His clothing was torn and filthy. And he was waving a gun about.
And he was screaming like a madman.
He was only vaguely aware of the shouts, the music blaring out of the amusement arcades, the cars nose to tail, moving with desperate slowness one-way up the promenade.
Suddenly the man was there. Dead ahead. Unaware that Henry was behind him.
‘ Fuckin’ stop now,’ Henry yelled.
The man either didn’t hear or took no notice.
Henry bellowed again. Still no response.
Quickly he pointed his gun out across the promenade to the Irish Sea and fired a high shot, using the recoil to re-aim at the man. ‘Stop now,’ Henry said.
The man stopped. But in a blur he turned. There was a gun in his hand. A child ran across the gap, pursued by his mother — in the instant that the man fired. She took the bullet intended for Henry and pirouetted into the road on top of her child.
Henry weaved to retain his view. The man ran into the line of traffic and sprinted between the cars crawling up the promenade.
‘ Shit-fuck!’ uttered Henry, aware now, if he wasn’t before, he was in pursuit of a one-man killing machine.
Hinksman had been pleased to the point of smugness by the way things had gone. The information had proved correct, the hit had gone well, he had earned the last part of his money. Now all he had to do was get lost in the crowd, make his way to Manchester, then leave this godforsaken country. He was already thinking about the Great Barrier Reef.
He hadn’t bothered to find out who the goons were beating up. He’d simply eliminated everyone who appeared to be a potential threat — good, sound practice — then taken out Brown, finished the job. Four into the back of the head — a classic professional hit.
Now, as he twisted away into the traffic, he bitterly regretted not shooting the man on the ground. He hadn’t seemed a potential threat, just some half-dead loser. How was he to know the bastard was a cop?
Hinksman rolled spectacularly across the bonnet of a car like a stuntman, much to the surprise of its occupants, and started to put some distance between himself and the cop.
He glanced round. Yes, he was coming.
Hinksman upped his pace, running north along the promenade, between the cars and coaches, zig-zagging, keeping low, constantly checking over his shoulder.
Stubbornly the cop remained there.
To Hinksman’s left were tram-tracks which were laid adjacent and parallel to the road, used by the quaint trams which ran from Blackpool to Fleetwood in the north; on the other side of them was the wide pavement area for pedestrians only, then the railings of the sea wall, then the sea itself. Two hundred metres ahead was the North Pier, jutting out into the night. To his right was the Tower.
Hinksman’s mind raced. He quickly calculated how many bullets he had left in the magazine. He’d fired seven in the alley and one at the cop — the one which had hit the woman. That left him with four. The cop had fired one of his own; Hinksman had registered the fact that the cop’s gun was a six-shot revolver of some sort, so he was one up. If the cop was any good, one bullet could be a major advantage if it came to a confrontation. And Hinksman didn’t like anyone having any advantage over him.
He released the magazine and stuffed it into his waistband, replacing it with one from his back jeans pocket.
Twelve to five. Good odds.
He swivelled from the hip and fired two in the general direction of the cop, knowing he’d miss but be close enough to scare him.
Then he was running again.
At the junction of Talbot Square, the Illuminations traffic had ground to a complete halt at the traffic lights. Hinksman looked behind. The cop was still there, but some distance away, more wary in his pursuit since the warning shots.
Hinksman had reached the point where he had to decide whether or not to carry on northwards or turn inland into town. The latter was a manoeuvre he wasn’t completely happy about as it would give the cop a better target.
Then he had the answer.
In the stationary, nose-to-tail traffic sat a blonde woman in a red, open-top BMW, hood down, gazing at the Illuminations, unaware of Hinksman’s approach.
He came alongside her, stopped by the driver’s door, opened it, and before she could even scream, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her out onto the road where she landed on her backside in a bewildered heap.
‘ Thanks darlin’,’ he said and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, taking possession of the car. He was pleased to find it was an automatic gearbox. Selecting Reverse he put his foot down and rammed into the car behind, a Metro driven by an elderly man.
Hinksman laughed, gave him a wave with the hand holding the gun, and pushed the stick into Drive.
Now, with room to pull out of the line, he virtually stood on the accelerator pedal and yanked the steering wheel to the left.
His plan was to drive across the tram-tracks, onto the pedestrianised area and head up north where he would abandon the car and go to ground.
A perfect plan. Except for one major flaw.
The car accelerated very quickly — it had a fuel-injected 2.5-litre engine. Unfortunately, within moments Hinksman was travelling so fast that there was no earthly chance of avoiding a collision with a south-bound tram which seemed to appear from nowhere, bearing down on him at the stately speed of 10 mph.
He saw it, but could do nothing about it. It was just there. Ten tons of trundling tram. Unmissable.
The front of the car hit the front of the tram head on, and there could only be one winner. The bonnet crumpled with the impact and the tram ploughed the car a further 50 metres down the tracks before the whole mangled mess ground to a screeching, spark-flying halt.
Although Hinksman braced himself against the steering wheel, he couldn’t stop himself head-butting the windscreen. He sat there in the wreckage, dazed for a moment, amazingly still clutching his gun.
Then instinct took over.
He extricated himself from between the seat and the dashboard, feeling severe pain in his left leg. He slid over the side of the car and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He picked himself up and ran — ran like a drunk, staggering from side to side, feet hardly able to keep him upright. Not knowing where he was going, just aware that he needed to get away, despite the pain.
Henry Christie was right behind him, less than 10 metres away. He could see that the man was injured. It was only a matter of time and patience now. There was no speed in him any more. Henry slowed down himself, keeping a safe distance, glad of the opportunity to get his own breath back.
Hinksman weaved on across towards the sea wall. Just before the railings he stumbled, tripped and slumped onto his knees. He remained there for about thirty seconds, wavering. The gun slid out of his grasp and clattered beside him. Eventually he turned himself round and sat down, head in hands.
Henry circled him, gun at the ready, unsure of his next move.
When Hinksman looked up, his mind was clear again, the pain in his leg dreadful.
The cop was standing in front of him, gun pointed at his head. Hinksman chuckled.
‘ You’re under arrest,’ Henry said. His gun quivered nervously. It was the first time he’d ever pointed it at anyone. ‘Put your hands on your head — now.’
Hinksman shook his head. ‘You turn around and walk away,’ he told Henry. ‘And you get two million dollars. That’s a promise.’
‘ Hands on your head,’ Henry said.
‘ Okay, three million. Just think. Three million dollars. What could you do with that, cop?’
