He was thinking quickly, weighing up the odds which were shortening against them. McCrory was a liability. If they did get caught, he would definitely talk till the cows came home. Though he didn’t know much, he knew a little and the cops could follow up on it. Dundaven made a decision.
The shotgun McCrory had used on the police car was at McCrory’s feet where he’d dropped it in disgust. Dundaven pointed at it. ‘Put two more shells in that and hand it to me.’
Without enthusiasm, the other man picked the weapon up. His fingers were shaking as he did what he was told.
‘ What you gonna do with it?’ he asked and placed it into Dundaven’s beckoning left hand.
‘ Open yer door just a crack an’ I’ll show ya.’
‘ Eh?’
‘ Just fekin do it!’
McCrory pulled back the handle. The door was unlocked and slightly open.
‘ This is what I’m gonna do.’
He put the weapon to McCrory’s head and pulled both triggers. This time when the gun recoiled he made sure he kept tight hold of it.
McCrory was catapulted out the side door.
By the time the chase hit the outskirts of Preston, Henry had been joined by a traffic car and the force helicopter. Other police vehicles in the area were converging.
The Control Room at force headquarters had taken over all communications. Their first instructions to Henry were that he should withdraw from the pursuit immediately and let the traffic car take up the following position.
It was one of those radio transmissions that, for some reason, Henry did not quite receive. This was one he was not going to give up. He’d face the consequences later.
He managed to stay in sight of the Range Rover as it bobbed and weaved through traffic. His own driving was more restrained and careful… but not by much.
They were about fifty metres behind, with nothing between them, when the passenger door opened and the body of a man seemed to leap out of the vehicle.
It corkscrewed out, appeared to stick gruesomely to the side of the Range Rover for an instant before suddenly losing grip, flopping onto the ground and bouncing into the road in front of Henry.
‘ Jesus, look out!’ bellowed Seymour, losing his composure for the first time.
Henry’s reactions had now become fine-tuned. He had a micro-second to react and steered brilliantly around the body, his car lurching madly on two wheels, close to overturning. The body continued to roll and bounce along behind them. The driver of the traffic car didn’t have a chance in hell of missing it. He did well, but ran over it with all four wheels.
Henry saw it happen in his rearview mirror. He cringed as he experienced the impact by proxy and watched as the front wheels of the traffic car, then the rear, went over the legs and lower abdomen of the poor unfortunate man.
The traffic car braked and stopped.
‘ One down, one to go,’ muttered Seymour. He shifted in his seat and made himself comfortable whilst holding a blood-sodden handkerchief to the cut on his head.
It looked like being a long one.
Dundaven’s dilemma was now which route to take. He needed to get back to Manchester if at all possible. If he could get onto the estates in Salford he knew he could shake the cops, helicopter included.
But Salford was thirty miles away.
The most direct route was to head to the M6 at Junction 31, then onto the M61. Once on the motorway his options became limited. The police, if they could get enough vehicles together, could box him in, slow him down, make things very difficult. Not that he intended to stop. Ever. Whatever the situation he would keep on going… but on the motorway, the cops would have the upper hand.
The other choice was to head into East Lancashire, which he also knew well, being the area where he operated. Blackburn, maybe. It was a big enough town where he could probably abandon the Range Rover and go to ground. Then he’d have to face the consequences from Conroy. Definitely not appealing. He’d rather be arrested.
He was quickly running out of options.
Whichever he chose, he knew that if he continued to drive like an idiot, refuse to stop, maybe ram a few more cop cars, and wave the shotgun about, all they would do was follow him at a safe distance. That was their policy. They didn’t like getting people hurt. It tarnished their image.
He needed to make a decision quickly.
He was travelling down the steep hill, Brockholes Brow, away from Preston towards motorway Junction 31.
In his rearview he saw the crunched-up front end of the police car he had rammed on the forecourt, right up there, giving him nothing, pushing him hard.
Seymour had staunched the blood flow from the cut on his head. He dropped his red-drenched hankie on the car floor where it landed with a squelch. He delicately touched the wound again and winced. Blood dribbled out again. He swore and held the sleeve of his jacket over it and pressed.
Henry had drawn up right behind the Range Rover on the steep Brockholes Brow. Only a matter of feet separated them.
Injured though he was, Seymour was full of bright ideas.
‘ If had a pound of sugar,’ he said laconically, ‘I could lean out of the window and put it into his petrol tank. That’d stop him.’ He had noticed the filler cap had not been secured. Petrol had splashed out on a couple of bends.
‘ Just check the glove box,’ Henry said urgently. ‘I think there’s a bag of sugar in there.’
They both cracked up laughing.
‘ I just love chases,’ Seymour said. ‘Such fun.’
Brockholes Brow is a very steep hill about a mile long with a speed restriction of 30 m.p.h. They were touching eighty in their descent, whilst dangerously overtaking, cutting in, braking, accelerating. Only just missing other cars, leaving a trail of chaos behind.
Henry stuck with it all the way, as if he was being towed.
He didn’t hold out much hope of this bastard being stopped by fair means. The man was obviously — and quite rightly — desperate to get away. He’d shot a cop and God knows what’d happened to the passenger. Henry couldn’t begin to comprehend that. It was like a nightmare.
No, he thought. There were only two ways to stop this guy: if he ran out of petrol, or if the police employed foul means.
Another traffic car joined in behind Henry. There was one positioned at the foot of the hill, ready to pull out in front of the speeding Range Rover.
As the tons of hurtling machinery hit the flat, the driver of that waiting police car saw what was coming. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He wanted to get home for tea, so he sat there and let them all fly past. He tagged on behind.
The pursuit was taking on the appearance of Death Race 2000.
For a January Sunday in the north-west of England it had been an excellent day. Warm, sunny, still. One of those special winter’s days — but a winter’s day nonetheless.
And daylight does not last long in winter, however good the day has been.
By 4.50 p.m. as the chase approached the motorway, the night was drawing in. quickly.
Street-lights were flickering on. Car headlights had been on for a while.
The darkening day was the reason why, at the last moment, Dundaven chose to take the motorway as a route to freedom. Maybe the cops wouldn’t have it all their own way, he thought. Once he got on the motorway he
