Nick Oldham - Hidden Witness

Instead, Donaldson had to act immediately.

Taking full advantage of the fact that, for the briefest moment in time, the gunman had his back to him, he charged across the room, powering low and hard into him, bowling him over, breaking his grip on Mark’s clothing. The collision sent both of them crashing into the back wall and into a radiator underneath the window.

They fell into an untidy heap, but the man was very fast and strong, and highly trained. Donaldson held him in a massive bear hug, his arms wrapped tightly around him as they hit the wall. But the man managed to unpin his left hand and punch Donaldson hard on the side of the head. It was a blow that, despite travelling only a short distance, connected accurately and powerfully and with great effect. The strike of a man familiar with hand to hand combat. The knuckles smashed like brick into Donaldson’s temple, just above his jaw hinge. A shock wave surged through his brain, sending him sideways, and although he tried hard to keep hold of this extremely dangerous man, his whole body just went loose as the message relay system from brain to function crashed for an instant.

The gunman broke free and rolled away.

Donaldson sagged on to his hands and knees, his eyes watering from the blow, vision blurring.

In a flowing motion, the man contorted back to Donaldson, his gun arcing around.

Just as quickly as they’d deserted him, Donaldson’s senses returned like power being flicked on at a fuse box.

Using his arms as pivots, he spun his legs through ninety degrees and kicked upwards at the man like a break-dancer. His right foot caught the barrel of the gun with such force he could not keep hold of it and it was banged from his grasp.

Donaldson bounded up on to his feet and the two men faced each other, crouching low like wrestlers, both breathing heavily.

The gunman smiled — but Donaldson had no time for that. He knew he was in a fight to the death and had to take the man down without hesitation or conscience. They went for each other, coming together like two stags in a contest that was evenly matched and brutal.

Henry and Bill Robbins reached the front door of the house. Robbins had his MP5 strapped diagonally across his chest from left shoulder to right hip, ready for use. The Glock was in a holster at his hip. He also wore his chequered police firearms baseball cap. Henry, not wanting to feel naked, had grabbed the Taser as a security blanket.

The door was open, led into a wide, tiled, vestibule, then through an inner door into the hallway, facing the central staircase.

As they stepped side by side, Henry on the left of Robbins, through this second door, the two men who had been searching the first floor appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. Their guns came up.

Robbins forced Henry away with a sweep of his left hand, and brought the H amp;K round into a firing position and screamed, ‘Police, drop your weapons.’

The man on the right fired his pistol. Henry jumped to one side, whilst Robbins returned controlled fire with the machine pistol. Two bullets slammed into the man’s chest and he wind-milled backwards, as Robbins’ aim shifted across and he took down the second man with a burst of fire.

It was a ferocious fight. The two men, both large, powerful, hard and determined, came at each other with a fighting style that combined brutal street battling — fists, headbutts, knees to groins, gouging and biting — with more refined, but equally violent, martial arts — chops to the neck with the side of the hand, throws, powerful short blows, thumbs to pressure points. Each man vied for supremacy. They both tired quickly and it would be the one who could just get the slight edge that would be the victor.

Donaldson fought clinically and dispassionately, landing punches, some better than others, taking what the man had to offer and he felt he was coming out on top.

For the men, the fight seemed to go on forever, even though it lasted less than a minute. Donaldson began to feel confident he would win as they clashed and tumbled across the lounge floor, toward the fireplace, but he slipped, his knee gave and the man was on him. He punched Donaldson hard on the side of the head again and the blow caught him perfectly. Everything suddenly gave up as the man pounded Donaldson’s head on the side of the marble hearth.

Suddenly — amazingly — the man screamed, jerked and writhed and no longer held on to Donaldson, who rolled away and back up to his knees.

His opponent had been Tasered by Henry Christie and was having fifty thousand volts of electricity pumped into him through the probes discharged by the gun-like device in Henry’s hands. He was experiencing what was described by the Taser manufacturer as neuromuscular incapacitation. It lasted for only a few seconds, after which he would immediately regain all his functions. This was a fact that Donaldson knew. He waited for the spasms to cease then leapt on the man before he even knew he had recovered, flipped him on to his front and forced both his arms behind his back and yelled, ‘Could do with some cuffs, here, pal.’

Henry went over to him and handed him the pair he’d brought in with him, which Donaldson ratcheted on tight and turned the man back over.

They made eye contact.

‘What the hell, Don, what the hell?’ Donaldson said breathlessly.

‘Had to be done, pal.’

Henry watched the exchange, then turned to Mark Carter who was still crouched by the end of the settee. He rose on unsteady legs and Henry went over to him, said, ‘C’mere pal,’ and drew him tenderly to him and held tight.

‘ You know I won’t have a choice on this one,’ FB said. ‘It’ll be taken completely out of our hands. The IPCC will have a field day with it, as will the press, and we’ll just have to hunker down and take it on the chin.’

‘We have nothing to hide,’ Henry said. ‘It was a fast moving scenario, two people had been murdered and another life was at risk, and from all accounts a third person, the social worker was murdered trying to protect that person. I’ll go with it and take the flak about procedure and processes. It’s not about doing things right, it’s about doing the right thing and I’m happy we did the right thing. My concern is about Bill Robbins at this point. He needs complete protection here.’

‘I have no choice but to suspend him from firearms duties,’ FB said firmly, ‘including the delivery of firearms training and related matters. He won’t even be allowed to pick up a gun until all this has been dealt with.’

‘I know that, he knows and accepts that, but he still needs our support.’

FB nodded. ‘You have my assurance. We’ll be behind him all the way,’ he said without conviction.

‘In the meantime, I’d like to have him transferred on to FMIT, temporarily.’

‘Done.’ FB said without hesitation, surprising Henry with this move, although this was tempered when FB said, ‘I’d been wondering where to dump him.’

Henry breathed out and looked sideways at Karl Donaldson. It was gone midnight, the raging fires of the initial incidents had died down slightly and there was a slight calm in the proceedings. The three men had decamped to the office of the Divisional Chief Superintendent at Blackpool police station, which they had commandeered. They were trying to work out how best to handle the situation. The best idea they could come up with was to tell the truth. FB had taken up a lofty psychological position behind the Chief Super’s desk, separating him from the other two, as though he wanted to distance himself from the mess of three dead bodies in a children’s care home, two of which had been shot by one of his firearms officers. And two other bodies in a terraced house in the town, one of who was a police employee who had possibly been a thief in uniform, living with a known druggy, and had unfortunately stolen the item that got her killed, a mobile phone. There were going to be uncomfortable times ahead for the force.