Backlash (10 page)

Henry turned to Byrne. ‘Can you make this thing go faster?' he demanded.

Byrne – focused on the driving – nodded. ‘Yeah.' And miraculously, from somewhere deep down, the car speeded up.

Henry cut into Roscoe's radio transmission. ‘Inspector Christie to DI Roscoe – keep your head down. We'll be with you very soon.'

‘Thanks,' she breathed. Henry could feel the tension in her voice, and the relief, yet she still sounded very cool. Henry was impressed.

‘Communications?' he said. ‘Did you get that about the fire brigade and ambulance?'

‘Onto them now.'

‘Inspector Christie – be careful when you approach––' Her voice stopped abruptly. Henry heard a bang, some rustling and a heavy breath being expelled. Then a crash. ‘Another petrol bomb,' Roscoe's voice came back. ‘Yeah, Henry, watch yourself. This is a well-organised job, so do it right. I want to get out of here in one piece. Wouldn't be surprised if ambushes have been laid – scanners'll be in use too.'

‘Thanks for that,' Henry acknowledged. She really was cool, telling him not to get into a position where he too would be trapped. ‘Inspector to Blackpool,' Henry barked, getting well into the inspector mode now. He was aware that for the first time in months he was thinking clearly, buzzing and, perversely, enjoying himself. This was fun of the highest, gut-wrenching order.

‘Inspector – go ahead.'

‘If you haven't already got a log running for this – get one. Also inform the superintendent on cover if she doesn't already know, and deploy all patrols to an RV point on Preston New Road, junction Kentmere Drive. Ask them to meet me and PS Byrne there for further instructions, and tell them to be getting into their public-order gear just in case. No one is to drive onto Shoreside without my express permission – understood? If anyone is already there, tell them to withdraw to the RV point now! Pass the location of the RV point to the fire brigade and ambulance. Advise them not to go onto the estate without speaking to me first. Got all that?' Henry knew he had been speaking quickly, speaking as the thoughts tumbled through his mind. ‘And also turn out the helicopter, please.'

‘Roger,' the very in-control communications operator responded, taking charge of Henry's requests in the sort of smooth, unhurried manner Henry could only dream of. ‘And by the way,' the operator added, ‘treble-nines coming in thick and fast from Shoreside residents now.'

‘Received,' said Henry. ‘Have I missed anything?' he asked Byrne quickly.

‘Don't think so,' said Byrne. ‘I take it we're not just going to pile onto the estate?'

‘No, I have a plan.' Henry tapped his nose. ‘Not a very cunning one, but a plan nonetheless.'

A section van, one armoured personnel carrier and two patrol cars were already at the RV point when Henry arrived with Byrne. The occupants were putting on their riot overalls.

Throughout the journey Henry had been glued to Roscoe's commentary of events unfolding in and around Khan's shop. The confidence in her voice began to waver as the situation grew worse. Fear crept into her words. Henry did not blame her for being afraid. In the same circumstances he would have been terrified.

Roscoe, the badly injured and now unconscious Seymour, and the Khan family were effectively pinned down in the shop and its living accommodation. To flee was not an option. The whole building was surrounded and leaving would have meant running straight into the mouth of the lion. To stay put and wait for help was only marginally the lesser of two evils. So far they had been lucky. The petrol bombs hadn't taken hold of the building properly, the sprinkler system in the shop was now working after a false start, but it was only a matter of time before fire beat water. She needed help – fast.

It was tempting for Henry and his troops to wade in, but he knew this could be a bad idea, making a crap situation worse because of lack of thought.

He was out of the car before the wheels stopped turning, gesturing for the officers – eight of them, including Constable Taylor, whom he had seen writing reports earlier – to gather quickly round him. They were eager to do something. Crack some heads. Save some lives.

The force helicopter, two minutes after he had asked for it, radioed to say it was en route from its base in nearby Warton. Henry gave them instructions, then concentrated on what he was going to say to Scale D for Death.

