Right, get going, go on, fuck off!’
Henry leapt into the passenger seat and said, ‘Drop me off at the Kentucky — you obviously know where that is.’
Dumbly the officer nodded.
Henry reholstered his gun.
He took a few seconds to marshal his thoughts before getting back on the radio. Then he directed two of the four officers who’d been at the back of the warehouse to make their way into the city centre and start searching. The other two were told to remain at the scene in case Anderson doubled back and also to assist Siobhan with the injured officer. He told the firearms team in the van to drive up to the police station, park their vehicles and begin searching from there. The two officers in the plain car tasked to watch the other route to Anderson’s flat were given a free hand.
Flood the place, that’s what he wanted to do. Flood the place and flush him out — if he was still there.
His mind was racing as he tried to consider all the angles.
The bus station, taxi rank and railway station all needed cover, as did every other way out of the city by foot and car.
He glared at the officer who was driving, but couldn’t find the words to adequately express his emotions. He shook his head, exhaled an exaggerated sigh and kept his mouth shut. The officer concentrated on driving, totally aware he was being appraised by someone who probably wanted to throttle him.
Within two minutes they were at the southern tip of the city, at the top of Penny Street, one of the main shopping thoroughfares. Henry opened his door and as he got out said, ‘You cruise the area and don’t go to the Kentucky or I’ll be sending your P45 to your home address.’
‘ Yes, Sarge,’ said the chastened PC.
Henry stood upright. Blood dribbled down his face into the corner of his mouth. He wiped his sleeve across it. Then, with his hand on the butt of his revolver in the upside-down holster, he walked towards the centre of Lancaster. He moved slowly, pausing occasionally, looking, his eyes never resting.
The town was busy. It was difficult to spot anyone in particular amongst the throng of shoppers. He constantly relayed his position to the other members of the team and they to him.
Time was running out. Five minutes had passed since the incident and each passing second meant that Anderson was less likely to be caught. It was like looking for a needle… Henry tensed up, thinking he had spotted Anderson but no, it was a lookalike. Similar, but not him. Shit. There were so many places he could disappear to.
Henry had reached the junction with Common Garden Street. From this point northwards, Penny Street became a pedestrianised area. On the opposite corner was a branch of Marks amp; Spencer, Kate’s favourite shop. Henry crossed the road, stood next to the shop window and stared down Penny Street into the impenetrable mass of people.
Damn, he cursed. He knew they had lost Anderson, just knew it. Henry’s chance to make a good impression on the NWOCS — and he’d completely ballsed it up. Everything Morton had said he didn’t want to happen, had happened. May not have been his fault personally, but he was the man in charge, the one who would have to answer all the awkward questions. The buck stopped firmly with him.
He glanced into Marks amp; Spencer.
And there he was, lurking behind a rack of sports gear.
They locked eyes.
Henry yanked his gun out of the holster.
Anderson stepped to one side, out of the cover provided by the sports wear. The Uzi was in his hands. He fired at Henry, spraying bullets through the huge sheet of plate glass which separated the two men and made up the store frontage. Henry hurled himself to one side, dropping his weapon as he did so, and the whole window disintegrated spectacularly, like an avalanche, showering him with millions of shards of glass.
He was absolutely covered in the stuff — in his hair, down his shirt, in his pockets.
But he was unhurt.
The shopping had stopped in Penny Street. With screams and shrieks, everyone was running away or taking cover.
Anderson walked confidently towards Henry, Uzi in hand, a look of determination on his face and the intention of wiping out a detective. He lifted the small but deadly weapon and aimed at Henry’s chest.
Henry saw Anderson’s right forefinger curl around the trigger and pull it back. He saw the muzzle flash. Heard the crack and felt the impact on his sternum like a steam hammer. The force of the impact bowled him over and sent him sprawling in the broken glass.
But the bullet didn’t penetrate, just seemed to knock the wind out of him as though he’d been rugby-tackled by six prop forwards.
For a moment he lay there dazed and slightly confused. Then what had happened sank in. He looked up and focused on Anderson.
It had been the last round in Anderson’s magazine, and Henry was still alive because he’d worn the protective vest given to him by Siobhan the day before. In his dreams he gave her a big sloppy kiss.
Anderson had discarded the empty magazine, produced a full one from his coat pocket and was fumbling to slot it in, when he looked up and saw the six foot two, fourteen-stone frame of Henry Christie charging towards him through the space where there had once been a window.
Henry came in low. Anderson swung the empty gun at his head. Henry dodged it skilfully and his left shoulder powered into Anderson’s solar plexus. He drove the wanted man hard backwards into a display of men’s underwear which crashed around them.
The Uzi flew out of Anderson’s grip and clattered away to one side.
The two men rolled and fought in a bed of boxer shorts and Y-fronts.
Anderson’s fist connected with Henry’s lower jaw, stunning him, sending shockwaves around his skull. Henry slumped off, shaking his head, allowing Anderson to get to his feet. He lashed out with his boot at Henry who immediately lunged at his legs to smother the kicks.
He overbalanced Anderson and this time the pair brought down a display of trousers and a mannequin.
They rolled through these, face to face, sometimes eyeball to eyeball, neither one able to get the upper hand. Anderson tried to head-butt Henry, who twisted his face out of the way only to expose his left ear to Anderson’s mouth — who, never one to fight clean — bit into it hard and nasty, worrying it like a terrier, trying to rip it off the side of Henry’s face.
The pain was phenomenal. Henry screamed. With a superhuman effort he wrenched his shredded ear out of Anderson’s mouth and dug him hard in the ribs with a punch from his right fist. Anderson groaned.
The two men separated from each other, both scrambling madly in an effort to be the first one to get to his feet, to gain the advantage.
They made it simultaneously.
Six feet apart.
They stared at each other.
Anderson spat out a gobful of blood and ear onto the prostrate mannequin, which lay there dismembered. He wiped his mouth.
Henry could hardly draw breath. He was acutely aware at that precise moment how out of shape he was and that, maybe, he was getting too old for shit like this. His ear was giving him the most horrendous pain. He had never even contemplated how painful it could be to have someone bite your ear off. He put a hand up to it. Christ! It felt like it was hanging off. The hand came away covered in crimson.
Anderson smiled. He had blood on his teeth. He looked like something from a cheap horror movie, but the worst of it was that this was real life and the blood on the teeth was Henry’s.
Anderson’s right hand went to his left sleeve. Henry had a quick and awful premonition… he was right.
A huge knife slid out of the sleeve.
Henry’s heart sank. The cunt was really well prepared for the worst. It was one of those quasi-military style knives where the handle was actually a knuckle duster and the blade was pretty damned near a scythe.
‘ Give up… Give up now,’ Henry croaked hoarsely between rasping breaths. ‘There’ll be a dozen cops here soon and when they see that thing in your hand they’ll blow you away. You’ll be dead, I promise you, Terry.’
