Instinct (10 page)

Henry was instructed to keep his distance, simply report progress, and not to get involved directly.

First to join was a big Volvo traffic car, overtaking Henry and dropping into the space between his Merc and the Fiesta. The speed was still around the seventy mark.

‘Doesn't really give the impression of a desperate man,' Henry commented dryly.

‘The Fiesta isn't a fast car, especially a shit heap like that one,' Rik said.

‘Granted  . . . but  . . .'

‘Yeah, I know  . . . I've been in a car chase with a Reliant Robin three-wheeler going faster than that.'

Another traffic car tore up alongside Henry, then moved ahead so that it was abreast with the first one in the nearside and middle lanes of the motorway, both still hanging back from the Ford. Control room said that other traffic cars were a few miles ahead of them on the motorway, waiting.

Henry's mobile rang.

‘Henry – it's Karl.'

‘Yeah – we're with the Fiesta,' Henry said. ‘Something odd, though.' Henry explained the lack of urgency in the demeanour of the supposedly fleeing felon who'd knocked over a cop and been back-up for a suicide bomber. ‘He's just trolling along at seventy, no evasive tactics, dangerous driving, attempts to force cop cars off the road or anything.'

‘Did you get a look at the driver?'

‘Not a good one,' Henry admitted, and arched his eyebrows at Rik, who shook his head: he didn't get a good look either. ‘Just enough to see an Asian male.'

‘Tell them all to take care,' Donaldson said. ‘Could be a set-up – oh, and by the way, I shot the driver.'

‘You what?' Henry blurted, but Donaldson ended the call on that note. ‘Shit,' Henry said.

Another traffic car joined the chase as the convoy reached the exit for Kirkham, but the Fiesta stayed on the motorway, which meant that the next exit was at Broughton, north of Preston, about eight miles distant and eight minutes at the current speed. That was enough time and distance to pull the car if they could get their act together. This was already being discussed over the airwaves and Henry could see this would be the preferred option, rather than allowing the Fiesta to get on to the M6 where life would become much more complicated and far busier.

Henry picked up the PR and put that point across to the FIM, his only reservation being that there were no armed officers present at the moment. That problem was negated when a plain Volvo sports saloon roared up behind with two AFOs on board. Added to that there was another traffic car further ahead, waiting on the hard shoulder. That gave three liveried traffic cars and an armed response vehicle  . . .
game on.

Two miles had shot by while that short discussion was taking place, so they had to move now.

Henry dropped further back in the Merc. The firearms vehicle slotted into his vacated space. As if on cue, all the traffic cars switched on their blue lights. One then took up a position behind the Fiesta, another drew alongside it in the middle lane, and then they tightened up their positions. Further ahead, the traffic car that had been waiting on the hard shoulder accelerated into the nearside lane.

The Fiesta now had a police car alongside it, one behind and one in front, with nothing on the nearside except for the hard shoulder.

Then, like jet fighters escorting another plane down to earth, they edged the Fiesta across on to the hard shoulder without touching it, slowing the car down bit by bit.

Henry watched the operation being executed with precision from his position at the back of it all.

It wasn't far now to the Broughton exit, maybe two miles.

The police cars continued to slow down.

The Fiesta made no effort to avoid what was going on, seeming to accept the inevitable, slowing down as indicated.

‘Far too easy,' Henry remarked. He could feel the tension increasing as if a band were tightening across his chest.

Then they were at a crawl.

Then at a virtual standstill.

Then stopped.

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the two AFOs in reflective jackets got out of the ARV – which was parked ahead of Henry on the hard shoulder – handguns drawn, and stood behind the open doors of their car, using the V-shape for support and protection. One had a loudhailer. Then the doors of the traffic car in front of them opened, the officer jumped out and ran back, whilst the AFOs ran forwards at a crouch, each taking up a position behind the open doors of the traffic car, directly behind the Fiesta.

Meanwhile, normal traffic continued to roll past and, without exception, every vehicle slowed down and the occupants gawked at the incident unfolding in front of their eyes. Traffic may have been light, but it was a problem, and it needed to be completely stopped behind them somehow.

