She wondered if he actually wanted to see her again. She knew for sure she wanted to see him.
By 9 a.m. the prison escort was already on the M6, travelling north, passing the Preston exit, the helicopter overhead all the time, watchful like a kestrel.
On the opposite carriageway was the site where Hinksman’s car bomb had exploded; now repaired, the road surface bore no sign of the devastation of that day.
High up on the grass banking though, someone had erected a stone cross which was surrounded by bunches of flowers of remembrance to the people who had lost their lives. Motorists often stopped illegally and dashed from their cars up the grass to drop off wreaths or bouquets. The motorway police turned a blind eye to this practice.
The escort was moving at a good pace.
At its centre was the ‘prison bus’ — a Leyland Sherpa personnel carrier with a 3.5-litre engine, easily capable of sustaining 90 mph, as it was doing that morning. The inside of the van, behind the front seats, was an inbuilt cage made of steel. Inside this sat Hinksman and two police officers. He was handcuffed. The officers were unarmed. He had not spoken during the journey so far, but had been compliant.
At the very rear of the van there was a space between the end of the holding cage and the back doors, in which a bench seat had been installed. Two armed officers sat there, one having the key to the door.
There were two people up front, driver and passenger.
Four other vehicles formed the escort. All high-powered, unmarked police cars, but fitted with blue flashing lights set into their front grilles and blue lights on the rear window ledges.
Two were at the front of the Sherpa, two at the rear.
They literally forced their way through the traffic, while at the same time preventing any other vehicle from passing by ruthlessly blocking any overtaking manoeuvre — just on the off-chance it might be a hostile act. It was textbook security escort driving and these officers had it off to perfection.
Two hundred metres behind the escort was a Mercedes saloon car being driven by Lenny Dakin. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a voice-activated tape-recorder. He spoke continually into the machine, recording his thoughts and observations all the while.
This was a recce run to see how it was all handled by the cops.
It worried him. They were good. Very professional, taking it all very seriously indeed. ‘Shit,’ he swore into the tape, not for the first time.
He realised he had a hell of a task ahead of him and that he hadn’t yet formulated an action plan to carry it out. And there would only be one chance after this morning.
They were now north of the Blackpool turn-off.
Suddenly the escort veered sharply out towards the fast lane, from the middle lane which it had been hogging.
A second later Dakin saw the reason why: some fool in a clapped-out motor had been day dreaming and forgotten to look in his mirrors. Without warning he had pulled out into the middle lane from the slow lane, causing all manner of chaos.
No accident happened.
The man in the car panicked when he realised the problem and swerved back into the slow lane. Within a matter of seconds the escort was past him.
A few moments later Dakin passed him too.
Dakin stayed with the escort all the way. It wasn’t difficult to be inconspicuous as there was a fairly substantial build-up of traffic behind the police cars and being part of it drew no attention to him. They came off at Junction 33, south of Lancaster.
From here they headed north up the A6, through the small town of Galgate, past the university and into Lancaster itself. Obviously warned by radio, the cops in Lancaster had ensured that all traffic was running in favour of the escort. They sailed through town and up to the castle where the prison doors were opened and the prison bus drove in.
Hinksman had been delivered with only the whisper of a hitch And Lenny Dakin had decided how he was going to get him out.
Henry Christie swore out loud as he looked in his rearview mirror and realised what he’d done. Lost in his thoughts, he’d allowed his Metro to drift unexpectedly across to the middle lane; the ear-shattering sound of sirens confirmed he’d landed slap-bang in front of a police escort which was conveying a prisoner and didn’t intend to take any more.
He yanked his steering wheel down to the left and waved an embarrassed apology as the escort sped past him. The cop in the front passenger seat of the Sherpa indicated to Henry that he thought he was a dickhead. Henry didn’t really disagree.
He looked into the rear of the Sherpa, but the smoked side windows prevented him from seeing anything other than vague, indistinct shadows inside. But he knew it was Hinksman. He was glad to see they weren’t taking any chances with the bastard.
When settled back into the slow lane, he tried to concentrate more so as not to be a danger to other road- users.
He failed to spot Lenny Dakin’s Merc sigh past him.
Henry’s mind gradually returned to his previous thoughts, but this time he managed to keep his car on track.
He tried to pinpoint where it had all begun to go wrong, but couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. It was all too recent for him to dissect it analytically, though he often tried.
There was one thing for certain — he had made a complete fuck-up of his personal life and career, and they were both presently in one tangled, horrible mess that even Ariadne herself couldn’t have unravelled.
On that first night of the murder enquiry he’d gone to Natalie’s and ended up staying over. When her alarm had gone off at seven, he’d dashed home for a quick wash and a change of clothes, and given an open-mouthed Kate some lame excuse which she obviously didn’t believe.
He had lied to her. Maybe that was the real start of it all. With a lie to someone he’d never lied to before.
From that point his home-life began to crack.
Lie followed lie, deceit followed deception, until his head was spinning and his emotions were in such a turmoil he might as well have had his head in a spin-drier.
Yet lying became easy. The words tripped glibly off his tongue, and it all seemed so straightforward. In the space of several days he was’ convinced he’d fallen in love with a young woman he hardly knew, other than carnally. And he’d fallen out of love with his wife whom he’d known since school and always regarded as his friend, confidante and lover.
The children became a dead weight around his shoulders. He had no time for them at all and they began to suffer too. They avoided him if at all possible.
He eventually began to hate going home.
Everything that was so familiar to him became despised.
He was in love with Natalie. A new woman in his life. A new impetus. And she loved him, her hero, wanted him, needed him, wanted to be his wife.
The sex was brilliant, like no other he’d ever experienced. He was swimming in a sea of sensuality with Natalie, caught up in a tide, drowning. They couldn’t get enough of each other. Every time they looked at each other they wanted to fuck. It overpowered him. Drove him.
He began to use the murder enquiry as an excuse for not going home. He was genuinely working long hours, but could have got home every night if he wished. He didn’t wish. Often he would book into a motel in the east of the county and Natalie would come across and stay the night with him.
It all felt so right. At least he made himself believe it did.
He didn’t give Kate and the kids a second thought. They simply became unimportant to him as he began to lose his sense of values and judgement.
His judgement went on the back-burner at work, too.
