Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Verner gave Henry the phone. He held it to his left ear with his left hand whilst driving with his right. He cursed the newer mobile phones, which were now so small it was impossible to wedge them on your shoulder any more, making it more dangerous than ever to use a phone whilst driving, especially travelling at 80mph on a country road.

‘Henry, are you all right?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘Does he mean it?’

Henry eyed his captor. ‘Yeah, he means it.’

‘Shall I call the hounds off?’

‘It would suit me. . so far he hasn’t actually killed anybody, but if he gets pressured, that’ll change, and it’ll be me. I’d rather it wasn’t.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And Henry-’

Verner snatched the phone out of Henry’s hand and shouted down it into Jane’s ear. ‘Call the bastards off and he’ll live. . that’s your choice.’ He ended the phone call and tossed the mobile into the footwell.

The signpost ahead of them told them they were approaching the roundabout at junction 3.

Suddenly a strange sensation came over Henry.

This had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to think about it. He’d been forced into his car, forced to drive — and he had done. He’d stayed cool and kept alive, remained calm and intrepid, at least on the outside, despite having a knife gash down his side (beginning to become a problem) and a gun rammed into his face (blood in mouth tasting horrible).

Now he was getting angry and the last thing he wanted was for this guy to get away. A man who had mutilated horses, caused thousands of pounds worth of damage and taken pot-shots at people. The prospect of him driving the man to some spot where he felt safe enough to escape, where he would probably ditch Henry and bugger off with the Mondeo — if, indeed, he did plan on letting Henry live — did not sit right with Henry at all. All his instincts as a cop, honed over the last quarter of a century, screamed that this man should not be allowed to get away.

Henry wanted to see this guy behind bars. The ‘how’ this was going to be achieved was what eluded him.

He knew it would have to be something drastic, something done whilst other cops were in the vicinity.

But what?

Jane’s hands were shaking, as was her voice, when she spoke into her radio and interrupted a transmission from HQ control room to the helicopter.

‘Are you still in contact?’ the FIM asked her when she had finished.

‘No.’

The FIM sat back in his swivel chair. He had a desk on a raised dais, giving him a commanding view across the control room and the banks of TV monitors relaying pictures from the numerous motorway cameras positioned around Lancashire’s main arteries. He looked at the monitor on his desk which had the downloaded link from the helicopter on it.

The new Chief Constable was standing behind the FIM. He had been joined by the ACC (Operations) and they were in deep discussion.

The FIM leaned forward and spoke into his radio mike.

‘All patrols, including Oscar November 99, to withdraw from the pursuit. I repeat, all patrols, including the helicopter, to withdraw from the pursuit.’

If the Chief wanted to overrule him on that, then he was quite happy. There was no way he wanted blood on his hands.

He looked over his shoulder at the Chief and the ACC, and shrugged.

It was the only decision he could have made in the circumstances. Keeping people alive was his job.

Henry had to slow right down when he hit the motorway junction. There was a lot of early morning traffic on it, none of which knew that a Ford Mondeo, travelling at excessive speed, was coming in their direction, driven by a man with a gun pointed at him. Two police cars were parked ready on the roundabout.

Henry sped down the slip road in the direction of Preston, joining the main carriageway at 70mph. His mind was in turmoil as he grappled with the decision about a course of action.

The mobile phone in the footwell rang. Henry winced slightly at his chosen ring tone, about which he’d had a severe ribbing from his daughters because they said it showed his advancing age: the riff from Jumpin’ Jack Flash.

‘Stones’ fan, eh?’ said Verner.

For the first time he didn’t give Henry his full attention.

He reached down between his legs to pick up the phone, which was just beyond his fingertips, making him stretch a little further.

Henry saw his chance.

Verner took his eyes off Henry, who gritted his teeth and, with his left hand, rammed Verner’s head against the glove compartment, finding all the strength he had and drawing it into his left arm. He knew he would have no second chances and everything he had went into the assault.

At the same time he slammed the brakes on and swerved on to the hard shoulder at an acute angle, smoke pouring from the screeching tyres as they left a black skid trail behind them.

Whilst the car was still in motion, Henry released the steering wheel and with his right hand, went for Verner’s gun.

Henry was totally concentrated on winning. The fact that his foot had come off the brake pedal and the car was lurching towards the side of the road, had no meaning for him. The danger for him was inside the car. All he was focused on doing was hammering Verner’s head on the dash to knock him senseless or unconscious or dead, and disarming him.

But Verner was good.

Henry did not manage to pound his head into the dash as intended. Somehow his grip slipped. Verner squared round to Henry, who did manage to keep hold of Verner’s gun hand and keep the pistol pointed down.

The car hit the grass verge with a thud.

Henry punched Verner in the face.

Verner pulled the trigger and a deafening bullet was discharged, burying itself somewhere near the accelerator pedal, miraculously missing Henry’s legs.

The car bounced upwards on the grass and Henry fell back against his door which burst open. He found himself spinning out of the hole where the door once was, then hitting the ground hard and rolling over and over across the tarmac towards the first lane of the motorway. Everything was confused, as if he was in a vortex. He cracked his head, but then rolled up on to his knees, looking back at the car wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Stuck up on the grass verge, it’s nose pointed skywards, it’s front end was crushed and it’s front wheels were stuck out at an ugly angle.

Verner was running away. He had vaulted the fence by the roadside and was running across farmland. He seemed unhurt.

Henry had stood up without realizing it. He staggered backwards a few steps, knew this was a bad thing, so stumbled across the hard shoulder, hopefully reducing the chance of being flattened by an HGV.

He watched Verner running towards woodland.

Henry did not have the energy to give chase, but he did not need to bother. The helicopter was back overhead and four police cars pulled in behind him, uniformed officers alighting. One was a dog man, whom Henry recognized. His name was Tim and his dog was called Lancon Griff — officially. Unofficially the German Shepherd was known as Fang for obvious reasons, which, Henry prayed, would soon become apparent to the man who had just put him through a mini-version of hell.

The hard shoulder of the M55 east-bound became the temporary home of the police search operation to capture the runaway. There were now eight police vehicles of varying types parked on the red tarmac area, all with blue lights flashing.

There had been a drugs raid in Blackpool that morning, maintaining the Constabulary’s policy of ‘a raid a day’ and the Support Unit officers who had carried it out had been redeployed to the motorway to assist with the manhunt. About fifteen officers under the command of an inspector were being briefed at the top of the grass verge.