‘ I said you’re under arrest. Now do what I say, or I’ll shoot you.’
‘ Fuck,’ winced Hinksman as a pain shot up through his leg like a million volts. ‘This is your last chance — three and a half million. And remember, I just saved your life too.’
‘ Perhaps you should’ve killed me when you had the chance.’
‘ Maybe I’ll just have to kill you now.’
He looked for his gun, saw it within reach of his hand.
‘ If you move, I’ll shoot you,’ Henry warned him again. His breathing had become shallow, body tensed up.
‘ No, you won’t. You’re a fuckin’ terrified limey cop with no guts. You don’t shoot people. I’m gonna pick this up and blow your fuckin’ head off. Just watch.’
‘ Don’t make me do it,’ Henry said quickly, doubting whether he could. ‘I can do it… I will do it. Now put your hands on your head!’
‘ Fuck you,’ spat Hinksman. He reached out for the gun.
And Henry shot him.
Chapter Twelve
Donaldson drew up outside Karen’s house, which was in darkness. He switched off the engine, killed the lights and sat there for a while wondering what his reception would be like if he managed to pluck up enough courage to actually go to the door and knock on it.
He had almost made the decision to drive away when he thought, What the hell. He had nothing to lose. It had taken him long enough and a bucket full of sickly charm to get the switchboard operator at headquarters to give him the address, so there was no way he was going to let that go to waste.
Added to that, he desperately needed someone to talk to. He was very much alone in a strange land and the only friend he had, had died in his arms earlier that day.
Plus he thought he was falling in love. And that was a very odd, unsettling feeling — one he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It surprised him because when he’d first met Karen Wilde not very long ago, he’d detested her.
Something fundamental had changed over the course of the day. He’d seen a side of her after the Blackpool shootings that he was certain no one else had. It had touched him deeply. Now he couldn’t get her off his mind no matter how he tried.
He wanted to find out how she felt about him. If there was something there, even the vaguest hint or possibility, he’d decided he would stick by her through this traumatic period and try and make things work out — professionally and personally — despite his living in Florida and she in Lancashire.
Light-headedly, he’d thought, Love will find a way — a thought that confused and disturbed him, but made him giggle at its silliness at the same time.
He checked his watch. 10.45 p.m. Too late? Naah!
He got out of the car.
It’s a nice house, he thought as he strolled up to the front door. I could spend time here. He raised his knuckles, then saw that the door was actually slightly ajar.
He pushed it slowly. It swung open to reveal a darkened hallway. Donaldson tensed up, feeling his skin crawl. Something was wrong.
‘ Karen?’ he called out from the threshold. ‘Karen, it’s me, Karl Donaldson. ‘
There was no answer, just a creeping silence.
Puzzled, slightly worried, he stepped inside and called out again.
No response.
Then he heard a sound from upstairs. A creak, a movement of sorts; a murmur.
Instinctively his right hand slid under his jacket for his gun, which, of course, wasn’t there. He cursed under his breath and went silently up, one stair at a time, pausing on each. On the landing he stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, getting his bearings. He listened hard.
Four doors, all closed, led off the landing. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, he assumed.
Cocking his head to one side, he attempted to pinpoint the source of the noise, which was a cross between a muffled sobbing and retching.
Where was it coming from? Not from behind the first door, nor the second. He crept along to the third. A little sign made of ceramic screwed to the door said Bathroom.
Donaldson hesitated. He had visions of a killer dog, all fangs and saliva, lying in wait for him, hungry for an intruder.
He knocked.
The sound continued.
He turned the handle and eased the door slightly open, prepared to slam it shut if necessary. Inside was complete darkness. He fumbled, found the light switch and pulled the cord. Bright lights from the six spots set in the ceiling lit the room; an extractor fan whirred into life.
Inside was a large corner bath with shower, a bidet, toilet and washbasin.
And the source of the noise.
Karen was curled up into a ball on her knees, her back, bottom and soles of her feet towards the door, squeezed down into the floorspace between toilet and bidet, her face pressed into the carpet. She rocked slowly back and forth like a baby. Her sobs were muffled, but they shook her body with violence each time one erupted. She was completely naked.
‘ Karen?’ Donaldson said. ‘It’s me, Karl Donaldson. What’s up?’
‘ Go away,’ she sobbed into the floor. ‘Go away, Karl. Leave me alone.’
Donaldson swooped down to her level on one knee. He touched her back with trepidation; she shrank away. ‘Karen, what the hell’s the matter?’ He was painfully aware of her nakedness. ‘Come on,’ he cooed. ‘It’s me, Karl. Look at me. Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening. ‘
She rose slowly to her haunches, her hands covering her face. She continued to cry; Donaldson continued to make reassuring noises. Slowly he prised her fingers from her face. His mouth fell open in shock at what he saw.
‘ Christ, Karen, what’s gone on? Come on, tell me.’
She almost choked as she said, ‘I’ve been raped.’
‘ I want a round-the-clock armed guard on this fella until we get him to a police station. In fact, deploy one of the firearms teams to do it; get them to work a rota out between themselves, get them to live here if necessary. Fuck the expense. I’ll authorise it.’
This was said by Fanshaw-Bayley while striding down a corridor at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. It was directed at the Duty Inspector from Blackpool Central police station who had already posted two armed men at the bedside.
‘ And I want them here as of now!’
‘ Yes, sir!’ said the harassed Inspector, who began gabbling instructions down his personal radio.
‘ Now where the hell is he?’ FB interrupted.
‘ Who, sir?’
‘ The killer, you idiot.’
‘ Just down to the end of this corridor, turn left, last door on the left…’
FB increased his pace and left the Inspector standing. He completed his sentence to FB’s back. ‘The one with the two bobbies outside…’ His voice trailed off and he scowled at FB.
As FB reached the door, a doctor emerged from the room. FB introduced himself.
‘ How is he?’ he then asked.
‘ He’ll be OK. He’s got a hairline fracture of the skull — not as serious as it sounds — a broken left tibia, and a certain amount of bone damage to his left foot where your man shot him, but he’ll walk again. Eventually. He’ll need
