would keep his lights off and drive blind. He knew that a good long stretch of the M61 was unlit and this would be to his advantage. Even with the helicopter and its searchlight up above.
He hardly reduced his speed on the approach to the first roundabout which forms Junction 31, keeping in as straight a line as possible on the wide, newly constructed road. He raced underneath the M6 bridge, with the River Ribble to his left, negotiated the second roundabout and picked up the M6 south.
He was feeling pretty confident when he came off the slip road and entered the motorway proper, easily overtaking the police Range Rover which was lying in wait for him.
Henry switched on his headlights, hardly expecting them to work. He was mildly surprised when both lit up, even the offside one which had been damaged in the collision. It shone at a very acute upwards angle, lighting up the spare wheel on the back door of the Range Rover.
‘ Handy if the Luftwaffe appears,’ Seymour said.
They both started giggling again.
Each had settled into the pursuit now and were enjoying it, in spite of its dangers and the obvious lunatic they were after.
The traffic car behind Henry now flexed its muscles, pulled out, easily overtook him and cruised alongside Dundaven.
Silly manoeuvre.
Or as Seymour put it, ‘The stupid prat.’
He was not wrong.
Dundaven looked sharply to his right, mouthed something down at the officers, yanked his steering wheel and barged into the side of the traffic car. The driver fought for control but spun spectacularly away, bounced off the central reservation barrier and the car flipped onto its roof. It continued to spin like a top until a car speeding down the outside lane, driven by an unsuspecting member of the public, smashed into it. Then another.
Dundaven in the Range Rover, Henry in the CID car, left this twisted chaos behind.
Seymour peered back but had difficulty making out exactly what had happened in the deepening gloom. He swore grimly and faced front again.
Henry grabbed the PR and shouted, ‘No one is to try and pull this vehicle again. No one! Relay that to all patrols.’
From up in the sky the searchlight which hung on to the underside of the helicopter came on. For good reason the light was known as the ‘Nightsun’. It emitted a light equivalent to 30 million candle-power. The whole light was fully remote, controlled from within the cockpit of the helicopter, and the beam width could be focused tightly onto a target. Which it was on the vehicle below.
The pursuit came off the M6 at the next exit, straight onto the M61, no slowing down necessary.
Dundaven increased his speed. Within moments the big vehicle was touching 115 m.p.h., courtesy of its 4.6- litre engine.
By contrast, Henry’s car started to flag. The engine, less than half the size and ten times as worn, tried valiantly, but had extreme difficulty keeping around the 100 m.p.h. mark.
Dundaven hared easily away. The gap increased with each second. There was no escaping the helicopter, however, which had a cruise speed of 125 m.p.h.
Seymour confirmed their position to Control Room, and that he believed their ultimate destination could well be Greater Manchester.
He asked for their patrols to be alerted.
‘ Unless we get him stopped on the motorway, we’ll lose him,’ Henry concluded. ‘Here, give me the radio again. Perhaps there is something we can do.’
A traffic patrol officer called Sharp sat behind the steering wheel of his pride and joy: a brand new Volvo estate car, kitted out in the new orange, blue and white livery of the Lancashire Police.
He was parked on Anderton Services on the M61, literally only metres from the boundary with Manchester and about six miles south from the current position of the chase which was less than five minutes away from him.
His call sign came up and the Control Room operator asked him a question to which he replied, ‘Yes, one on board.’
He was given authority to use it.
It was his lucky night.
He drove quickly down to the bottom of the services exit road and stopped on the hard shoulder. He turned on every light his car possessed so no one would fail to see him. He scurried around to the tailgate of the Volvo, opened it and pulled out his new piece of kit.
He was shaking with nervous anticipation.
History in the making.
The first officer in Lancashire to use ‘The Stinger’.
Dundaven drove hard down the motorway, leapfrogging as necessary. Overtaking on the inside or hard shoulder. Followed all the while by that fucking helicopter.
Resting on his knee was the shotgun.
Holding the steering wheel with his right hand and left knee, he deftly broke the weapon with his free hand. The remnants of the two cartridges which had killed McCrory were expelled. Without letting the speed drop, he reached back between the seats and felt under the blanket where the shotguns had been secreted originally. He found a box of cartridges and dumped them out onto the bloodstained passenger seat. He skilfully slotted two into the empty barrels and closed the weapon.
Once loaded, he transferred the steering to his left hand, the shotgun to his right. Then he attempted to do what he always did to people or things which annoyed him.
He leaned out of the window, braced himself against the doorframe, aimed as best he could and wrapped his forefinger around the double triggers.
This was happening as he sped past Anderton Services.
He hardly noticed the place really; vaguely saw the police car with its lights ablaze and thought he might have seen the figure of a cop standing by the car. But that was all. What he was bothered about was getting a good shot at the helicopter.
The Hollow Spike Tyre Deflation System is its technical name. Better known as ‘The Stinger’, it consists of a lightweight plastic frame with metal spikes protruding from it and is designed, in manufacturer’s parlance, ‘to safely resolve pursuit situations’. By rolling out the frame like a red carpet across the path of a vehicle, the hollow spikes imbed themselves in one or more of the tyres. Gradual deflation and subsequent loss of speed follow. That’s the theory.
The Stinger had been used in several police forces with a good deal of success, though vehicles had been known not to pick up spikes in their tyres. Lancashire had eventually bought a large number of the systems.
This was the first time one had been deployed.
Sharp was ecstatic as he watched the fleeing Range Rover bump over it. He yanked it back in and bundled it into the back of the Volvo.
Had it done the trick, was the next question.
Dundaven fired both barrels upwards, remembering to keep hold of the weapon. At the same time he felt a dull ‘thu-dud’ when the wheels went over something in the carriageway. A hump or something. Maybe raised tarmac over a repair. Nothing really.
The observer in the helicopter saw Dundaven’s head and right shoulder leaning out of the window and the shotgun aimed at them. He informed the pilot and both of them said, ‘What a wanker he must be if he thinks he’s going to even come close.’ They stayed exactly where they were on station above him.
He missed completely, all of the shot eventually falling harmlessly away.
‘ That’ll show the fuckers,’ Dundaven said with satisfaction.
