who would reverse the process when the account got touched. The fact the account was still open should have been a warning beacon to him.
For a few vital moments he was rooted to the spot, unable to make a decision, even though he knew if he remained there he would very quickly end up in a police cell.
He took a chance, pivoted on his heels and headed quickly down Clifton Street towards the Promenade. Once on the sea-front he reckoned he could easily mingle and disappear, maybe into one of the big stores.
Danny spun out the back door of the pub, ran down onto Market Street where she intended to cut across to Clifton Street which was probably less than 100 yards away.
She zigzagged through crowds of people, thankful she had chosen to wear flat-soled shoes that morning. Part of her mind was still annoyed by Benstead who had caused her to spill her drink all over her fairly new suit, one she quite liked and thought she looked pretty good in. The second outfit in the space of a few days ruined. They would cost a fortune to replace.
As she ran she pulled her PR out and turned the volume up high.
Other patrols were responding to the call, all descending on Clifton Street — until Henry Christie’s impatient voice cut across them all with an instruction for the Comms operator: ‘Get a grip on these deployments, will you? Don’t let everyone race to the scene, otherwise we might miss him. Set up some checkpoints a little distance away. Get the Comms Sergeant to get it organised.’
The voice of the Comms Sergeant replied, slightly chastened, ‘Will do, sir.’
Everybody seemed intent on holding Danny up. She had to dance around four kids, who, hands held, were skipping down the street; she skidded dangerously to avoid a woman laden down with a huge load of shopping who appeared from nowhere in her path; and physically rammed a huge, beer-bellied, T-shirted, drunken individual with a Scottish accent who did his level best to catch her.
Without checking for traffic she legged it across Corporation Street and into Clifton Street. She relayed her position to Comms and learned that she was the first officer on the street. Then she juddered to a stop and surveyed the area, fully aware that more often than not, by the time police receive such calls, ten minutes or more could have elapsed. Trent could easily be a quarter of a mile away now, making Henry’s instructions to Comms a matter of common sense.
Her chest rose and fell, her nostrils dilated, as she panted heavily. She wiped the back of her sticky hand across her forehead, drawing several wide-eyed looks from passers-by. She looked like a scarecrow again.
A tingle of apprehension went down her spine as a sixth sense of perception clicked in.
She knew Trent was nearby. Somewhere close by. Hiding.
Trent slammed himself flat against the side of a parked Ford Transit van when he saw Danny appear at the bottom of the street. He recognised her instantly as a member of that bastard conspiracy of individuals who had sent him to prison.
He shuffled along the side of the van until he was in a position to peep around the back of it. From there he could see Danny across the street, speaking into her PR. Trent could hear every word she spoke through his earpiece.
A surge of uncontrollable loathing, almost like a demon in his soul, coursed through his veins at the sight of the smug, arrogant bitch who had played such a pivotal role in consigning him to the torture of the last nine years. Danny Fucking Furness.
His lips drew back into a snarl.
At exactly the same moment these feelings surged through him, he saw a visible change in Danny’s body language. She stood upright, stopped talking into the radio, cocked her head to one side. Suddenly she was ultra- alert, almost as if she knew where he was hiding. Yet he was certain she had not seen him.
Trent froze. Godamnit, she fucking knows I’m here.
Her face turned towards him. Trent pinned himself against the van, desperation rising. His earpiece told him two foot-patrol officers and two double-manned police cars were only literally seconds away. One of the cars was an armed response vehicle.
He would be trapped if he didn’t move now.
The shop he found himself looking at was an estate agent’s.
Her senses alive, fear making every nerve-ending electric, Danny started to walk towards the Transit van parked across the street. She held her PR as if it was a hammer.
He was there. She knew it.
Suddenly he appeared, turned his face fleetingly towards her, and ran into the estate agency.
‘ He’s gone into Lordson’s,’ Danny yelled into her PR. ‘In through the front door of Lordson’s.’
A middle-aged man and his wife browsed in the agency. Two female assistants typed away at their desks behind the counter.
No one even looked at Trent when he came through the door — until he drew the knife from his sleeve and slashed it across the man’s neck as he ran past.
It was a lucky, but well-aimed stroke, slicing the carotid artery. Trent did not wait to see the effect, but leapt over the counter, plunged his knife into the shoulder of one of the women, withdrew it and made for the door at the rear of the shop.
He had torn through the shop in a matter of seconds with the effect of an out-of-control death-star. Behind him he had left a trail of bloody chaos, people screaming, confusion, injury, everyone wondering what the hell had hit them and what they had done to deserve this.
The Staff Only door was flimsy. He crashed through it to find himself in a small kitchen. Beyond was the back door of the premises; he headed straight for it.
Danny ran into the shop seconds behind him. She stopped and took everything in.
The man who had been slashed in the throat had collapsed to the floor, dragging some display boards down with him. He gagged and coughed blood in a fine spray, losing his false teeth as well. His fingers clutched the big vein in his neck which pumped blood. It was like trying to plug a damaged hosepipe on full flow. His wife stood next to him, helpless. Her hands covered her mouth whilst she screamed hysterically.
The woman who had been stabbed in the shoulder screamed in tremendous agony coupled with terror as she watched the fast-spreading stain around her shoulder.
The other employee sat transfixed by the horror. Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, eyes wide, staring with disbelief, her whole frame immobile as a perfect still-life. She had been frozen into a statue by the flash of violence which had streaked by her.
‘ Get an ambulance to Lordson’s,’ Danny said into her PR. ‘Two people down, injured, one very serious. Knife injuries…’ She did not stay to tend the wounded, but vaulted over the counter in Trent’s tracks.
By this time he was out of the back door, hurtling down the service alley which ran behind the shops.
Danny skidded out after him, losing her balance momentarily. ‘Down Cheapside, heading towards Corporation Street,’ she relayed over the PR. ‘Armed with a knife, prepared to use it. Be careful.’
Trent stopped abruptly some twenty yards ahead of her.
Danny stopped too, puzzled, cautious.
Then she saw the reason why. A uniformed PC was walking up towards Trent, side-handled baton drawn.
A wave of euphoria hit Danny.
They had caught the bastard.
Trent crouched, left arm extended, hand palm outwards. His right arm was also extended but this hand held the knife in readiness to strike.
It was a slim knife, Danny saw. Blood dripped from it.
There was blood on his hand and partway up his sleeve.
He slashed the air menacingly, the message clear.
