‘Can’t argue with that,’ Henry said, selecting first with a crunch.
As soon as the vigilant crew — known as the Air Support Unit — of Lancashire Constabulary’s Eurocopter EC135 located Henry Christie’s car and the incident taking place next to it, the observer began a radio commentary. At the same time, video footage was being transmitted by way of the microwave downlink to the comms room at Blackpool and at the force control room at police headquarters, near Preston.
It so happened that this was the first day at work for the newly appointed Chief Constable, who, instead of going into his office, had decided to start the day as he meant to go on: by scaring the staff shitless by turning up early and unexpectedly — which was why he wandered unannounced into the control room, just to see what was going on and to put the wind up people.
The Force Incident Manager — the FIM — the duty inspector in charge of the control room that morning, nearly had heart failure when the new Chief appeared. But he pulled himself together very quickly and briefed him on the events of the morning.
The Chief peered at the downloaded pictures from the hovering helicopter which were as clear as a bell on the FIM’s monitor at his desk. He gasped with the sound a tomato makes when squashed as he saw the figures on the screen.
The FIM stared quizzically at the new boss of the force, whose head was tilted sideways as he looked at the monitor. ‘Surely not,’ the FIM thought he heard the Chief whisper with complete disbelief. ‘Surely not — not on my first day?’
‘Pardon, sir?’
The Chief shook his head. ‘I said, “surely fucking not”!’ He was not known to mince his words.
Jane Roscoe, isolated from events back at the Wickson household, could only listen to what was happening over her personal radio. There was a feeling of utter, empty dread inside her as the ASU observer described in detail the armed man getting into the car with his weapon pointed at Henry.
As Henry’s car moved off with Henry at the wheel, Jane listened intently, her heart thumping loudly, breath short.
The management of the incident in terms of what was now happening on the road was the responsibility of the FIM. It was down to him to take charge, deploy personnel, get tactical firearms advice from the on-call adviser, and also to keep the people informed who needed to be informed. This included the on-call superintendent who took overall strategic command of the incident and the ACC (Operations), who was required to quality-assure the whole thing as it panned out.
Jane felt powerless. All she could do was tell the helicopter crew that the man being held at gunpoint was a colleague, albeit one on suspension, and that he was most definitely acting under duress. She could only then sit back and let it unfold.
But there was something she could do, she thought firmly: pin John Lloyd Wickson down and demand he tell her what all this was about.
The radio crackled busily as ARVs, a dog patrol and other uniformed officers converged on the scene as they were deployed by the FIM, who, despite having the new Chief hovering over his shoulder like an old woman, was keeping very cool and laid back about the whole thing.
Also trying to keep cool and laid back about the whole thing, but actually fighting back sheer panic which rose up in him like bile, was the man who had been taken hostage, Henry Christie.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Henry asked. His sweating and very slippy hands were having major problems gripping the steering wheel.
‘Head for the motorway,’ said Verner, who definitely was cool and laid back.
Henry shook his head. ‘Bad move.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Verner retorted, impressing and frightening Henry with his attitude. This was a guy who was actually enjoying himself.
Henry worked his way along the country lanes surrounding Poulton-le-Fylde before emerging on to the A585 and picking up the signs for the M55. It was an area he knew well, as he did most of Lancashire. He drove carefully but quickly and the pace seemed to be keeping the kidnapper happy. Overhead they could hear the beating sound of the helicopter, but it remained out of their line of sight, just tailing them.
As Henry motored towards the motorway, the first police car appeared in his rear-view mirror. It was a liveried Ford Galaxy with smoked windows. Henry recognized it immediately as an Armed Response Unit. Two constables would be on board, both, he guessed, having had permission from the FIM for covert arming at the very least.
It slotted in behind, keeping its distance, as Henry expected it would as there were now many tight rules and procedures governing police pursuits and firearms incidents which would be rigorously enforced by the FIM.
The gunman saw the car and grunted. ‘Company.’
‘You should have laid low in the fields,’ Henry told him.
‘Maybe. . anyway, shut your fucking face.’ He rammed the gun into Henry’s jaw — hard. Henry emitted a cry of pain when he felt the squidgy inside of his mouth split on a molar and tasted blood. ‘You a cop?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Suspended.’
‘A bent cop. . my favourite type.’ Verner twisted round and saw that another police car had joined the chase. ‘We got a convoy,’ he smirked. His attention reverted to Henry. ‘What were you doing at the stables?’
‘It’s a long story and I doubt you’ve got time to listen to it. I also doubt you’ll have time to listen to very much, actually.’
Up ahead was a set of traffic lights controlling a junction at which five roads converged on the main road. It was known, unsurprisingly, as Five Lane Ends. The lights were on red. Traffic was starting to build up.
‘Should I stop?’ Henry asked hopefully. He saw Verner’s lips twist.
‘What do you think?’
Henry approached the short queue of traffic up to the lights. He positioned the Mondeo on the outside and put his foot down, whizzing past the stationary line. Oncoming vehicles swerved away, anger and not a little shock on the drivers’ faces. Henry gunned the car towards the lights.
At the junction, a large milk tanker emerged from the side road to Henry’s left, startling him. ‘Shit!’ He spun the wheel, only just managing to keep hold of it with his damp hands. The tanker driver did not see him until the last moment and anchored on, but in so doing sent the rear end of the huge truck jack knifing sideways. Henry veered around the front end of the tanker, certain he was about to be crushed to death. He closed his eyes. They missed connecting by less than the width of a blade of grass and Henry pulled away, eyes now open, with the sound of the tanker’s horn blaring in his ears.
Throughout the manoeuvre, Verner stayed calmly seated, his left hand holding on to the handle in the roof of the car, just above his door, his right hand laid out down his lap, holding the gun.
Once through the hazard he bounced round on his seat. ‘Fucking brilliant,’ he chirped.
The two following police cars had been left behind, their way blocked by the tanker at least for the moment. Obviously the helicopter remained overhead, unshakeable.
‘There’s another set of lights ahead. We need to turn right at them to get to the motorway,’ Henry informed Verner.
‘Do what you have to do to get through them without stopping,’ he was instructed.
They were at the next lights within seconds. Once again they were on red. Henry sped past the line of cars waiting there, going down the wrong side of the road, forcing oncoming cars to get out of his way. He almost lost the Mondeo as he yanked down the wheel and skidded right. The back end snaked as the tyres lost their grip and the wheel spun out of his hands. But then he was back in control, amazed he had made it, relieved to still be in one piece. Now it was a straight, if fairly narrow, road to the motorway which he would join at junction 3.