Henry and Rik climbed out of the Mercedes which was parked about fifty metres behind the ARV on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on.

A gust of wind buffeted Henry, causing him to stagger. Then he was almost spun full circle by the slipstream of a passing lorry. He felt extremely vulnerable and suddenly realized what a very dangerous place a motorway was, even at the best of times. He went to the boot of his car and fished out a couple of reflective jackets that he always carried, handing one to Rik. Then, keeping to the side of the motorway, he strode up to the traffic officers, the wind in his face, amazed by how strong it was on such a nice day. The fact that the motorway was exposed and slightly raised made it cold and forbidding.

The man in the Fiesta had not moved. Henry could see his outline in the driver's seat.

Henry mentioned the passing traffic to one of the officers who shouted back at him, raising his voice because that was the only way to be heard against the combined thunder of passing vehicles and swirling wind. He told Henry that the gantries had been activated further back down the motorway and blocks had been set up on the slip roads to keep anyone from coming on. The overhead signs were telling drivers to stop because of a police incident. The officer added, ‘No one ever does, though.'

Henry patted the guy's shoulder and, crouching low with Rik just behind him, he jogged up to the armed officer using the passenger door of the traffic car as a shield. This was the one with a loudhailer.

Henry assessed the whole scenario, very unhappy about it.

‘We need to get him out from the nearside door and up to the Armco barrier,' he shouted.

The officer nodded.

Then the driver's door of the Fiesta opened, the guy swung out his legs, stood up and faced Henry's direction. Henry saw a young, skin-headed Asian youth, maybe nineteen years old, dressed in trainers, jeans and a big anorak. This was not the man that Donaldson had described to him, the one he'd chased through the streets, who had driven this car at a cop, the one he'd shot. Not the man called Akram.

‘Stand still,' the AFO with the loudhailer shouted. ‘Do not move.'

The lad had a blank expression. He seemed to be saying something to himself, mumbling. His hands were down at his sides, fists clenched. He walked between the Fiesta and the traffic car and stopped by the rear offside wing of the Ford as though he hadn't heard the shouted instruction.

Henry's eyes took in everything – including the other firearms officer crouching behind the driver's door of the traffic car, armed with a Glock pistol, held down in front of him in the classic two-handed grip. This officer had a clear, unobstructed view of the lad.

Henry thought he saw the twitch of a smile in the corner of the Asian's mouth. His head rose slightly and he looked at Henry across the gap that separated them.

Several cars hurtled past in the fast lane.

Henry spotted something in the young man's right fist. It looked like the top of a pen. Henry knew exactly what it was. A button. A detonator. Attached to a bomb that was strapped to his chest.

Henry had been here once before, face to face with a suicide bomber. Last time, in the backstreets of Accrington, he'd been lucky. A mis-connection meant the device failed to explode. Since that moment, Henry knew he never wanted to be in that position again. He knew he would not be so lucky next time. This time.

The young man raised his right hand.

Several things happened.

Henry screamed, ‘TAKE HIM DOWN!' to the firearms officers.

The young man shouted something, words that were blocked by the wind, but Henry knew he was saying that Allah was great.

The firearms officer on the other side of the car stepped sideways, raised and aimed the Glock, bringing it up into the point of an isosceles triangle formed with his locked arms.

The young man lifted his thumb in a gesture designed to show that he was now going to press the detonator in his hand, blow himself up and whoever else he could take with him.

Henry cringed and cowered away, as though turning his back to the situation would protect him from a bomb blast.

SEVEN

S
teve Flynn was looking at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. He adjusted the peak of his tatty baseball cap to reduce the relentless glare of the African sun in his eyes, squinted and did a dreamy double-take just to make sure. But there was no doubt about it, even from this distance. The young woman was something special.

Flynn was in the cockpit of the sportfishing boat
Faye2
, carefully manoeuvring her backwards into the tight mooring space alongside Ray Boone's boat,
Shell
, when the woman appeared on the shaky wooden quayside, walking from the direction of Boone's houseboat tethered in the next creek. Just for a moment Flynn lost concentration and almost scraped Boone's older boat, a mistake that would have left him more red-faced than he already was. Flynn was proud of the way he handled boats.

