‘It’s like a vest,’ replied Miller.
‘Oh.’ Crazy’s eyebrows knitted together. He shook his head.
A quietness descended between them, each man lost in his thoughts. Rain began to hammer down, smacking on to the portacabin.
‘Are you capable of doing it?’ Miller questioned him.
Crazy nodded. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh aye,’ he said confidently. ‘But is it worth fifty grand and a bonus, I ask myself?’
Their heads turned and they looked at each other. At first their expressions were serious, but then they started to grin.
‘You bet it’s fuckin’ worth it,’ said Crazy. ‘You in or not?’
Miller held out his right hand and they shook.
‘Where do we start?’ Crazy asked.
‘Simple and local. Then we progress on to the more difficult stuff.’
‘I’ll have that,’ said Crazy.
Henry juggled a number of phone calls when he got back to the police station and fended off Bernie Fleming, who, for some reason, was prowling the building, hustling Henry.
He made it back to the office he had occupied before without bumping into Jane Roscoe, but found that the true occupant had returned. He moved cautiously round the building until he found another office which appeared to be vacant and unused at that moment. He moved into the empty seat and began phoning.
The first call he made was to the DI at Blackburn and Henry loved what he heard the man say, scribbling down notes on a scrap of paper. He thanked the DI profusely, promised to keep in touch with developments, then hung up. Next he called Risley Remand Centre near Warrington and did some smooth talking, after which he called Kate and told her it looked like it would be another late one, but could she put up the spare bed for Karl Donaldson?
The mention of the American’s name immediately calmed her down. Henry could tell she was beginning to simmer a little and could hear a trace of suspicion in her voice. He knew she was wondering if he was straying from the straight and narrow again. He was wondering the same.
As he cradled the landline, his mobile rang again. The noise it made hit some nerve inside him and he squirmed.
It was Roscoe. ‘Henry, where are you?’
‘Blackpool police station,’ he said vaguely.
‘Whereabouts?’
He stifled an irritated sigh. ‘Coming up to the incident room. Be there in a couple of minutes.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ she said, her voice having the quality of best granite.
Henry dropped the mobile on to the desk. There was never any peace with one of them in your pocket, he thought. You are always contactable, never quite able to leave people behind. He was starting to hate the damned thing, yet he had no option but to carry it around with him, switched on and charged up. He swore and stood up. He had no intention of going to the incident room now.
He trotted down the back steps to the lower-ground floor. He crept along the corridor which went past the custody office gate and emerged in brief daylight before going back under the cover of the car park. He drove out, approaching the shutter doors which opened automatically. As he went through, he glanced in his mirror and caught sight of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him, waving her arms.
He pretended not to notice. In fact, he accelerated away.
There were two doctors walking down the corridor. Green skull caps, long coats, clip boards, stethoscopes, surgical masks covering their faces. They were deep in conversation about some patient or other. Their manner was relaxed, but it was apparent they were in disagreement over the benefits of a particular surgical procedure.
The policeman by the door of the private room did not take much notice of them. Doctors scurried past all day long. He’d seen enough doctors for a lifetime. He was sitting on a chair, browsing with little interest through a magazine for middle-aged women. He was wearing a ballistic vest, had a Glock 9mm strapped to his side and an MP5 slung high across his chest. He was guarding the patient inside the room. Stationed inside was another officer, similarly equipped and bored. They conversed with each other by means of a ‘talk group’ on their personal radios with earpieces in. They had not spoken to each other for ten minutes and the cop in the corridor half believed that his mate had nodded off. Typical.
The discussing doctors stopped about five feet away from him. Their talk was quite heated, but still amicable.
‘I say he’s got to have the lower part of his bowel removed,’ the younger-looking doctor said.
‘That’s a typical stance of the younger surgeon these days. Cut ’em open and chop it out. That’s your answer to everything.’
‘In this case it is. The patient will die otherwise. His condition is too far gone.’
The older doctor guffawed. ‘You’re wrong. Give the fucker an aspirin and I’m sure he’ll get better.’
The cop on the door had only been half listening, but the remarks made by the older doctor made him lift his head.
‘Just kidding,’ the doctor said to the policemen. ‘Come,’ he said to his junior colleague, ‘the bowel it is.’
At which point the hand of the younger doctor withdrew from underneath his long coat. Before the cop could react, he had pushed the barrel of the gun into the unwary cop’s ear. The older doctor moved quickly. He drew the officer’s Glock out of its holster and used a scalpel to cut through the strap of the MP5 and remove it from round his neck.
‘Bulletproof vest is no good if you get shot in the head,’ Crazy whispered. ‘Now get up and go into the room using the same procedure you always do. Nothing outrageous, or you’re a very dead cop. Are you with that scenario? Behave and you live, okay?’
The officer nodded.
He pressed the button on the side of his radio. ‘Bob, coming in in. . Yeah, no probs.’ His frightened eyes moved from one false doctor to another. He was annoyed at being caught out.
‘Stand up and lead the way,’ said Miller. He was armed with the MP5, having pocketed the Glock.
The officer stood on quaking legs. This should not be happening, he thought. Bad guys are not so foolish as to do things like this. His own bowels reacted in a way which made him think he should perhaps have them removed. He opened the door and walked in ahead of Crazy, whose gun was now held at his neck, ready to blow his head off.
The patient was asleep. Drips fed nourishment into his body. A monitor blipped by his side.
The cop in the room was on a chair next to the bed. He was not dozing as suspected, but, like his comrade in arms, he was reading a magazine. He did not look up initially when the door opened, so blase was he. He only sensed something amiss when his buddy squeaked, ‘Bob?’
Bob raised his eyes, then closed them.
‘We’re not here to harm you,’ Miller said from behind his mask, pointing the commandeered MP5 at Bob, ‘but if you don’t do what we say, you’ll both be dead and that’s fact.’ His voice was cool, controlled and he came across as being very much in charge. His matter of fact tones were steeped in the menace of certain death. ‘Drop your weapons, Bob, and don’t even think of being a hero. There’s too many cops on the roll of honour. Don’t join them.’
Bob nodded. He was no fool. He unslung his MP5 and placed it carefully on the floor. Next he unfastened his holster and drew out the Glock. Miller stiffened and prepared to waste him, but Bob put the gun on the floor and sat upright.
‘Each of you take out your handcuffs.’
They complied with the order, knowing what was coming. They could see Miller’s eyebrows rise as he smiled behind his surgical mask. ‘Now, Bob, I think you’ve guessed. Please handcuff your mate here, hands behind his back. You’ — Miller turned to the first officer — ‘what’s your name?’
‘Ted.’
‘Oh, Bob and Ted. Okay, Ted, kneel down, hands behind your back and let Bob fasten those nasty handcuffs on you.’
‘Shite,’ said Ted. He dropped to his knees and, his face angry and annoyed at being hoodwinked so easily, put his hands behind himself, wrist to wrist.