Barlow was a bigger man than Rik, who was quite small in stature, and he followed up the blow by pushing Rik into Bill then tearing down the corridor.
‘Get him,’ Rik said.
Bill was no spring chicken. In fact he was stoutly built and getting on a little, but being a firearms trainer meant he was very fit in a lots-of-stamina way, though not especially fleet of foot.
He also heaved Rik out of the way and charged after Barlow, who careened down the corridor, turning sharp left at the end of it.
Bill pounded after him but by the time he reached the turn, Barlow had vanished. But Bill knew he hadn’t been that far behind, so Barlow must have gone into one of the doors on this stretch.
First was a store room. Locked. Next was a ladies’ loo. There was slight hesitation on Bill’s part, but he opened the door an inch and called, ‘I’m coming in!’
He opened the door fully. Directly opposite the door was a bank of three washbasins and at one of them was one of the lady support-staff members who had just walked down the corridor. She had her back to the basins and a very confused look on her face.
Bill twisted to his left where there were three toilet cubicles, two doors slightly ajar, the third closed.
‘Is he in there?’ Bill demanded. The woman’s mouth popped like a goldfish. But nothing came out of it. Bill cursed.
He couldn’t even check by looking under the door because these were fully enclosed cubicles, offering complete privacy, so he had a decision to make he hoped he would not regret.
He stepped across and pounded on the closed door. ‘Mr Barlow.’
There was no response.
If there had been an indisposed female in there, Bill would have expected some response — probably a scream.
He pushed the door: locked. So he took a couple of backward paces, picked his spot, prayed there wasn’t a lady on the loo, and flat-footed the door by the flimsy lock.
Bill had kicked down many doors in his service. He practised it regularly on team training.
And this one was no problem. It clattered open, slamming back and connecting with Ralph Barlow’s back as he knelt in front of the toilet, fumbling with something and reaching for the flush.
Bill grabbed him just as his fingers touched the handle, dragged him by his collar out of the cubicle and deposited him at the feet of the still-shocked woman. The component parts of Barlow’s mobile phone came out of his hand and scattered across the tiled floor, front, back and battery.
Rik Dean came in just as Bill was heaving Barlow over onto his front and forcing his arms behind his back.
‘Trying to flush the evidence away,’ Bill gasped. ‘SIM card, I think.’
Rik saw the pieces of the dismembered phone. ‘Did he manage?’
‘Don’t think so. That one,’ Bill said, pointing into the cubicle.
Rik tutted, stepped over Barlow’s legs into the cubicle. He was holding his face, throbbing from Barlow’s punch. He squatted down and peered into the toilet bowl, which was fortunately filled with clean water, but could not see the SIM card.
Only one thing for it.
He unfastened his shirt cuff and pulled up his sleeve, then reached into the water, gently feeling along the porcelain U-bend with his fingertips, hoping he wouldn’t find anything other than a SIM card.
He touched something, small, rectangular, placed a fingertip on it and drew it carefully backwards all the way out of the water, then took it between his thumb and forefinger and thought, ‘Thank God you were right about this one, Henry Christie.’
Henry had known Robert Fanshaw-Bayley — FB — for almost thirty years now, having first encountered him in the very early 1980s when Henry was a uniformed PC in Rossendale, far to the east of the county of Lancashire. At that time FB was the local DI, ruling the roost like some sort of malicious demigod. Their relationship over the intervening years had been rocky, to say the least, but had survived many ups and downs.
Although he was now chief constable (and had reached the year of his obligatory retirement) FB had the word ‘Jack’ written through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. He had been a detective for most of his service, a good, if ruthless one — and like most cops of rank, still loved to ‘go out playing’ on the front line now and again.
Hence his decision to accompany Henry that day.
And now they were parked in the village of Slyne in the constabulary pool vehicle Henry had managed to coerce from the transport department, near the gates of Sunderland Transport. It was a rather beaten-up Vauxhall Vectra and when he picked it up he was warned to check the oil level because it burned the black stuff like an old steam train. FB sat alongside him.
Henry said, ‘Right, thanks,’ into his mobile phone and ended the call, then glanced at FB as he slid the phone back into his pocket. He pursed his lips and said, ‘It’s happening, boss, the call’s being made now.’
‘Let’s roll, then.’
A few minutes earlier, Steve Flynn, in Alison’s car, had pretended to do a mistaken turn into the car park at Sunderland Transport and had clocked that Sunderland’s Aston Martin was parked up in its usual position.
Flynn was here because Henry had decided to tell him what was going on and asked him along — in a purely observational capacity — to witness events unfold if he so wished. Although Flynn had only just opened up the chandlery, he could not resist and joined Henry in Slyne, where they worked out their not very complicated plan, including Flynn’s accidental turn around in Sunderland Transport to check out the lay of the land.
After he’d clocked the Aston, Flynn had parked discreetly behind Henry and settled down to see what transpired. He knew he should have been at the shop, but, having been nearly killed on more occasions in the last couple of days than almost all the time he’d been a commando in the Falklands war, he did not want to miss anything. And he promised Henry he would just watch, not get involved, even if Henry was getting his head kicked in.
As Henry pulled away from the kerb with FB, Flynn dearly wished it was himself in the passenger seat. Having left the force under an undeserved cloud he felt he had a lot of unfinished business. He had loved being a cop and still hankered for it and would gladly have forgone his life in Gran Canaria to still be one.
But it was not to be. Life had moved on. He allowed Alison’s car to roll forward a few feet and take up the space the Vectra had occupied. He watched Henry turn into the gates.
Henry instantly saw the Aston. He drove into one of the visitors’ parking bays and he and FB climbed out. They walked side by side into reception.
Harry Sunderland was behind the desk, tugging his jacket on hurriedly, explaining something to Miranda, the receptionist. He glanced up as Henry entered through the revolving doors, followed by FB. He did a double-take and his expression changed to that of the rabbit in the headlights, about to be mown flat. But it was only momentary — because he bolted out of the headlight beam and sprinted to a fire door behind reception, crashing through it, emerging at the side of the office building, skidding towards the car park.
Henry went after him. He vaulted the reception desk, virtually flying past the bewildered Miranda, who screamed and covered her head. Henry had slightly misjudged the width of the desk and had to scramble untidily off the far side, but he was not far behind Sunderland, who had slammed the fire door shut behind him.
FB did not run. He calmly did an about-turn and stepped into the revolving door.
Sunderland ran hard towards his car, fumbling for the keys and desperately trying to use the remote control to unlock it.
Henry was held back only seconds by the door, then he was through, only feet behind Sunderland, who reached his Aston and wrenched open the driver’s door. As he swung himself in, Henry caught up and manhandled him back out just as FB joined them.
‘What the fuck’re you playing at?’ Sunderland demanded, as Henry, relishing it, spun him and splayed him across the expensive bonnet of the magnificent sports car. He pinned him there, leant over and spoke into the man’s ear.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Henry growled as he fought to get the man’s arms behind his back to apply the rigid cuffs.
‘What for? I’ve done fuck all.’