‘You all know the situation: two of our colleagues are trapped by a mob in Mo Khan's shop. The Khan family are trapped in there too. It sounds like a very organised, big, nasty, orchestrated situation. That is why we're not just going to plough in without a plan and get the shite kicked out of us. We need to work as a unit: go in, effect a rescue, then get the hell out and take as little flak as possible. Nothing fancy. No confrontations. These people are dangerous and there's a good chance they'll be expecting us – so we need to be wary.' Henry drew breath.

Over the radio Jane Roscoe announced the arrival of yet another petrol bomb in the shop.

‘Better get a move on, boss,' one of the PCs said agitatedly.

Henry nodded. ‘You're not wrong. Now listen up – this is how it's going to be. I don't want any deviations, don't want any heroes. Now, what equipment do we have?'

The armoured personnel carrier crept onto the estate. Henry's guts tightened. His mouth went dry and popped open. ‘Fuck,' he whispered to no one but himself. Every street light had now been smashed. Apart from house lights, the place was shrouded in absolute darkness. Most houses had their curtains drawn but in some windows, Henry could see terrified faces.

Anarchy had taken over the streets. It was his job to restore law and order.

The only time Henry had known anything remotely similar had been during the miners' strike of 1984. He had vivid memories of driving through mining villages at the dead of night, always in fear of being attacked.

He glanced at Byrne, driving the carrier; then over his shoulder at the eight constables, all in their public-order gear: helmets on, visors down, all grim-faced and serious. No banter. At the rear of the van, the six-foot-high riot shields were stacked up like dominoes, ready for rapid deployment. In the footwell in front of him, Henry had a short shield ready.

Henry, too, was now in his public-order gear, having hopped and pulled himself into it after briefing his officers.

The heavy overalls were making him sweat. The flame-retardant material was as thick as cardboard and the garment, pulled on over his normal uniform, was not designed for comfort. Beads of sweat trundled one after the other down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, making him blink.

‘You'll need to keep your wits about you,' Henry shouted back to the officers. ‘It'll be loud and disorientating – so be ready and keep your cool.'

He was about to say more as Byrne turned a corner to find the road immediately ahead of them blocked by two cars which had been rolled onto their sides. Behind the cars was a bunch of youths, all wearing ski-masks or balaclavas. Henry quickly estimated there were a dozen of them. All youngsters, some as young as ten years old.

‘Back out of here now,' he said quickly to Byrne, who was already ahead of him – but could not seem to be able to ram the gear lever into reverse.

‘Shit, shit, shit,' said the sergeant, with each word trying to hit the gear.

‘Come on,' Henry encouraged him. Then he shouted: ‘Missiles!'

A wave of lighted petrol bombs flashed over from the line of youths and smashed on and around the carrier.

Henry ducked instinctively when one of the milk bottles burst against the metal grille pulled down over the windscreen petrol erupted in flames. The intense heat was immediate and breathtaking.

‘Get us out of here!' Henry growled to Byrne.

The sergeant's face was grim as he tried repeatedly to get reverse.

‘Try using the clutch,' one of the PCs in the back quipped. This brought nervous laughter.

‘Thanks for that,' Byrne said. With an ear-crunching grating of metal on metal, the syncromesh yielded and the gear went in.

A cheer went up from the rear.

Using only his side mirrors as a guide, Byrne gunned the carrier backwards, unconcerned that anyone could be behind. If they were, it was tough. They wouldn't be innocent bystanders. The big bus slewed from side to side as a hail of stones, bricks, bottles and lumps of wood and metal followed the petrol bombs, clattering on the bonnet and roof like debris from a twister. Inside the carrier, the sound reverberated, amplified a hundred times.

Shouts of fear and excitement came from the officers. Henry remained silent, gripping the dashboard to steady himself.

Byrne reversed expertly around the corner, out of the line of fire, trying desperately to keep control of the vehicle which pitched and swayed alarmingly at speed in reverse. The lighted petrol on the windscreen burned out quickly.

Byrne whipped the steering wheel down and executed a one-eighty-degree turn, completely about-facing the carrier, crashing up onto the kerb as he did so, miraculously keeping the engine going, revving it to screaming point. He accelerated away from the ambush site. In his rear-view mirror he saw the small gang of rioters spill out, throwing anything they could get their grubby hands on at the retreating police van.

