He twisted the cuffs again. They bit into the flesh and nerve endings of Hinksman’s wrists. A little more pressure and the bones would break.
The traffic-light man sprinted to the rear of the bus and efficiently clamped six tiny explosive charges to the doors — one at each hinge and two near the lock and handle. Then he retreated a few metres.
The two officers who were trapped in the space between the inner cage where Hinksman was held and the back doors cowered. They had their guns in their hands.
The charges all detonated together, blowing the doors cleanly off their hinges. The noise ricocheted around the interior of the bus, like thunder in a confined space, deafening and disorientating everyone.
The officers were uninjured by the blast but were winded by the explosion and overcome with smoke. They tumbled out of the back of the bus into the open air, gasping, choking, coughing and confused. They were shown no mercy. As their feet touched the tarmac they were mown down.
All that remained was to get the inner cage door open.
The traffic-light man stepped up into the back of the bus, a small chain saw in his hands. Within seconds he had removed the door. He flung it, complete, out of the back of the bus onto the road with the assistance of one of his colleagues.
Throughout all this, the officer who had decided to inflict as much pain as possible on Hinksman had more or less hung onto his man. When faced with overwhelming odds he sensibly let go of the cuffs.
Hinksman held out his damaged hands. The saw neatly parted the cuffs.
‘ Give me a gun,’ he said to one of the masked men.
He was immediately handed a pistol.
He turned on his captor and held the gun to the officer’s head.
‘ No one gets away with causing me pain and aggravation,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘No one.’ He pulled the trigger twice and most of the back of the man’s head splattered through the cage onto the driver, passenger and windscreen.
Then he turned on the other officer who had also been his gaoler. ‘Just remember what I’ve said — and pass it onto Henry Christie.’ He shot the man twice in the lower stomach, figuring that he would stay alive long enough to tell the story.
‘ C’mon,’ the traffic-light man said, tugging at Hinksman’s sleeve. Hinksman nodded and jumped out behind him. They ran towards the traffic-lights and turned right where their transport awaited — a huge, powerful motorcycle with no rear number plate.
Hinksman was handed a crash helmet. Moments later, as the backseat passenger, he and the traffic-light man were accelerating away from the scene down winding country roads.
The rest of the ambush team had gone too. No one who saw the incident — and there were many witnesses — could exactly say where to. The men had gone, disappeared like ghosts, their shock tactics having had the desired effect.
Only two police officers were uninjured — the ones in the front of the prison bus. They climbed slowly out when they thought it was safe, both covered in the contents of their fellow officer’s skull. One of them looked around at the carnage, sank down to his knees at the kerbside and allowed his head to flop into his hands. He was too numbed to cry. The other wandered up and down the road, peering into the cars, knowing that he could do nothing. He sat down on a wall, and lit a cigarette. In the distance was the sound of approaching sirens.
One hundred metres further back, Lenny Dakin got into his XJS which he’d parked on a side street.
That had been fantastic, he thought proudly. Fucking fan-tas-tic. Money well spent. Worth every fucking penny. The most exhilarating two minutes three seconds he had ever experienced.
And Hinksman was free.
‘ He has to die.’
‘ I know, Joe, I know. I just don’t know if I can do it.’
‘ It’s not a case of can, it’s a case of must. Don’t worry, you’ll be protected. I’ll be there — I’ll see you’re OK. Trust me.’
‘ I don’t know… ‘
‘ Don’t you trust me?’
‘ Yes, I do, Joe.’
‘ Don’t I give you everything you need? Don’t I feed your habit?’
‘ Yes, yes, yes.’
‘ So what’s the problem? I’ll look after you, Laura. He needs to die and we need to do it. He’s the enemy. The destroyer. The user. Every other way of dealing with him has been tried, but justice has failed. It’s failed you badly, it’s failed me badly. Now we’re going to administer the justice… you and me… you and me… you.’
‘ Yes, but-’
‘ What’s he done for you? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He used Whisper, then killed him. He used you and you almost died. There are thousands more like you, thousands who need justice… and just think what’ll happen when it’s over. You’ll get your baby back! The Social Services have promised me. And you’ll be free… and that’s everything you want, isn’t it?’
‘ Yes, Joe. Me and my baby.’
‘ And all the dope you need.’
‘ Yes, yes… have you got some?’
‘ Only if you kill him.’
‘ I will.’
‘ Promise?’
‘ Yes. When? How?’
‘ Soon. Very soon, I promise.’
‘ Here, take this.’
It was a small plastic sachet containing white crystals of crack, one of the most addictive drugs known. And she was addicted. It wasn’t her baby she wanted, not really. It was crack. She would do anything to satisfy her need for it. Murder included.
Henry had just taken a sip of his second pint of lager. It tasted good, as had the previous one. He was looking forward to the next ones. He felt good and was going to enjoy the celebration first and worry about getting back to the flat thirty miles away in Blackpool second. He glanced around the pub. It was small and narrow with a bar in the centre of the room. The atmosphere reminded Henry of pubs he’d visited in London. Most congenial.
He saw the uniformed Constable appear at the front door, helmet on, a worried expression across his face. A roar of disapproval went up from the assembled detectives who’d all begun to front-load Boddington’s Bitter as though it was going out of fashion. The officer ignored them. His eyes roved the room and found their target. He walked quickly across to FB.
Once more Henry had that bad feeling in his guts. He placed his beer down on the bar and watched as the Constable and FB drew to one side, out of the hubbub. The Constable began to talk earnestly to FB, whose face dropped in stages: happy and carefree, all the way, step by painful step, to serious, concerned, deeply unhappy, shocked.
He patted the Constable reassuringly on the shoulder for the man seemed deeply upset by the information he’d imparted. FB then gave him some instructions, after which he left hurriedly.
FB looked across the room, his face pale and drawn. His eyes met Henry’s, and he beckoned him over.
‘ What is it, boss?’
‘ Bad, very fucking bad,’ said FB gravely. ‘Hinksman’s out. Free.’
‘ What do you mean?’
‘ He’s been sprung. The escort got hit at Galgate and the team that did it slaughtered nearly all the bobbies.’ FB was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘All but three are dead. That’s what the PC told me.’
Henry made a quick calculation. ‘Fucking hell,’ he uttered.
‘ I’m going to the scene now — there’s a car en route to pick me up. You come too, Henry.’
Henry nodded.
FB turned his attention to the detectives squashed around the bar.
He cleared his throat, called for quiet, and with tears in his eyes, made an announcement.
Laura was asleep now. Kovaks was relieved. What had been planned as a two-minute visit had taken him half an hour. And he had a partner waiting out in the car.
Kovaks closed the motel-room door and locked it with his key. Laura would be out of the game for hours now. He would re-visit her at the end of his shift.
Tommo was sitting in the Bucar, chain-smoking, eating a hamburger and sipping a coffee, all at the same time, whilst listening to a cassette which blared country music out deafeningly.