Rik Dean got into the driver’s seat and Henry got into his Vectra. He gave the word, ‘Go,’ on his radio.
The ARV began to roll slowly towards the exit. Dean released his handbrake and crawled behind, with Henry bringing up the rear.
Henry was feeling the strain, particularly in his throat, which felt dry and sore. He took a deep breath to help him settle down. Maybe he was just letting his police senses get in the way of his common sense. ‘But why do I have a very bad feeling about this?’ he thought and only realized he had said it out loud when Jane shot him a query-filled look. ‘Sorry.’
As the ARV reached the exit, Henry’s mobile rang out.
‘Hi — Henry Christie,’ he said, happy to answer it: he knew it could not be Jane because she was sitting next to him.
‘Henry, it’s Karl. . Just something preying on my mind, might just be a load of bollocks, as you might say, but just be careful when you move that witness, will you? I saw a motorbike behind you when you left the airport and while there was nothing wrong about it, it just seemed out of place, somehow, like it could have been following you.’
Motorbike! Shit! Henry’s mind spun like a vortex. That could be how Ray Cragg might be able to get to a witness quickly. He could have followed Henry from his home and Henry would have led him right to the witness. His mind processed these thoughts as the convoy turned out of the car park and approached the junction with the main road. Henry did not even thank Karl. He threw his phone down and grabbed his radio, about to cancel the trip north until he could put together a full armed escort.
He was too late.
The Ford Granada came out of nowhere, from the side. It was the car Henry had seen earlier, the one with the motorcyclist standing next to it.
It wheels spun on the gravel, churning up stones and dust. Henry saw a flash of the hooded driver. He also saw the leather-clad, helmeted motorcyclist at the side of the road, sitting astride his powerful-looking machine.
The Granada smashed into the driver’s side of the ARV, crushing the PC who was driving and making the vehicle undriveable.
Henry slammed his brakes on and was already half out of his car, his brain only just registering what was happening.
The driver of the Granada was out of his car faster, spraying the side of the ARV with a broadside of slugs from the H amp;K MP5 in his hand — the one he had stolen from an armed officer at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. This done, he ran to the back of Dean’s car, stood by the back door, rose on his toes, and pumped every last remaining bullet into the back half of the car where Jack Burrows was lying.
Henry could do nothing but cower behind his door. Roscoe, hands to her face, screamed uncontrollably. Rik Dean had thrown himself underneath his steering wheel for protection.
Then it was over. The gunman threw the H amp;K down and ran to the waiting motorcycle and jumped on to the pillion. He waved and with a skid and a swerve of the rear wheels, the bike shot away and headed towards Preston.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Henry screamed at Jane. He ran to Dean’s car and peered in through the shattered windows. ‘Fuck,’ he said when he saw the state of Jack Burrows. Rik Dean, shell-shocked and shaking, literally rolled out of the car and fell to the ground.
‘You okay?’
‘I think so.’
‘Get sorted and call an ambulance.’ Henry ran to the crash-damaged and bullet-splattered ARV. The driver was trapped by the steering wheel and looked like he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. His colleague on the other side of the vehicle was unhurt, just a little shaken, but still cool. He was already out of the car, reaching in for his weapons.
Henry ran back to his car. Jane was still in shock.
‘Get out, get looking after the wounded and protect this scene,’ he ordered her sharply. She got out numbly, seemed to pull herself together as she stood up and ran to Dean’s car, opening the rear door. Jack Burrows slumped out, covered in blood, but apparently still alive.
Henry jumped into the driving seat of his car, reversed in a cloud of smoke, slammed it into first and drove around the chaos. He stopped at the road and shouted, ‘Get in,’ to the unhurt ARV officer. ‘These other people will look after the wounded.’
The PC, carrying two H amp;K MP5s and his own Glock at his waist, got in beside Henry and dropped the assorted weaponry into the footwell. Henry jammed the gas pedal down and screeched out through a gap in the now stationary traffic in the direction the motorbike had gone. He knew he had little chance of catching it, but he steered with one hand, recklessly, while he held his radio in the other and relayed details of the incident to the control room and circulated details of the escaping bike, which, he said, would be easy to spot because the passenger was not wearing a helmet.
He gunned his Vectra towards Preston once he reached the A59, though he did not know for sure if he was even going the right way. The bike could easily have gone towards Liverpool. Or could now be abandoned in a side street and they could be tootling along in a nice car. All Henry knew was that it was more than likely they would be making their way, by some route or other, back to Blackpool. Or maybe not. Shit, he thought.
One of Lancashire Constabulary’s objectives for the year was to make roads safer. This meant that there were often traffic patrols operating radar speed traps on roads where speeding had been the cause of accidents, or where it caused a danger to the public. Parts of the A59 north of Ormskirk are such a problem, particularly on the north side of a small town called Burscough. Here the A59 is often subject to traffic-officer attention, especially in the 30 mph limit as the road winds out of the north end of town. On that day, two traffic cops had set up a speed trap, one on the radar, one stopping the offenders, and were keeping themselves very busy with cars coming into Buscough from the direction of Preston. Easy pickings and great fun.
Travelling south down the A59 that morning was a PC from Ormskirk who had been to headquarters clothing stores for some new uniform. He had been on duty since seven and was returning to Ormskirk, ready for a very big, fat-boy’s breakfast. He knew that the traffic cops had set up a radar north of Burscough and he slowed right down as he sailed into the 30 mph zone, fully aware that the gutter rats would have no qualms in booking him, even though he was on duty and driving a police van. No love lost there.
This combination of police on the A59 at that time of day was not particularly unusual. As the officer drove past the tripod-mounted radar at 29 mph, he waved at the traffic cop, then hid his one-fingered salute. Up ahead he could see the motorcycle cop standing next to his machine, wearing his hi-viz jacket, ready to pull in wrongdoers. He accelerated a little.
All these officers received Henry Christie’s coolly transmitted circulation at exactly the same time, and their reactions were similar because they realized that this motorbike could well be en route to them and, as motorcycles tend to go like the proverbial shit off a shovel, it might be there within seconds.
Miller clung to Crazy as he took the machine underneath them up to speeds which were, like his nickname, crazy. The road surface was generally smooth and excellent. If no other traffic had been about, it would have been a fantastic ride as the bike swept round long corners and flew down straights. Unfortunately, other traffic did impede progress a little, but not too much. Crazy was good. He looked well ahead, made sound decisions, veered round and in between vehicles and made superb time.
They were on the southern outskirts of Burscough within minutes. Crazy throttled back a little and disregarded the red of the traffic lights just outside the town, weaving dangerously between crossing traffic and hitting the hump-back bridge just before the small town centre at 90 mph.