‘ You know I won’t have a choice on this one,’ FB said. ‘It’ll be taken completely out of our hands. The IPCC will have a field day with it, as will the press, and we’ll just have to hunker down and take it on the chin.’
‘We have nothing to hide,’ Henry said. ‘It was a fast moving scenario, two people had been murdered and another life was at risk, and from all accounts a third person, the social worker was murdered trying to protect that person. I’ll go with it and take the flak about procedure and processes. It’s not about doing things right, it’s about doing the right thing and I’m happy we did the right thing. My concern is about Bill Robbins at this point. He needs complete protection here.’
‘I have no choice but to suspend him from firearms duties,’ FB said firmly, ‘including the delivery of firearms training and related matters. He won’t even be allowed to pick up a gun until all this has been dealt with.’
‘I know that, he knows and accepts that, but he still needs our support.’
FB nodded. ‘You have my assurance. We’ll be behind him all the way,’ he said without conviction.
‘In the meantime, I’d like to have him transferred on to FMIT, temporarily.’
‘Done.’ FB said without hesitation, surprising Henry with this move, although this was tempered when FB said, ‘I’d been wondering where to dump him.’
Henry breathed out and looked sideways at Karl Donaldson. It was gone midnight, the raging fires of the initial incidents had died down slightly and there was a slight calm in the proceedings. The three men had decamped to the office of the Divisional Chief Superintendent at Blackpool police station, which they had commandeered. They were trying to work out how best to handle the situation. The best idea they could come up with was to tell the truth. FB had taken up a lofty psychological position behind the Chief Super’s desk, separating him from the other two, as though he wanted to distance himself from the mess of three dead bodies in a children’s care home, two of which had been shot by one of his firearms officers. And two other bodies in a terraced house in the town, one of who was a police employee who had possibly been a thief in uniform, living with a known druggy, and had unfortunately stolen the item that got her killed, a mobile phone. There were going to be uncomfortable times ahead for the force.
‘And you, Mr Donaldson,’ FB said, turning sardonically to the American. ‘It looks as though your speculation that an FBI hit squad was involved in numerous killings was correct.’
‘It does.’ Donaldson remembered the slightly disbelieving remark FB had made in the earlier briefing Donaldson had started, but not finished, the one rudely interrupted by the fact that the mobile phone signal had been reactivated. However, Donaldson’s reply did not have any hint of triumph in it. He was completely and utterly devastated by what had happened and who was involved.
‘So, you’d better pick up where you left off — and then bring me up to the point as to why two FBI officers have been shot dead by one of my officers, and another one is in custody on suspicion of murder.’
Donaldson stirred uncomfortably, pursed his lips and said, ‘I’ll try my best, sir.’
FB raised his eyebrows. They went up in an inverted U-shape. It was the first time Donaldson had ever called him sir.
Fortunately for Henry, because everything had happened within the confines of Cleveley House, it was a relatively straightforward task, not an easy one though, to control the scene. Two bodies at the top of the stairs, another in the kitchen, one prisoner in the TV lounge, one terrified witness — and lots of resources on the way.
The first job was to keep a calm head and save life and limb, even if it meant compromising any evidence at the scene, but when it became obvious that three people were definitely dead and no one else was about to die, next on the agenda was securing the scene. There were many simultaneous things Henry had to think of.
The living prisoner, once secure, was the first to be dealt with. With his face swelling like a distorted balloon, he had been held firmly down until reinforcements arrived, and then dragged bodily out and thrown head first into the cage in the section van. He’d been thoroughly searched before this, by Henry and a Support Unit officer who’d been one of the first to arrive on the scene.
‘Don’t trust him an inch,’ Donaldson had chirped in as he watched the search. He was exhausted by the exertion of the fight and had stood well back when the uniforms came in, although the prisoner continued to look dangerously at him through his good eye. Once satisfied he’d been searched and everything that needed to be taken off him was, two burly SU officers took him to the van. He hadn’t put up any further resistance, but Donaldson had thought his warning was necessary, considering the prisoner’s background. He had followed the officers out of the house and watched his boss, Don Barber, being hurled into the van.
