Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Henry gritted his teeth. Get me out of here, he thought in panic. And again: I should not have gone to the Wicksons’. With my reputation, there was no way it could have gone smoothly.

‘FB back in force, eh?’ he said: quick subject change.

‘Your big friend, isn’t he?’

‘Hardly,’ Henry snorted. ‘But I think we understand one another. Sorry, that should be: we hate one another. I’m just useful to him on occasions, when it suits him. Otherwise, I’m just disposable.’

Once again an uncomfortable silence hit them.

They looked longingly at each other, but before either of them could say anything they would regret, a uniformed constable literally skidded into the cubicle. In the corridor behind him a rush of cops hurtled past, together with some nursing staff.

‘What is it?’ Jane demanded.

The look on his face said everything. Henry knew it was bad and even before the young lad had a chance to respond, Henry was pulling on his blood-stained T-shirt.

‘Dunno. . sounds like shots’ve been heard down in X-ray.’

‘Shit.’ Jane glanced quickly at Henry, who was already moving fast and with purpose.

‘Come on.’ He dropped off the bed and followed the officer out of the treatment room, twisted left down towards X-ray, which, Henry knew from previous experience, was a long way from Casualty.

All three began to pick up speed.

‘I hope this isn’t what I think it is,’ Jane pleaded.

From then on they raced silently, following the signs overhead and the arrows underfoot.

Two minutes later they were on the corridor. Ahead, a group of people were gathered around the door to the X-ray department. A cop was pushing them back, out of the way.

Jane fished out her warrant card in case she wasn’t immediately recognized. She slowed down and elbowed her way through the onlookers. ‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ Henry settled in her slipstream. She flashed her card at the officer on the door. ‘DI Roscoe. Blackpool CID,’ she announced. She thumbed Henry and said, ‘He’s with me.’

The officer stepped aside.

In the X-ray waiting room it was carnage. Three bodies were splayed out on the tiled floor, the two armed officers and the reception nurse. All had head wounds, all three were face down in their own pools of black-red blood and brain fragments. Blood splashes were all over the walls and furniture.

A doctor was kneeling beside the nurse, his fingers at her neck checking for vital signs. He stood up, his face a terrible mask, and shook his head. ‘All three dead,’ he announced quietly.

Jane said nothing, but she could feel her feet becoming leaden, the pit of her stomach burn.

Henry looked at the scene.

This was not his murder, and he knew he could go no further into the room for fear of destroying evidence.

Two police officers had been gunned down and one nurse.

And the prisoner had escaped.

Henry wondered if he had an accomplice.

For a very quick moment Henry actually felt relief that he was on suspension. Not my problem, he told himself, trying to make himself believe it. Not my job. Well maybe it wasn’t in theory, but he knew damn well that if it had been he knew exactly where his next port of call would be once the practicalities of scene preservation and search for the escapee had been taken care of.

If it was his job, he would be muscling very heavily into John Lloyd Wickson’s personal space because he was certain that he had a bloody good story to tell and Henry would have wrung it out of him with his hands around Wickson’s neck if necessary.

Henry had seen enough. With very mixed emotions churning around inside him, he drew back to let the real cops get on with the business. He would have loved to be involved in it, despite the fact that two colleagues had been gunned down, plus the nurse. The other side of him still said it was nothing to do with him, that he had enough problems of his own, so fuck the lot of them. His experience and expertise would be invaluable, but fuck the lot of them.

He wandered back to the waiting room.

Just before his treatment he had phoned Kate and arranged for her to come down to the hospital in her car with a change of clothing for him. He expected her in about an hour and was going to kill time with fresh air, coffee and painkillers.

The coffee came first. Once that was in hand he left the hospital and walked to the car park, next to which was a grassed area from which he could view all arrivals. He sat down and stuffed two more paracetamols into his mouth, washing them down with the coffee.

Police activity increased.

Uniforms and detectives and scientists arrived. The helicopter appeared again.

He watched it all with an air of detachment.

Two van loads of Support Unit officers landed; two dog vans screeched in.

He knew there would be an extensive search of the hospital and its grounds and the surrounding streets. He would have laid odds there and then that there was no way on this earth that the prisoner would be found.

There would be no chance of him now being dressed in his combat gear. It would not surprise Henry if he had tied up some poor unfortunate and stolen his clothes, wallet and any other belongings which were of use and dumped him dead in some out-of-the-way broom cupboard in the hospital. He would have hot-wired a car and be well on his way down the motorway by now.

The fresh air was reviving him. The coffee was hitting the mark. The drugs were doing their work.

He was watching traffic travelling along Sharoe Green Lane outside the hospital. It was a busy road. He could see as far as the traffic lights at the junction with the A6. He frowned as a big American Jeep turned off the A6 and came in his direction. His bottom lip drooped stupidly. It was the sort of car he would recognize anywhere. And the bulk of the driver confirmed the recognition. It was Karl Donaldson.

What the hell was the Yank doing here? Had Kate asked him to come to pick Henry up for her? Henry knew Karl was working on the murder case they had briefly discussed in the pub last night. He had said he was spending the day up north before returning to London. But why was he here?

Henry stood up, his side pinching painfully.

Donaldson signalled to turn right and entered the hospital grounds, easily spotting Henry on the grass, pulling in nearby. Henry hobbled down to him. The American lowered his window and from that moment, Henry knew that Donaldson had not come to see him.

‘What the hell’re you doin’ here, Henry?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

Donaldson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Anything in connection with John Lloyd Wickson?’

‘Could be,’ Henry said mysteriously.

Donaldson’s eyes narrowed even further as he surveyed his limey friend. ‘Yes or no,’ he demanded.

Henry relented. ‘Remember I mentioned the little investigation job last night?’

‘At the Wicksons?’ Donaldson said in disbelief.

‘H-hm. I sorta caught a guy who was taking potshots at Wickson earlier this morning,’ said Henry, recalling that he had not mentioned the name Wickson to Donaldson whilst they were in the pub.

‘You’re the one who caught him!’

‘More or less.’

‘I didn’t get told that.’

‘And now he’s escaped — after killing two police officers and a nurse.’

‘Jesus. I wasn’t told that either.’

‘Only just happened.’ Henry looked at all the police cars which had been abandoned outside Casualty. ‘Hence all the cop cars. Er. . what were you told?’ Henry smiled. ‘Why are you here? Has this something to do with Zeke?’ Donaldson’s face changed. ‘It bloody has, hasn’t it?’

Donaldson avoided the question and said, ‘We need to talk — later.’ He squinted at Henry again and tilted his head. ‘You’ve been hurt, haven’t you?’