Boone himself emerged from the galley and glanced sideways at Flynn as he passed him at the wheel. Boone winked smugly and said, ‘Spotted her, huh?' and continued out on to the rear deck. Flynn's eyebrows arched. He reversed the last few inches into position and Boone stepped ashore with the mooring ropes, looping them over two wooden stanchions. He then walked towards the beautiful woman, said a couple of words into her ear and embraced her gently. Her face widened into a wonderful smile, and she then gazed lovingly at the old hound dog that was Ray Boone. She said something softly to him, her green eyes sparkling shyly.

Flynn killed
Faye2
's
Volvo engines and the boat he'd come to love over the past eighteen months became silent, rocking gently in the river current. He slid off the pilot's seat, walked out on to the deck and rolled the narrow gangplank across to the quayside. He then stood there with his hands on his hips waiting for Boone to tear his attention away from this stunning woman and remember he had a guest to attend to.

Finally Boone looked at Flynn, a broad, proud smile across his weather-ravaged features, an expression that knocked about ten years off his grizzled face.

‘Hey, pal – permission to come ashore,' he called, and gestured to Flynn.

Flynn shot across eagerly to meet Boone's lady, the one he'd had an earful about over the last six hours. He had started to believe she was actually either a figment of Boone's tropical-sunshine-addled imagination or something far worse – a wizened old hag who Flynn would have to pretend was as beautiful as described.

But no. Boone, the old time crim, had come up trumps and was not fantasizing, as evidenced by the slender female who now stood alongside him with one arm draped intimately around the older man's thickening waist.

Boone beamed and announced, ‘Flynn – meet Michelle, love of my sordid life and saviour of my soul, after whom my boat is named and who is also a great sportfisher and sailor.'

Flynn's right hand extended and she shook it with a soft hand of her own, blessing Flynn with a magical welcoming smile that gripped his heart then slam-dunked it right down through the hoop.

‘Welcome to the Gambia, Steve,' she said in a lilting West African accent, the words almost singing from her lips. ‘Boone has told me all about you. He called you a complete bastard,' she said innocently. Boone's crooked smile stayed firm as Flynn gave him a sardonic glance. ‘But,' she laughed and added, ‘as honest as the day, fair and firm. At least that's what he wanted me to say.'

Flynn chuckled. ‘He's been too generous in his praise.'

Michelle extracted her long fingers from Flynn's over-tight grip and said, ‘I'm pleased to meet you.'

‘Likewise,' Flynn said. ‘Ray's told me all about you – but being a man who can't string too many words together, he has completely and inadequately failed to describe how lovely you are.'

‘Thank you.' Michelle lowered her eyes demurely at the compliment and looked slightly discomfited by it. Flynn also felt a bit awkward. He was actually a man of few words, most of them usually short and to the point. Complimenting did not come naturally to him – unless he was trying his seduction techniques – but somehow Michelle's radiant ambience had made him gibber like a jerk, he realized.

He smiled simply at her and gave a shrug. He certainly wasn't trying to seduce this woman, not just because she and Boone were an item, and Boone was an old foe-turned-friend, but because Boone would probably have killed him outright for chancing his arm. That kind of thought always made Flynn hesitate.

Boone coughed. ‘OK guys, end of the BS.'

‘I have a wonderful spicy chicken casserole for the evening meal,' Michelle announced. ‘All breast,' she added cheekily, ‘with sweet potatoes and ice-cold local beer.'

‘Jul-Brew?' Flynn asked. She nodded and his mouth watered at the prospect. He loved its taste. His stomach gurgled hungrily at the thought of a decent meal. He and Boone had grazed on sandwiches, crisps, cola and strong coffee all day on the boat and he was famished, his body yearning for proper food.

But the rub was that however hungry you might be, or ill, or whatever, the boat came first. Flynn said, ‘I'm really hungry, but I'll clean her and the equipment first if that's OK?' He jerked a thumb at
Faye2
. ‘Then I'll clean myself, too.' He said to Boone, ‘Ray, you get on and I'll do it. Be about an hour if that's OK?'