Henry ushered a couple of officers in ahead of him and they did a quick search behind the furniture. ‘Clear,’ one said.
There was a road atlas of the UK and a London A-Z on the settee, together with an exercise book, pens and scraps of paper. Two rucksacks leaned against the wall. Henry was tempted to look, but held back because he was pushing his luck by disobeying the instruction he’d received not to enter the property.
‘Touch nothing,’ he said forcefully, and walked slowly across the room to the open door leading to the next room, the front lounge. He looked in and saw there was no furniture in here at all and could say with reasonable certainty that no one was in it. A wooden, open-plan staircase ran up directly opposite the front door.
He went across the threadbare carpet to the front door, which, as he suspected, had been reinforced. This had been done by an extra skin of hardwood and numerous bolts. But that wasn’t the only thing that caught his eye. The wires leading down from the edge of the door into a small plastic lunchbox made him gasp.
‘Christ!’ the sergeant breathed behind him. ‘A booby trap … if we had managed to put the door in …’ Her thoughts were left unexpressed, although her instructions to the officers behind were as clear as day.
Henry exhaled, not even aware he’d been holding his breath, then turned to the stairs, peering cautiously up through the treads. ‘Starting to get shaky,’ he said.
‘I’m sweating like a horse,’ she said.
‘Too much detail,’ he said, grinning. ‘We need to be very careful here.’
‘I like the obvious statement,’ she came back.
Giving the front door as wide a berth as possible, they eased themselves up the stairs without incident, stepping on to a tiny landing from which the back and front bedrooms and the toilet could be accessed. Henry took his time looking round, thoughtful. ‘Front bedroom, back bedroom, loo,’ he said, pointing at the closed doors. ‘Agreed?’
‘Yep.’
He raised his eyes and saw a loft hatch.
‘So,’ he said hoarsely, ‘if there was a third or fourth person, where have they gone?’ he speculated. ‘And if you were a member of a terrorist cell preparing to commit a crime, using a terraced house as a base, what would be a prerequisite?’
The sergeant looked at him, uncertain. ‘Dunno what you’re getting at.’
‘What would you need just in case the cops came calling to break up the party?’
‘Ahh — an escape route.’
‘Bob on,’ he said, ‘but why didn’t they all use it, if there is one?’
She shrugged.
Henry said, ‘I thought it was a good question and I reckon I know the answer and somehow I don’t think it would be the wisest course of action to go barging into any of these rooms through these doors, just in case.’
‘What? Just in case number three’s behind?’
‘No — in case these are booby trapped, because if there is a third person — and I’d bet my newly enhanced pension on it — he’ll have gone now across the rafters.’ He pointed up to the loft access flap. ‘And any terrorist worth their salt will have probably left a calling card behind the doors and that flap … so this is where we stop …’
‘Boss!’ came an urgent shout from one of the officers downstairs, interrupting Henry’s audible thought process.
‘What?’ he responded doubtfully, hoping he wasn’t going to hear that the two prisoners had escaped, or they’d managed to take cyanide pills. He stepped back down the stairs.
‘There’s a bit of a kafuffle out back — one of the neighbours says he’s just had a nasty experience. Someone’s just dropped into his house from the attic.’
‘OK, be with you in a sec.’ To the sergeant, he said, ‘Before we even turn one of those door knobs, we get our act together. We don’t want blowing to smithereens, or anywhere else for that matter. And this little contraption by the front door’ — he pointed down stairs at the lunchbox — ‘needs paying some respect.’
‘I’ll sort it,’ she said, businesslike.
Two police vans arrived as Henry emerged into the alley behind the officer who had called him about the neighbour. The alley was now alive with people gawping at the police activity and probably had not been this busy since the last cotton mill closed down.
He was introduced to an elderly Asian man called Ali Iqbal who had clearly just risen from his slumbers, was unshaven and a little confused and still dressed in what looked like very loose fitting pyjamas. He was a gnarled gent, probably in his seventies, and was chewing something sweet smelling.
Henry shook his hand. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Christie. I believe you’ve had an unwelcome guest this morning?’
Although Iqbal’s ethnic origin may well have differed significantly from Henry’s, his Lancashire accent was even broader.
‘I’ll bloody say,’ Iqbal said angrily. ‘I were asleep in t’ front room an’ I heard this noise in t’ loft. I thawt it were burds or summat. I turns over in bed — me wife’s nexta me, by the way, snorin’ her fat ’ead off — an’ I looks up an’ t’ bloody loft door’s opening. This guy appears, drops down, an’ before I can say boo to a goose, he’s gone, done a runner.’
‘Must’ve been scary,’ Henry empathized, realizing time was of the essence. ‘Which is your house?’
‘End one — down there,’ Iqbal pointed.
‘Right.’ Henry’s mind raced. ‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘Oh, aye, cheeky little get!’
‘And can you describe him?’
‘For definite.’
‘And would you be prepared to jump into a police car with me and have a scout round, see if we can spot him?’
‘Course I would … you think he’s connected wi’ this?’ He gestured to the police activity.
Henry just gave him a knowing look, then turned to the officer who had brought him out to meet Iqbal. ‘We need a car. I’ll drive. Mr Iqbal can jump into the front seat, and you get in the back. We’ll have a drive around to see if we can spot our interloper. You can get a description and circulate it for patrols.’ Henry saw the female sergeant come into the back alley. ‘Everything OK?’
She gave him a thumbs up.
Henry told the drivers of the vans who had come to pick up the prisoners to take them both to Leyland Police Station, which was about fifteen miles away, because it was the only station in the county properly equipped to deal with terror suspects. During its time it had seen quite a few come through its doors.
He then commandeered the first patrol car that turned up, hoiked out the driver and set off with Iqbal and the Support Unit officer to do a quick search of the surrounding streets. About twenty minutes had passed since the raid had kicked off and Henry knew that the realistic chances of bagging the third member of the team were pretty remote, because if there was an escape route prepared through the lofts of the terrace, then there would be a vehicle waiting somewhere too. But, he reasoned, you had to be in it to win it and if there was the possibility of striking lucky, then he was prepared to have a go.
Iqbal was a good witness. He had got a fairly lengthy look at the mystery man and, it transpired, had even jumped out of bed to challenge him and been pushed out of the way by the man as he ran out of the bedroom.
‘I woulda gone after him, but me pyjama bottoms fell down,’ he explained. He went on to describe him in good detail, including his clothes.
It had been a long time since Henry had cruised the mean streets of Accrington in a police car; a long time since he had driven a witness around, too, searching for an offender. It was always a heart-pounding time.
Henry was now fully awake, the complete antithesis of the dopey-eyed old man he’d been half an hour before.
Much had happened in that short space of time, which was why he liked sharp-end policing so much. One minute you can be half-asleep; the next tackling gun-toting, explosive-clad kids. As he drove, he had time to reflect for a moment or two.