‘Well done,' Henry said. He asked everyone if they were all right. No one said they weren't. ‘Right – fuck this for a game of soldiers. I think we've pissed about long enough,' he said so everyone could hear. ‘We need to get to that shop now, otherwise it'll be too late – everyone agree?'

The response was emphatic – if muted by the visors in front of everybody's faces. Yes, they agreed.

‘OK, Dermot – swing this beast round and let's cut through Osmond Avenue. No caution this time. Blue lights just as we get there, sirens too.'

‘Right,' Byrne said through his tightly clenched jaw.

Henry put his radio near his mouth. ‘Oscar November 21 receiving? Inspector to Oscar November 21, are you in position?'

It would have to be done very quickly. No messing. No delays. Because if it went wrong there would be hell to pay, maybe lives lost.

Henry deleted all negative thoughts from his mind. This was going to work. He would make damned sure it would.

The carrier veered into sight of Khan's shop.

Henry took in the crowd surrounding the place. There seemed to be hundreds there at first glance – maybe not at second, but still a lot. A car burned brightly outside the shop. It was the CID car.

‘Oscar November 21 – go now,' Henry said, his voice cool and controlled reflecting his inner self. He had moved on from fear and from excitement. He was tense, of that there was no doubt, the adrenaline was rushing into his system like fuel injection into a sports car – just the right amount for perfect performance. But what he felt now was cold controlled anger.

‘Oscar November 21 – we're there now,' came the response from the force helicopter.

Henry received the message. He flicked the switch for the blue lights and the two-tones.

Above them, from out of the black night sky, like some massive avenging insect, the helicopter swooped down, deceptively low and ear-shatteringly loud. It did an impressive fly past just feet above the heads of the rioters, spiralled spectacularly through a tight circle and came back to hover over Khan's shop. The powerful night-sun searchlight slung underneath the helicopter came on, swathing the scene below with incredible brightness.

‘Foot down,' Henry commanded Byrne. The carrier hurtled towards the backs of the rioters, horns blaring and Henry shouting through the public-address system, volume turned up high, deliberately distorted, adding to the clatter of the helicopter. ‘Clear the streets,' he hollered. ‘This is the police. You are requested to clear the streets. Anyone remaining will be arrested. I repeat, if you do not disperse, you will be arrested.'

He was going for the psychological upper hand which he knew, if successful, would only be short lived. He was hoping this assault on the senses of the rioters would give him the window of opportunity he needed to achieve his goal.

It worked.

Overawed and disorientated by the helicopter above, threatened by the reckless approach of the personnel carrier at ground level, the rioters ran like rats down a sewer. They scrambled away from the lights, shocked and surprised, maybe frightened, by the approach. Suddenly there was a way through for the carrier to the shop front. Byrne, gripping the steering wheel tightly, concentrating hard, powered the heavy machine through the clearing. He mounted the pavement with a back-jarring, head-thumping thud, and skidded to a halt at an angle across the shop entrance.

‘Out now,' Henry roared. ‘Move it, move it.' He slammed down his visor.

The side door of the van sprang open. The first officer leapt out. He was handed one of the riot shields which he hooked onto his left forearm. He ran to the back of the van and took up his position. He was immediately joined by three more of his colleagues who slammed their shields down – smack-smack-smack – next to his, all edge to edge. The idea was to provide some protection to the officers who had been detailed to enter the shop.

Henry was using his short shield which was designed to give more manoeuvrability in his supervisory role. He ensured the long-shield party were deployed to best advantage – shouting muffled orders at them through his visor and checking to ensure they all understood their role. Making himself heard was extremely difficult with the helicopter directly above. He knew this was one of the drawbacks to his plan. When satisfied, he turned to the four others left in the van and beckoned them to follow him into the shop.

Inside was a blackened, smoky mess, but no flames were burning seriously. Thick smoke clung to the ceiling like a thunder cloud and all the officers had to keep their heads low in order to see anything. Even then it was difficult because all the lighting in the shop had blown. Two of the officers were equipped with dragon lights – big, powerful torches. The beams criss-crossed each other like Second World War searchlights in the night sky.