The sound of the explosion had been stunning. The loudest bang Henry had ever heard. His brain rang, his ears buzzed and echoed.
He opened his eyes slowly. Swirling smoke filled the room. Several fires had started in the rubbish.
Henry was on top of the fat man, lying between his open legs, holding him in an embrace as though they had just made love. He lifted his head and looked down at the face of the man underneath, which was blank with horror.
‘Well, no thanks to you, we’re still alive,’ Henry said. He clambered off him, stood up, testing each limb, finding they all worked. He poked his head around the door, wafting the dense smoke away, trying to see into the bar. The smoke was too intense. Flames licked out of it, telling Henry that the next threat was being burned to death. ‘Now can we get out of here without fighting?’
‘Ugh, right.’ The man was totally dazed and confused. His drunken state did not assist in his understanding of the situation. Gallantly Henry heaved him to his feet. Not an easy task. ‘What happened?’ the man asked.
‘You’ve just survived a bomb blast,’ Henry informed him. ‘Something you’ll be able to tell your kids.’
‘I doubt that, unless they start letting gay couples adopt.’
‘At least you’ll have something to talk about at dinner parties, then.’
‘Eh? So, what’s happened?’ he asked, losing the thread again.
‘I’ll tell you later, now let’s just get out of here.’
The shock hit him about twenty minutes later, sending him into a convulsive, retching fit. It took a large coffee laced with brandy before he returned to anything like normal.
He relinquished control of the scene to a chief inspector on conference duty because the shakes were approaching fast. He thought it would have been unwise to be a blithering wreck while running the next stage of the response to the bomb. Dermot Byrne had driven him back to the station, deposited him in the inspectors’ office and somehow tracked down the coffee addition from somewhere.
When Henry picked up the mug, his hand was trembling so much that there was a mini-storm on the surface of the beverage. He had to put the mug back down on his desk, lower his head to it and take the first sip out of it from the desk top.
Deep breathing and some mental-relaxation techniques he had acquired for his stress, helped calm him down. This tranquil state did not last long. His stress levels rose, pulse quickened, when the office door opened without a knock and FB came in, all of a bluster.
‘Hero or fuckin’ arsehole, can’t quite work out which,’ he said.
By which time Henry had gone well past the caring and sharing stage.
‘I’m the hero, you’re the arsehole — I find that quite easy to work out,’ Henry said.
That stopped FB dead, then a smile flickered onto his lips and grew into a good-natured laugh. ‘Good one, Henry. . I like it.’ Then his face became deadpan. ‘Hey, you just called an ACC an arsehole.’
Henry wasn’t for relenting. ‘If the cap fits.’
‘Twat,’ FB uttered, but, again, without malice. ‘Right. Actually, well done, Henry. I mean the fat guy should not have been left in there in the first place, obviously, but even so, well done. A bit drastic, a bit foolhardy — but well done.’
Praise indeed from FB.
‘Thanks.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t get too cocky. You’ve still got a hundred Asian youths about to land in town intent on causing problems — so don’t even think about going off sick again.’
‘What about heading them off at the pass — turning them back onto the motorway at Marton Circle.’
‘Under what power, may I ask?’
Henry had to think. ‘Breach of the Peace. To prevent a breach of the peace — like we did in the miners’ strike.’
FB thought for a moment. ‘Go for it. You’d better get moving, then come and see me later. We need to discuss the night ahead again.’
‘Anything new on Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans?’
‘No.’
Henry slurped his coffee and with mug in hand headed to the communications room for an update on the whereabouts of the Asian youths, wondering if his proposed tactics were actually lawful. Under the circumstances it was arguable, but then again, when had that ever stopped the police from doing something which might just prevent any aggro. Once the Asians got onto Shoreside, there would be real problems.
His head was spinning by the time he got to communications. He knew he needed time out from all this, but was unlikely to get it.
At least there was one thing settled for him when he got there: the Asians were almost in town and he was too late to get enough staff together to turn them round and send them home.
The board displaying the number of officers actually on duty was not much help. Almost everyone was deployed at the scene of the bomb blast, dealing with keeping the scene secure, ensuring emergency vehicles could get to and from it, and also dealing with the growing traffic chaos in town.
Which gave Henry an idea.
‘Where is the convoy now?’ he asked a radio operator.
‘On the M55 at Wesham, heading towards Blackpool. They’ll be coming off at Marton in less than 5 minutes.’
‘How many patrols are with them?’
‘Two motorway, two traffic and a couple of motorcyclists.’
Henry picked up the radio set and called up one of the patrols. He asked, ‘Do you think you could actually keep the convoy on the motorway, stop them coming off at Marton and get them onto Yeadon Way — without putting anyone in danger?’
‘We can try and block the exit.’
‘Do it — try and keep them coming into town. Shepherd them down Yeadon Way onto Spine Road and onto the main town centre car park at the end.’
‘Roger — we’ll try,’ the patrol said.
Henry smiled at the radio operator, who looked puzzled. ‘You want them to come into town?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t. I’d like them to go home, but I don’t want them to get onto Shoreside, so if they can get snarled up in the town-centre traffic, maybe that will split them up — divide and conquer.’
‘Oh. Good idea.’
Now, he thought, there’s something else I have to do. It came to him. ‘If you need me, I’ll be in the custody office.’
The custody sergeant was looking tattered and harassed as he booked two prisoners in who were being particularly obnoxious. He acknowledged Henry with a curt nod. At least, Henry thought it was an acknowledgement, it could have been a nervous tick, often found in stressed-out custody officers.
As the man was busy, Henry did a quick review of what was happening. Only three prisoners in, none requiring his attention. He took out the binder containing completed custody records to see what had happened to Kit Nevison at court earlier that day. The record was marked off as, ‘Released on bail with reporting conditions.’
Henry could not help but chuckle at the outrageousness of it all. Sometimes magistrates seemed to live in a different world to normal people. There was no profit in getting sore about it, it was just a fact of life. A dangerous man was back on the streets.
He replaced the records as the custody sergeant finished off the booking-in process and sent the two prisoners to the comfort of their en-suite accommodation.
‘Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, Bob,’ Henry apologised. ‘Got a bit tied up with one or two things.’
‘Believe so.’
‘You wanted to talk about the suicide attempt last night?’
The sergeant looked deadly serious and worried. ‘Have you got a few minutes? I want to show you something.’
Henry followed him to the female cell wing. It was all quiet, none of the cells were in use.