He tugged Henry to one side. ‘I want to go with him.’
‘What do you mean?’ Henry’s face scrunched up.
‘I want to go in the back with him.’
‘Not a good idea.’ Already Henry was thinking how he would explain a dead body in the back of a police van. He had enough to deal with, without a death in police custody. He knew Donaldson was eminently capable of doing something like that.
‘I won’t touch him.’ Donaldson held up his hands. ‘Honest — and he needs to have someone in with him. Getting out of those cuffs will be a doozy for him if he isn’t supervised. And as well searched as he was, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find more weaponry on him when he gets searched again. He’s ex-special forces.’
‘I’ll need to put someone else in with you.’
‘I need to talk to him, ask him why,’ Donaldson persisted.
‘Someone else has to be in there — and no funny business,’ Henry insisted.
Donaldson nodded. Henry turned to the support unit officer who’d assisted him with the body search. He looked a useful lad and he had already earwigged the conversation. ‘You up for this?’
‘Sure, boss.’
Henry gave Donaldson a meaningful look, then jerked his head to the back of the van, hoping to hell he wouldn’t regret this. ‘Everything off the record between you — and no thumping him.’
‘You have my word.’
The van pulled away. Henry watched it with trepidation, then went back into the house where he found Bill Robbins at the top of the stairs inspecting the two bodies he’d shot. Donaldson had looked at the deceased men, but had been unable to identify them — neither, surprise, surprise, carried any ID — although he pointed to the unmasked face of one of them which was very swollen underneath an eye. Maybe a broken cheekbone from a fight in Malta?
Robbins looked distraught. Only to be expected, Henry thought sympathetically. His mind must be in a dreadful state. Henry was keen to get Robbins off-scene, both for evidential reasons and also to get him into the clutches of his firearms bosses, for a debrief and perhaps the start of the counselling process. ‘Bill, you OK?’
Robbins glanced at Henry, who then found out why his old friend was looking so put out. Not, it transpired, because of the ‘Oh shit, what the hell have I done; what the hell’s going to happen to me and my pension?’ thought. Or the ‘I’m so deeply affected by having killed two people that I’m going to have post-traumatic stress,’ thought either.
Robbins said, ‘All that friggin’ training and it comes to this.’ He pointed disparagingly at the bodies of the two men. ‘I aimed for their chests, their body mass, their hearts. I intended to get two bullets into each of them, but looking at this — pah!’ He threw up his hands in disgust. ‘This one, not too bad. Chest shots, I’d say, one in the heart, the other a lung shot… so, so, but the grouping leaves a lot to be desired. But this one! Jeez — a neck and shoulder shot. What is that? Just plain bad shooting. It’s a wonder he’s still not breathing.’
Henry blinked at him in astonishment. ‘You’re bothered about your aim?’
‘Well it’s what I train for, innit? If I shot like this on the range, I’d suspend myself.’
His eyes were malevolent, yet dead. As he sat back with his cuffed hands uncomfortably behind him, he kept them unwaveringly on Donaldson sitting on the steel bench opposite, virtually knee to knee in the tight confines of the cage. They rolled with the movement of the police van as it slowed, rounded corners and accelerated. The tough-looking constable accompanying them sat tucked in one corner, watching the dangerous prisoner for any sudden moves.
Blood dribbled out of Donaldson’s nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
‘Talk to me off the record. Tell me why, Don. It’s over now and you’ve nothing to lose.’
Don Barber, Donaldson’s boss, tilted back his head on to the cage wall and continued with the intimidating stare. Then his mouth curved into a smile and, as often happens with prisoners caught in the act, he said, ‘Nothing to say and you’ve got it all to prove buddy boy.’
