering the roof. He quietly closed the door. There was an unlit alleyway to his left and he strode towards it.
For a good twenty seconds he stood in the dark, listening to his stream of urine cascading against the crumbling brickwork, sighing with relief as the pain in his bladder eased. Then the sloshing sounds of tyres splashing through puddles fractured the silence. He heard a vehicle stop nearby, followed by the opening of a car door.
He tried to finish urinating but he was still in full flow. Fuck!
It took another ten seconds for him to stop. Thankfully, he could still hear the purring of an engine as he zipped up his fly.
He edged towards the entrance of the alleyway. It sounded as if the vehicle wasn’t too far away. He wanted to see who it was, but he didn’t want to reveal himself.
Craning his neck around the wall, he scanned the street. Parked in front of their MIT car was a dark coloured 4x4. It was the black Mitsubishi Shogun they had been looking for. A dark figure crouched down by the front offside tyre of their car. It looked as though he was letting the air out. Mike stepped into the street, shouting “Oi!”
A face, partially covered by a dark woollen hat, glanced his way.
Mike thought it looked like Ronnie Fisher. He darted out of the shadows.
In the couple of seconds it took Mike to get from the alleyway back to his car, the short, squat man was standing in a defensive posture. As Mike steamed towards him, balling his fists into a punch, he saw a face contorted with frenzy. The man’s eyes were bulging and menacing.
Mike swung an almighty arcing punch, but the man ducked away and he found himself hitting thin air. The momentum spun him sideways and he banged against the side of the car just as a retaliatory thump found his unguarded ribs and knocked the wind clean out of him. A second punch found Mike’s head and his vision shattered into a thousand pieces. His legs buckled and he slumped forward, throwing up an arm in an attempt to fend of another blow, but everything was a blur. He felt a searing sting in his groin and stumbled onto his knees. Then he felt a thump to the middle of his back. Then another and another. A sudden weakness overcame him. There was a sensation of a cold trickle of fluid washing around the sides of his waist and he realised he was having difficulty breathing. A veil of clouds swilled into his brain. The last thing he heard, as his face hit the wet tarmac, was his partner, Tony Bullars, calling out his name.
* * * * *
Hunter’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. For the past half hour he had been mentally rehearsing the lines of questions he was going to put to Alan Darbyshire the following morning. The ringing of the bedside telephone made him jump. Beside him, he felt Beth stir. He snatched the phone from its handset and propped himself up on one elbow.
“Hello.”
“Hunter, sorry to disturb you.”
It was Detective Superintendent Leggate. He pushed himself up further and used the bed head to support his back.
“This is just a courtesy call. I’m currently down at the District General.” There was a pause, then she continued, “Mike’s been stabbed.”
It took a couple of seconds to sink in. Then he said. “Mike? Mike Sampson?”
“Aye.”
“When? Who?”
“About three-quarters of an hour ago. You know he and Tony were carrying out observations on Peter Blake-Hall’s club? Well it was there. We think it was Ronnie Fisher, but we ain’t sure.”
“And what about Bully? Is he okay?”
“Tony’s fine.” There was a little hesitation before she replied, “He found him.”
“Found him?”
“Long story Hunter. I’ll explain tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. As I said, this is a courtesy call because they’re your team. I’ve called out Mark Gamble and his team to process the scene, and Tony and I are at the hospital with Mike. Uniform and CID are searching for Ronnie, and we’re bringing the job forward on Peter Blake-Hall. We’re doing it in the next couple of hours.”
“Give me twenty minutes boss, and I’ll get dressed and join you.”
“No Hunter. Everything’s sorted. I’m looking after things at the hospital and Detective Superintendent Robshaw’s turning out to coordinate the search for Ronnie Fisher and oversee the raid on Peter Blake-Hall.” There was another pause down the line, then she said, “It’s not that I don’t want you here, Hunter, or need your help, but you’ve got Alan Darbyshire to sort out tomorrow and I want you interviewing him with a clear head. I want what he’s got coming to him to stick, okay?”
Frustrated though he was at not being able to do anything, Hunter knew that what she was saying made sense. He nodded in the dark, then asked, “How is he?”
“To be honest Hunter, I don’t know. He’s lost a lot of blood, though the ambulance crew stabilised him at the scene. He’s in theatre and we’ll not know anything for the next couple of hours, at least.”
Hunter heard her sigh. With a heavy heart, he said, “So you want me and Grace in at the normal time?”
“Aye. There’s no morning briefing. I’ll leave a note for you about what’s happening, or get someone to give you a message when you get in. Detective Superintendent Robshaw will more than likely be around anyway to update you.” There was another long pause, and then she finished, “Hunter, I’m sure everything is going to be fine. You know Mike, he’s made of good old Yorkshire grit.” Then the line went dead.
Hunter hung on to the handset. The thoughts inside his head were undulating like a Mexican wave.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAY FIFTEEN: 8th December.
Grace was already at her desk when Hunter got in at 7.30 am. He hadn’t even closed the door behind him before she said.
“You could have rung me!”
He slipped his arms out of his coat. “It was late, Grace. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He draped his coat over the back of his chair and glanced at his desk jotter, looking for a note.
“But it’s Mike.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry Grace. I know it’s Mike. But I couldn’t afford for both of us to be worried and knackered this morning. We’ve got a big job ahead of us today and I wanted one of us functioning properly.” He rummaged around his desk top, searching for a note. He turned his attention to his in-tray. There was nothing. At last, he focused on Grace. “Has anyone said anything about Mike? Do we know how he is?”
“Apparently Bully and Miss Jean Brodie are still at the hospital. He was in theatre for four hours. They’re saying he’s not out of the woods yet but he should pull through.”
Hunter smirked. “Miss Jean Brodie. Where’s that come from?”
Grace joined him in a smile. “That’s what Mike’s nicknamed the new gaffer.”
Typical of Mike, thought Hunter. Shaking, his head he made for the kettle and cups. “I’ll make us a drink before we get started on Alan Darbyshire.” He added, “Has anyone said anything else about the attack?”
“Isobel got me first thing. She said that Bully had gone for fish and chips while they were doing obs on Blake-Hall’s club, and that when he got back he found Mike collapsed and Ronnie Fisher’s four-by-four fleeing the scene.”
“Did he see Ronnie carrying out the attack?”
Grace shrugged. “I don’t think so. Isobel didn’t say, so I’m guessing he didn’t. Bully found Mike unconscious and he still hasn’t come round. Isobel says they’re keeping him sedated for at least twenty-four-hours.”
“Have they got Ronnie?”
“No, not yet. Apparently they turned out everyone and their grandmother last night, but it looks as though Ronnie’s done a runner. They’ve got Blake-Hall though. They knocked him up in the early hours. He’s downstairs in the trap.”