Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

The cut on his side opened wider as he made his way back across the fields to his car and was starting to really hurt. By the time he reached his car, it was bleeding quite badly, causing him to reappraise the severity of the wound. He was glad to see his car and the thought of sitting in the driver’s seat and resting was very nice.

He fished out his car keys and pointed the remote lock at the Mondeo. As he opened the door, Verner stepped out from behind the car.

Henry swore and thought, Shit really does happen, doesn’t it?

There was a pistol in his hand, pointed at Henry’s guts.

‘Keys please.’ Verner extended his left hand, wiggling his fingers, indicating they should be given to him.

Henry shook his head and uttered a snort, furious for not thinking of this possibility. He held the keys out on the palm of his right hand.

‘Throw them to me,’ Verner instructed. ‘Nothing stupid, or you’re dead on the spot.’

Henry heaved them gently underhand. They handed with a clatter at Verner’s feet.

‘Good guy,’ Verner nodded appreciatively. Henry saw that he was not even breathing heavily, as opposed to himself. He was still close to needing a ventilator and though he thought himself pretty fit these days, he realized that gently jogging a few miles every day did not prepare you for a cross-country hike, a life-or-death struggle with a deranged gunman and arsonist, and another hike back with a slashed side and CS in your face. Verner bent down and picked up the keys with his free hand, never once allowing the gun to waver away from Henry’s body mass, nor his eyes to leave Henry. ‘Now I want you to turn round and close your eyes.’

Henry had been intrigued about what the next step would be. Presumably the man did not intend to kill him. He could have done that already. Henry guessed that what was going to happen was that he was now going to be whacked from behind with the pistol butt. If aimed correctly and with the required force, he would be driven into unconsciousness and hopefully the blow would not kill him or, worse, cause irreparable brain damage.

He tensed himself, then almost jumped out of his skin when the muzzle of the firearm was poked into the back of his neck, just below his right ear.

‘You’re a pretty resourceful guy,’ Verner complimented Henry. ‘Thanks for letting the tyres down on my car.’

‘Pleasure.’

Verner’s mouth was very close to Henry’s ear. He could feel the hot breath on it. ‘How did you know where to look?’

‘Reflected light.’

‘Ahh. . mistake number one. . sunlight on binocular lenses. . it’s a good job you’re not a martial arts expert, otherwise I’d have been right up the shitter.’

‘You are up the shitter,’ Henry said through clenched teeth. The muzzle, still pressed hard into his neck, was terrifyingly unsettling. He was finding it impossible to breathe properly. The thought of a bullet tearing itself through his brain cortex was sending him close to the edge.

‘How do you work that one out?’

‘There’s cops everywhere looking for you. You’ll never get away.’ Despite the fear he was experiencing, Henry was trying to sound utterly convincing. He knew the reality of the situation was that they’d be lucky to rustle up half a dozen officers. ‘There’s cops and cop-dogs everywhere.’

‘British bobbies. I shit ’em for breakfast.’

Suddenly both men were overpowered by a massive, buffeting sound which rocked them on their feet.

‘And of course the force helicopter!’ Henry yelled as, on cue, there was the beast itself hovering less than a hundred feet above them in the morning sky. The sound of its approach had been effectively muted by the surrounding trees.

‘Stay exactly where you are and drop your weapon,’ a God-like voice boomed down through the 750-watt skyshout PA system attached to the underside of the helicopter. Also, under the nose of the helicopter, was a video camera pointed directly at the two men.

‘As if,’ Verner said.

The helicopter adjusted its position above them and both men swayed with the immense downdraught from the rotor blades.

‘Change of plan,’ Verner shouted above the noise. ‘You can drive me out of this.’

Henry shook his head bravely and said, ‘No.’

Verner spun him round roughly and held the gun to his head, forcing it into the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.

‘Or you can die now, if you like.’

Henry looked down either side of the pistol into Verner’s eyes. He was not kidding and it showed in his pupils. Henry said nothing.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Verner said.

With the very dangerous-looking pistol pointed unwaveringly at Henry’s abdomen, Verner backed away and gestured for Henry to get into the car behind the wheel whilst he slid into the passenger seat alongside his hostage. He tossed the keys back to Henry and said, ‘Get driving.’

Henry started the engine after his dithering hand had only just managed to slot the ignition key in.

‘This isn’t going to happen,’ he insisted. ‘Now the helicopter’s here, you’ll never get away.’

‘In that case, you’ll die and I’ll go to prison,’ Verner responded with indifference. ‘Now drive the car.’ He raised the pistol and levelled it at Henry’s head, ‘or I’ll splatter your nice grey brains all over it.’

‘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.