Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘I’ll say sorry later,’ Henry promised.

In the seat behind him, the PC had started a running commentary: ‘Now on Whalley Road in the direction of Clayton-le-Moors; speeds in excess of fifty and accelerating … didn’t get the registration number … yeah, blue BMW …’

Mr Iqbal, even in the greyness of dawn, had clearly lost his colour, his face having drained of blood. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ he said again.

The Astra’s engine was ear-splittingly loud, but Henry did not let up on it. He pushed it to its limits and as he shot a red light at the junction of Queens Road — on the corner, by the hospital — he was travelling at sixty, which was fast for the conditions in this built-up area. The BMW had dipped out of sight beyond a slight rise. Henry knew the road ahead was fairly straight, though it was narrow for a main road, and because of the time of day and the lack of other traffic, the BMW had the capacity to leave the Astra standing.

‘ Just had a report of a stolen BMW from Accrington town centre in the last ten minutes ,’ the comms operator said from the control room at Blackburn, which covered this area. He gave details and asked if this could be the one they were chasing.

‘Affirmative,’ the PC replied as he sat back and, intelligently, put a seat belt on.

‘ Present location? ’ comms asked.

‘Whalley Road heading towards Clayton … just passing the Fraser Eagle Stadium’ — Accrington Stanley’s football ground — ‘but we’ve lost sight of the car.’

Henry was grimly undeterred. It was unlikely now that he would catch the BMW, but he always liked to go the extra mile and though he reduced speed, much to Mr Iqbal’s obvious relief, he decided to go as far as Clayton-le-Moors, then turn back. It was the thought that the BMW could be being driven by the third member of a terrorist cell that made him want to keep looking. Whilst he might be wrong on that score, he hated coincidence.

‘ All patrols ,’ came the now urgent voice of the radio operator, ‘ treble-nine just received from a driver on Whalley Road, Clayton-le-Moors … reporting a BMW has just collided with two parked cars and flipped over on to its roof, just after the junction with Burnley Road … will give further details …’

‘We’re one minute away,’ the PC shouted up. ‘Sounds like our man.’

‘Thank you, God,’ Henry intoned and, once more, stuck his right foot down, bringing a further expletive from Mr Iqbal, who sank down into his seat and gripped his seat belt with two hands.

The BMW driver had run the red light at the Burnley Road junction, but had been unlucky in that at that precise moment another car was legitimately crossing its bows to the green light. It had been travelling at about eighty mph and with the avoiding swerve on the greasy road, the driver had lost control. The BMW had fish-tailed out of the junction, crashed into one car parked on the left-hand side of the road, catapulted across to one on the opposite side and had then been flipped on to its roof, careering dramatically down the road, sparks flying until it pounded into another car, bounced off it and came to a crunching stop, spinning like a top on its roof and blocking the road in both directions, just on the Accrington side of a canal bridge.

Henry stopped in the middle of the road twenty metres short of the BMW, flicked on all the Astra’s emergency lights. He and the constable bundled out of the car and trotted to the scene, the constable — efficient as ever — radioing through that they were off at the scene. Iqbal stayed in the Astra, still clutching the seat belt.

The BMW had stopped spinning at ninety degrees to the road. It was a scrunched up mess. The roof was battered down, had damage all around it. Henry thought the driver would have been lucky to survive this in one piece as he reached the car and bent to peer inside, expecting blood and brains and broken bits of body everywhere.

‘Shit!’ he breathed.

The car was empty.

Henry stood up, looking around, and worked out how the car had arrived at its current location, amazed that, following such a crash, the driver had managed to crawl out and leg it.

‘Where the …?’ he started to say.

‘What, boss?’ the constable said, then took a look. ‘Christ, he’s got out!’

‘He’s gone down there,’ came a voice, which made both officers look up to a bedroom window of a roadside terraced house. It was a middle-aged woman, clutching a dressing gown around her bosom, leaning out and pointing. ‘Canal,’ she added helpfully.

Henry gave her the thumbs-up. ‘I’ll have a quick look-see and if I don’t spot him, we’ll get a dog handler down here. You look after the scene.’ Without waiting for a response, the charged-up Henry Christie trotted to the canal bridge, then cut down a steep set of steps which led on to the canal towpath. It was the Leeds-Liverpool canal, meandering through the once heavily industrialized towns of East Lancashire. As he reached the towpath, he seemed to immediately enter a more serene world, even though he was only a matter of metres away from a main road and maybe a couple of hundred from the M65 motorway.

In the fast clearing dawn light, and even the misty rain, the canal looked wonderful, very peaceful. Two moorhens squawked off as his heavy boots landed, flapping away and launching themselves into the reeds on the opposite bank.

He stopped, listened to the silence, the sound of traffic merely a vague drone.

To his right was the canal bridge, over which the main road ran, and to his left the canal threaded its way towards Accrington. He walked in this direction for a few metres.

There was no sign of anyone.

He tutted as he realized this was definitely a job for a dog. If he started to search by himself, he would either cock things up for the dog or just waste his time. With reluctance he decided to take a step back and let the experts get on with their jobs when they arrived. And anyway, the search would need armed backup if the suspect was indeed one of the terrorists.

He took one last look and his eyes caught something in the darkness under the arch of the bridge. A shape on the floor in the shadow. The hairs on his neck prickled. He did not move, but allowed his eyes to adjust properly.

It was the shape of a body. Someone trying to hide?

His steps were slow and quiet until he was sure what he was seeing, then he did not hesitate, but ran and crouched down beside the body of a male lying face down, spread-eagled, in a dirty puddle of blood and rainwater.

9 a.m.: Henry Christie, feeling grimy and dishevelled, still dressed in the overalls and boots he had worn all night, sat glumly on a chair in the office occupied by the chief constable’s staff officer and other associated staff. He was leaning forwards, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the floor, trying to keep his grit-filled eyes open. He stifled a big yawn, which took some doing and almost broke his jaw, sat up and rubbed his weary face, taking in a deep, slow breath. His eyes flickered around the room. All the desks were occupied: two secretaries, the deputy chief constable’s staff officer and Chief Inspector Laker, the chief’s bag-carrier, last seen by Henry several months before when Henry had been demanding to have an audience with FB. He was pretty sure Laker had not forgiven him for that day, but to be honest, he didn’t give a monkey’s something.

He swallowed. God, his throat was dry. He smiled in the direction of the chief’s secretary, a young lady by the name of Erica, in an effort to catch her eye. She was engrossed in word processing. Henry coughed. ‘Excuse me, any chance of a cup of coffee?’ As there was a kettle, milk and a jar of instant coffee on a table behind her, Henry assumed there was every chance.