‘C’mon, Bob, do the business.’
Bob secured his colleague’s wrists with rigid handcuffs and without having to be told, sank down to his knees and allowed Crazy to cuff him next to Ted.
‘Now then, lads, just shuffle on your knees up to the wall and press your faces right up to the plasterboard,’ Miller directed them.
They did as told, Crazy covering them and urging them on with an occasional poke of a gun and a tap of the foot. Crazy was having trouble stopping himself from giggling. When they got to where Crazy wanted them, he ripped out their radio wires.
‘Let’s see if we can waken sleeping beauty,’ said Miller, turning to the patient on the bed. He was propped up at 45°by nice clean white pillows and had not stirred during the confrontation. ‘He can talk, can he?’ Miller asked the kneeling officers. Neither ventured an answer. ‘Bob? Speak to me?’
With a deep, pissed-off sigh, Bob said, ‘He can talk all right, he’s just a big groggy with sedatives.’
‘I’ll soon wake him up,’ said Miller. He recognized the prisoner as the one Crazy had blasted in the groin. Miller slapped his hand over the man’s nose and mouth, constricting all airflow. It took a moment or two before his body reacted. He woke with a panicky start. Miller removed his hand and replaced it with the muzzle of Ted’s Glock, which he jammed hard into the guy’s mouth.
‘Nice man,’ Miller cooed. ‘Keep very cool, keep calm.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘Talk to me, tell me what I want to know. Just whisper it to me and things’ll be just fine — okay?’
He gave the man enough leeway for him to nod his head.
‘Now then, one simple question. Who set up the raid on the counting house? I’m going to remove this gun from your mouth and give you three seconds to answer. If you don’t respond within that timescale, I’ll shove it back in and kill you.’
Slowly he eased the gun out.
‘One,’ he breathed, ‘two. .’
The man uttered a name just loud enough for him to hear.
‘Three.’ Miller forced the gun back between the man’s teeth, breaking several teeth in the process and pulled the trigger. He left the Glock dangling out of his mouth because he had no further use for it but he kept hold of the MP5 because he thought it could be a useful tool.
Henry fully expected his mobile phone to ring, so it was no surprise that it did even before he reached the motorway.
‘Yes,’ he answered abruptly.
‘Den Craven, Scientific Support. Is that DCI Christie?’
‘Yes, Den, sorry about the snappy answer, I’m driving,’ he said lamely. He wondered what Craven wanted. Henry knew he was an expert in footwear.
‘No, it’s all right. I just wanted to let you know something about the death of Carrie Dancing.’
Henry perked up. It seemed so long ago. ‘Go on.’
‘I looked at the marks on the side of her head at the request of the pathologist and I’m a hundred per cent certain that it is an impression from a shoe, a trainer to be exact, and a right foot. Beyond that, I’d estimate a size nine. I am sure, however, that the make is Nike, the model is the Air Max Specter — they have an unusual and easily recognizable pattern on the sole, so it was easy to match it. Made in China. Not very much wear on the sole, so quite new I’d say, but there is a mark across one of the ridges, just a single line, which makes it quite identifiable. If you arrest someone wearing these shoes, we’ll go a long way to get a conviction. Oh, and I checked the shoes Johnny Jacques was wearing — they don’t match.’
‘Brilliant, Den, thanks very, very much,’ Henry said. He wanted to ask, ‘Do you get out much?’ but refrained because this was a major breakthrough and people like Den were worth their weight in jewels. ‘Can you fax me those details to the MIR at Blackpool?’
‘Will do.’
‘Thanks again.’
Henry punched the air. Okay, it wasn’t a name, but it was bloody good. He pushed the car up to eighty, smiling, then not smiling any more as his phone announced a text message had landed. The noise set his teeth on edge. He read it as he drove along in the fast lane.
‘Shit,’ he said and pressed harder on the gas, taking the Vectra up to the ton and trying not to throw the damned phone out of the window.
He arrived too early at Manchester Airport, but was quite happy to kick his heels for half an hour while waiting for the shuttle to arrive. He stowed his very hot car in the short-term multi-storey and sauntered into Terminal 3, which dealt exclusively with domestic arrivals and departures. He went to the cafe/bar and paid an extortionate price for a straight coffee, which he drank while propping up the counter. He would have liked something stronger, lots of something stronger, but that blow-out would have to wait.
Standing there like a seasoned international traveller, he mulled over everything he was presently involved in. Professionally he had just bottomed a domestic murder in Blackburn; had been handed a cold-case review; was involved in the suspicious deaths of JJ and Carrie Dancing, the latter most definitely a murder. Then he found himself running a triple fatal shooting, drugs related, which, somewhere along the line, tied in with a gangland execution and maybe a shooting incident at McDonald’s.
Violent Britain, he thought. Why the hell do I live here? It rains a lot, it’s always cold, the roads are jam-packed, the infrastructure is crumbling, the health service is a joke, the government is as corrupt as a Third World country’s and the police have lost all control. The justice system was weak and ineffective, biased towards the accused and not the victim and he still owed a fortune on his mortgage with the probability that the endowments wouldn’t pay out enough to cover it.
He knew why he stayed. He loved catching villains. He loved being pitted against very bad people and beating them, even if the courts were lenient with the bastards. It was his life and death was his trade. He just loved it.
His thoughts moved on to more personal matters. Love. Affairs. Deceptions.
He took a deep breath to stop himself having a panic attack. His personal life was a mess — again — but he knew he had the power to do something about it and end this foolishness with Jane Roscoe before it got on a roll and people really got hurt. He could stay with Kate and make something of his life with her, he knew. It would be a good life, too. Safe, secure, comfortable — yet, some reckless inner demon seemed to push him to self-destruct.
He finished his coffee and checked the arrivals screen to see that the Heathrow shuttle had just touched down. He strolled over to the arrivals hall and waited for Karl Donaldson.
Miller and Crazy could not speak to each other. Miller paced around the small bedsit they had chosen as a base for their operations. Both men had washed and showered since the shooting at the hospital and changed clothes completely, down to underwear and socks, bagging everything up for disposal.
‘Not good,’ Miller said eventually.
‘Understatement,’ said Crazy.
‘What’s one of them?’
‘It’s like a pair of knickers.’
Miller stopped his pacing. ‘We have to tell him.’
‘I know.’
‘Toss you for the honour. Heads you tell him, tails I don’t.’
Crazy sighed. ‘I’ve known him longer, I’ll do it.’
‘Good luck.’
Thirteen
As the passengers filed out into the arrivals hall, Karl Donaldson stood head and shoulders above everyone else. He always reminded Henry of Superman, but without the underpants. He was big, wide, good-looking in a square-jawed sort of way (bastard, Henry thought), still had a college crew-cut and piercing blue eyes which had women drooling over him. His muscular shoulders tapered to a slim but proportionate waist and his thighs were tight against the inside of his trousers, muscles rippling. He saw Henry immediately across the heads, smiled and ploughed towards him.
They greeted each other like old buddies. Lots of backslapping and hugging, but no tears of emotion.