danger. Here, she laid it all on the line, laid it on thick that Hinksman was a killer out of the top drawer, who knew how to kill well, had been trained to do it efficiently and probably enjoyed it too.
They got the message.
‘ Do you have any further questions?’ she asked as she packed her notes together.
The team leader, Sergeant Macintosh, a well-built officer over six feet tall, who looked as if he would take no messing from anyone, asked: ‘Where has the information about the hotel-keeper come from?’
Karen looked at Donaldson.
He coughed and replied, ‘From a reputable Mafia source in Florida — a man who’s presently serving time.’
‘ And how much do we know about this Paglia fellow?’
‘ Very little, other than he’s been in this country for thirty years, generally in the hotel or restaurant trade. He’s got a family connection with a Mafia boss we’re currently investigating — and family connections mean a lot to these people. It would appear that over the years he’s given refuge to many Mafia members en route from either Italy or the States.’
‘ So what do you think, Sarge?’ Karen asked.
‘ Ideally, I’d like to seal off the whole area, evacuate the surrounding buildings and then go in, preferably with a floorplan of the hotel… I mean, we don’t know how many other guests there are, how many staff, even if our man is there.’
‘ I know, it’s a far from ideal situation,’ agreed Karen, ‘but we need to move quickly and get to him before he’s alerted.’
Macintosh nodded and pursed his lips. He consulted a large-scale map of the relevant area of Blackpool. Everyone in the room had a copy.
‘ In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll back and front the place. I’ll send a couple to the rear of the premises and, once they’re in place, we’ll hit the front and take it from there.’
‘ I’ll leave it up to you, Sarge. You’re the pro.’
‘ Thanks,’ he said with a trace of irony. ‘OK guys and gals, let’s move.’
The firearms team were parked up three streets away in their ‘battle-bus’: an armoured personnel carrier with one-way bulletproof windows which enabled occupants to see out but no one else to see in, giving the vehicle a sinister appearance.
Karen’s car drew up behind.
In the back seat Donaldson and McClure were poring over one of the street maps, muttering to each other.
Over her shoulder, Karen said, ‘What the hell are you two prattling on about?’
‘ Prattling?’ asked Donaldson. ‘Prattling? A peculiarly English term, is it?’
Karen managed her first smile in several hours.
‘ We’ve been trying to think like Hinksman,’ said McClure. ‘He’s hardly likely to park his car outside the hotel, so we were just wondering where it might be — if he’s still got the same hire car, that is.’
‘ I think we’ll have a mosey through the highways and byways in this area,’ said Donaldson, circling an area of the map with his finger, tilting it so that Karen could see. ‘It’s near enough to be in walking distance, but far enough away… if you know what I mean?’
‘ Mosey? What the hell is mosey?’ she said with another grin. ‘It’s a long shot,’ she added dryly.
‘ It’ll give us something to do while the boys and girls are playing Cowboys and Indians,’ said Donaldson.
The side door of the battle-bus opened. The team disembarked.
They were all tooled up to the back teeth.
‘ They look like a SWAT squad,’ remarked Donaldson. ‘And I thought England was s — o-o-o backward.’
On a word from Macintosh they sprinted away. The team leader gave Karen a quick thumbs-up and followed.
The operation was underway.
Karen’s stomach churned over. The colour seeped from her face as she thought, What have I done?
‘ We’ll keep monitoring the radio,’ McClure said, pocketing a personal radio which was tuned into the secure channel being used by the team. He patted the snub-nosed revolver at his side, arranged his jacket to cover it smoothly and climbed out of the car.
Before joining him, Donaldson leaned forwards and laid a reassuring hand on Karen’s shoulder. He knew she was worried about the operation and troubled about something else, but he didn’t know what. ‘Relax, it’ll be OK,’ he told her.
She nodded numbly. ‘Yeah, sure it will’
Events were now out of her hands. All she could do was wait. And wait. And wait.
The two detectives confined their search to a small cluster of roads, back streets and alleyways about 200 metres in a direct line from the hotel. McClure had the PR in his pocket turned up loud enough for them both to be able to hear what was going on. It remained eerily silent for quite a number of minutes as the firearms team moved into position using verbal and visual signals only.
In the first few roads they checked there was no sign of Hinksman’s car. They didn’t really expect to find it.
As they turned into another street there was a brief transmission on the radio.
‘ Alpha in position.’
‘ Roger Alpha,’ they heard Macintosh reply. ‘We’re at the front door now.’
McClure nodded at Donaldson, who said, ‘Knock, knock,’ in his best John Wayne drawl.
‘ Sierra — we’re in through the front door. No opposition.’
They were inside. It was rolling.
Everything went dead again. For ever, it seemed.
Two things then happened almost simultaneously.
McClure and Donaldson walked into a quiet side street. And there it was: Hinksman’s car.
‘ Bingo,’ gloated McClure.
And the radio went berserk.
‘ Civilian down, civilian down. Head wounds, looks bad.’
‘ Sierra to Alpha, Sierra to Alpha — take care at the back, he may be coming. Get ready.’
‘ Alpha received.’
They heard Karen interrupt. ‘Superintendent Wilde — situation report, please.’ She sounded wound-up.
‘ Sierra to Superintendent,’ Macintosh began, then was cut off.
‘ Shit, I wonder what’s happening,’ gasped McClure.
‘ Don’t sound good,’ commented Donaldson.
Macintosh’s transmission was cut into: ‘Basement door opening.’ It was a calm, clear message. A woman’s voice. ‘Someone’s coming out.’
McClure and Donaldson looked at each other, neither caring to speak.
A moment’s silence descended on the radio. Then a male voice screamed, ‘It’s him, it’s him.’
A transmission carrier must have stuck down then. There was the sound of footsteps running. Breathlessness. Rustling of clothing. A shout: ‘Armed police. Stop and drop your weapon. I said throw down your weapon!’ Panic rising in the voice. A gun shot. A heavy, rushing noise. A groan. More footsteps. Panting. Rustling. Then: ‘Officer down! Assistance, assistance…’ This was the female voice again. Another sharp crack, like a whip, very loud, distorted, as though next to the microphone: a gun shot close up. Then silence. Again.
‘ Fuck!’ uttered McClure. ‘What’re we going to do?’
‘ Sit tight,’ said Donaldson firmly.
The radio traffic started again. ‘Charlie One, in pursuit on foot.’ It was another female voice. The message became garbled. More panting. More running.
‘ He’s gotta be making for here,’ said Donaldson. ‘Gotta be, c’mon.’ The radio crashed to silence once more.
