Hodge was keeping the security van at a constant 55 mph, but he relaxed his right foot ever so slightly to reduce the speed by a couple of sly notches without alerting his companions. He did not want to be too early. He wanted everything to work perfectly on this, the first day of the rest of his life.
The van drove past Junction 34 and the road began to rise. On the right was the fencing which surrounded Lancaster Farms, the Young Offenders’ Institute. Beyond that was the monstrosity that was Lancaster Moor Hospital. Then there was the wonderful monument in Williamson Park which rose up like a mini Taj Mahal.
Hodge groaned, flinched and leaned forwards, wrapping an arm around his stomach.
‘ Guts again?’ he was asked.
‘ Yeah,’ he rasped, feigning pain. ‘I feel another shit coming on — and soon.’
‘ There’s some services not far off. Pull in there.’
‘ Either that or I’m going to have to drop my keks on the hard shoulder.’
Five miles south, they were waiting for him.
Each man was growing more and more tense and nervous. Chewing gum rapidly. No talking. Waiting. Shallow breathing. Nostrils flaring. Eyes flickering across the service area, checking for unwanted visitors. Feet tapping. Fingers flexing. Sweat dribbling.
Hawker and Price were in the cab of the Leyland Sherpa which was squeezed between two very long, high-sided heavy goods vehicles parked on the outer rim of the HGV parking area. The vehicle on their right was a 1993 Leyland-DAF Curtainside, over 55 feet in length; on the other side was an ERF Curtainside of similar proportions. Both dwarfed the Sherpa between them, like two big brothers protecting the baby. They were stolen vehicles, on false plates, and had been positioned and left there earlier on the instructions of Don Smith.
Billy Crane was sitting in the cab of the ERF, constantly looking round, glancing in the big side mirrors, mouth dry, palms wet inside the disposable gloves he was wearing.
Smith and Gunk Elphick were in one of the Audi sports cars, parked in such a position that they could see every vehicle coming off the motorway on to the service area. They did not speak to each other.
Drozdov and Thompson were in the other Audi, parked close by to the HGVs.
Crane checked his watch. ‘Any sign yet?’ he asked shortly over the radio.
‘ Nothing yet,’ Smith responded.
Crane sat back, tried to relax. A tight smile came to his lips. He was aware that the police in Lancashire were going to be somewhat diverted over the next few minutes.
‘ You see, you’re fantastic,’ Danny said brightly. She and Henry were walking by the rugby pitch outside the Headquarters building, back to their cars. The Force helicopter was still on the grass, unattended, looking slightly lost and forlorn with its drooping rotor-blades.
Danny glanced sideways at Henry. He seemed to have drifted away again, back to that distant world in which he seemed to be spending his time. She hadn’t yet broached the subject of why he had really been visiting the Occupational Health Unit.
‘ Just a few minutes with you and there’s already two extra names in the hat. If you are interested,’ she hesitated here slightly, ‘Fanshaw-Bayley is willing for you to join the Murder Squad.’
They had reached the tennis courts; Danny’s car was parked a few yards down the track next to them. Henry turned to her.
‘ How do you know that?’ He stopped walking.
‘ Because I already suggested it to him.’
Henry’s jawline hardened. A glaze of anger crossed his face. ‘Oh? And did you check with me before you started meddling with my career?’
Danny’s mouth popped open. Nothing came out of it.
‘ I think it might have been prudent, don’t you?’ he said with hostility.
She closed her mouth. It became a tight, thin line. Her eyes criss-crossed his face. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We need someone like you on the investigation.’
‘ You thought wrong. In future leave well alone, you interfering cow!’
‘ I bloody will.’ She pushed past him furiously, strode the few paces to her car, halted abruptly and spun round, shaking her head. ‘You’ve gone really odd, Henry. I don’t know what’s got into you.’
‘ No,’ he said, ‘you don’t know, do you?’
‘ Fuck you,’ she rasped and continued to her car, fumbling for her keys, tears having formed in her eyes.
‘ Your pitiful security has been breached,’ the husky voice on the telephone informed the switchboard operator at Headquarters Control Room. ‘There is a bomb in your building and it will explode within fifteen minutes. This is not a hoax call.’
Speechless for the briefest of moments, the telephonist said, ‘Can you be more specific, please?’
‘ Sure — you’ve got a bomb under your arse, bitch.’ Click. Phone dead.
The woman swivelled in her chair and called urgently across to the Duty Inspector. He went a whiter shade of pale at the news.
This was one of those ‘Do we, don’t we?’ dilemmas. It played itself out in his mind only momentarily. Although he was certain the security procedures of getting into the Control Room building were tight, he equally knew that no security system was perfect. Anyone determined enough could breach any system — and even if there was the faintest possibility of losing lives, there could only be one course of action.
‘ Right — let’s get out of here,’ he announced smartly, acutely mindful that the whole network of communication across the county would be severely compromised. He prayed nothing big was about to happen.
Two hundred and fifty yards away from the Control Room, on the other side of the rugby pitch by the tennis courts, Danny Furness slammed the door of her car and sat there shaking, about to erupt in a torrent of tears.
Henry sagged against the outer fence of the tennis courts, curling his fingers tightly around the wire, his head bowed between his arms as he endeavoured to get a grip on himself, mentally thrashing himself for having spoken to Danny like that. He ground his teeth and lifted his chin to look across at Headquarters.
His vision was blurred with tears of self-pity, shame, anger, fear
… a bitter brew of all these things, bubbling and boiling from within like he was being eaten away by acid. He saw a lone figure cross the rugby pitch and trot confidently towards the helicopter. It meant nothing to him at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, in turmoil, in disarray.
Danny’s car started up. She put it in gear.
Henry drew himself up to his full height and stumbled towards her, waving with his hands, hoping to prevent her leaving.
Danny flicked the gear lever back into neutral and yanked on the handbrake.
Henry fell against the car, leaning against the edge of the roof with both hands. He squatted down on to his haunches and looked at Danny through the window, which she slowly opened.
The face she saw was one wrecked by grief, torn apart by something dreadful inside. She was deeply shocked.
‘ Henry!’ she cried. ‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
‘ Get ready, get ready,’ Smith uttered into his radio. ‘He’s here, he’s here. Security van just pulling on to the slip road. He’ll be with you very shortly. Get ready.’
‘ Crane received.’
‘ Hawker and Price received.’
‘ Drozdov and Thompson received.’
At that exact moment a bomb threat was received in the Communications Room at Lancaster police station, the Divisional Headquarters for Northern Division in which Lancaster motorway services was situated.
Once again the call was taken seriously.