Her hand went for her radio to call in for assistance. Before she could speak, every window in the shop was smashed, bricks, half-bricks, rocks, stones, flying through, sending glass showering everywhere. She instinctively ducked down and tried to cover the vulnerable Seymour as the missiles landed all around like meteors crashing in from outer space.
Five
The thrill had never gone for Henry Christie. Even approaching the twenty-five-year mark in his career had failed to diminish the excitement, the rush, the exhilaration of sitting in a cop car, all lights blazing, two-tones shrieking, driving with considered recklessness through traffic, shooting red lights, going the wrong direction up one-way streets, heading to some emergency or other. The emergency in this case being other cops needing assistance.
Henry had a slightly fixed, wonky grin slapped across his face as Dermot Byrne pushed the under-powered Vauxhall Astra at crazy breakneck speeds through the crowded streets of Blackpool. Henry’s right foot instinctively pushed down on an imaginary brake pedal. His left hand clutched the broken arm rest on the door, steadying himself as the car lurched round corners, apparently on two wheels, and skidded out of the turn, the back end twitching on the wet roads. But Byrne handled the car with great expertise and experience, taking it all the way to its limits where possible, holding back when necessary. All the while he concentrated totally on the function of driving. Henry, while tense, was never in fear.
Henry handled the communications side of things.
Normally the radio channel was not on ‘talk-through’. This meant that transmissions from patrols could only be heard by communications room and selected other receivers, such as the radio console in the inspectors’ office, and not by other patrols. This enabled communications to keep tight control over radio traffic, which sometimes had a tendency to deteriorate when patrols could chat to one another without discipline. There were occasions when it was appropriate to override this and put talk-through on. This, Henry deemed, was one of those times, because he wanted to hear directly from the officers in trouble and not have to wait for their messages to be relayed by communications staff, efficient though they were.
‘Tell patrols to maintain strict radio discipline,’ he said into his personal radio, ‘then put us on talk-through,’ he instructed communications.
‘Roger.’ Communications transmitted the command and flicked the button.
The first voice they heard belonged to Jane Roscoe. For some unaccountable reason, Henry’s heart tightened at the sound.
‘. . pinned down in Khan’s shop. Must be well over thirty of them outside. . very well organised. . petrol bombs and bricks still coming. We need the fire brigade and an ambulance — Dave Seymour’s been badly injured. Someone’s going to die if we don’t get out of here soon. .’
Henry turned to Byrne. ‘Can you make this thing go faster?’ he demanded.
Byrne — focused on the driving — nodded. ‘Yeah.’ And miraculously, from somewhere deep down, the car speeded up.
Henry cut into Roscoe’s radio transmission. ‘Inspector Christie to DI Roscoe — keep your head down. We’ll be with you very soon.’
‘Thanks,’ she breathed. Henry could feel the tension in her voice, and the relief, yet she still sounded very cool. Henry was impressed.
‘Communications?’ he said. ‘Did you get that about the fire brigade and ambulance?’
‘Onto them now.’
‘Inspector Christie — be careful when you approach-’ Her voice stopped abruptly. Henry heard a bang, some rustling and a heavy breath being expelled. Then a crash. ‘Another petrol bomb,’ Roscoe’s voice came back. ‘Yeah, Henry, watch yourself. This is a well-organised job, so do it right. I want to get out of here in one piece. Wouldn’t be surprised if ambushes have been laid — scanners’ll be in use too.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Henry acknowledged. She really was cool, telling him not to get into a position where he too would be trapped. ‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ Henry barked, getting well into the inspector mode now. He was aware that for the first time in months he was thinking clearly, buzzing and, perversely, enjoying himself. This was fun of the highest, gut-wrenching order.
‘Inspector — go ahead.’
‘If you haven’t already got a log running for this — get one. Also inform the superintendent on cover if she doesn’t already know, and deploy all patrols to an RV point on Preston New Road, junction Kentmere Drive. Ask them to meet me and PS Byrne there for further instructions, and tell them to be getting into their public-order gear just in case. No one is to drive onto Shoreside without my express permission — understood? If anyone is already there, tell them to withdraw to the RV point now! Pass the location of the RV point to the fire brigade and ambulance. Advise them not to go onto the estate without speaking to me first. Got all that?’ Henry knew he had been speaking quickly, speaking as the thoughts tumbled through his mind. ‘And also turn out the helicopter, please.’
‘Roger,’ the very in-control communications operator responded, taking charge of Henry’s requests in the sort of smooth, unhurried manner Henry could only dream of. ‘And by the way,’ the operator added, ‘treble-nines coming in thick and fast from Shoreside residents now.’
‘Received,’ said Henry. ‘Have I missed anything?’ he asked Byrne quickly.
‘Don’t think so,’ said Byrne. ‘I take it we’re not just going to pile onto the estate?’
‘No, I have a plan.’ Henry tapped his nose. ‘Not a very cunning one, but a plan nonetheless.’
A section van, one armoured personnel carrier and two patrol cars were already at the RV point when Henry arrived with Byrne. The occupants were putting on their riot overalls.
Throughout the journey Henry had been glued to Roscoe’s commentary of events unfolding in and around Khan’s shop. The confidence in her voice began to waver as the situation grew worse. Fear crept into her words. Henry did not blame her for being afraid. In the same circumstances he would have been terrified.
Roscoe, the badly injured and now unconscious Seymour, and the Khan family were effectively pinned down in the shop and its living accommodation. To flee was not an option. The whole building was surrounded and leaving would have meant running straight into the mouth of the lion. To stay put and wait for help was only marginally the lesser of two evils. So far they had been lucky. The petrol bombs hadn’t taken hold of the building properly, the sprinkler system in the shop was now working after a false start, but it was only a matter of time before fire beat water. She needed help — fast.
It was tempting for Henry and his troops to wade in, but he knew this could be a bad idea, making a crap situation worse because of lack of thought.
He was out of the car before the wheels stopped turning, gesturing for the officers — eight of them, including Constable Taylor, whom he had seen writing reports earlier — to gather quickly round him. They were eager to do something. Crack some heads. Save some lives.
The force helicopter, two minutes after he had asked for it, radioed to say it was en route from its base in nearby Warton. Henry gave them instructions, then concentrated on what he was going to say to Scale D for Death.
‘You all know the situation: two of our colleagues are trapped by a mob in Mo Khan’s shop. The Khan family are trapped in there too. It sounds like a very organised, big, nasty, orchestrated situation. That is why we’re not just going to plough in without a plan and get the shite kicked out of us. We need to work as a unit: go in, effect a rescue, then get the hell out and take as little flak as possible. Nothing fancy. No confrontations. These people are dangerous and there’s a good chance they’ll be expecting us — so we need to be wary.’ Henry drew breath.