Читать книгу Life on Mars: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos - Tom Graham - Страница 5

Tyres screamed. Grey, urban streets flashed past. Gene floored the gas as Sam floored an imaginary brake pedal.

‘Right, pay attention,’ Gene ordered, flinging the wheel recklessly back and forth as he weaved through the traffic. ‘We got a warning phoned through a little under an hour ago saying there was a pack of high explosives rigged up and ready to go pop in the local council records office.’

‘Was an IRA codeword given?’ asked Sam.

‘No, but we’re not taking any chances,’ said Gene. ‘There’s been a lot of angry Paddies on the move recently. We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, so we’re assuming it’s the real thing.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Sam. ‘But what about Bomb Disposal?’

Gene shrugged.

‘And what does that shrug mean, Guv? We need Bomb Disposal down here. They should be dealing with this.’

‘We’re still waiting for them bone-idle bastards to get ’emselves out of bed,’ growled Gene, flagrantly roaring through a red light.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Well, until they deign to show up and start snipping wires, this is our shout.’

‘Guv, we’re not qualified to start messing about with explosives.’

‘And neither are they. You ever met any of them Bomb Disposal ’erberts? Half of ’em can’t even read.’

‘We need to cordon off the records office and keep the area secure until Bomb Disposal and Special Branch show up,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a terrorist incident. That’s their jurisdiction.’

‘Their “jurisdiction”? Nicking villains, Sammy-boy, that’s my jurisdiction, no matter what shape, size, colour or flavour they come in. Bombs and bastards and big blokes with shooters, it’s all the same to me. And I don’t plan sitting around on my pert and perfectly formed arse waiting for Special Branch to saunter over, not when things are kicking off right under my nose. So if you don’t mind, Tyler’ – the Cortina tilted noisily onto two wheels as Gene belted round a tight corner and Sam gripped the dashboard – ‘just remember which one of us two is the boss. You diddlin’?’

‘Guv, you can’t muck about, not where Special Branch are concer—’

Gene threw the Cortina ferociously around another tight bend, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence.

‘You didn’t answer my question, Tyler. I said are you diddlin’?’

Sam backed down. ‘I’m diddlin’, Guv.’

‘Lovely lad.’

The Cortina howled on, bouncing and veering at breakneck pace, until the drab, grey shape of the council records office appeared up ahead, standing out against the hard Manchester sky. Police cars were skewed across the road. Uniformed coppers were busy stringing up blue police cordons and trying to shepherd the already growing crowd of curious gawpers.

Gene gunned the engine, powering forward recklessly and sending people scattering out of the way like frightened rabbits. When he hit the brakes and brought the car to a lurching stop, Sam found that he had been holding his breath.

Gene shot him a glance. ‘Woken up now, have we?’

‘It still feels like a nightmare to me,’ said Sam, as he clambered out of the car.

Striding with Gene through the uniformed officers and rubbernecking sightseers, Sam spotted DS Ray Carling and DC Chris Skelton. Ray had wrenched his tie loose and flung open the top two buttons of his blue, wing-collared shirt to reveal a masculine flash of blond chest hair. He was in his element, barking orders at the uniformed coppers and snapping at the public to get their ruddy arses back, back, back! Beside him was the youthful Chris, his dark hair flopping anxiously across his left eye, his knitted tank-top already darkening with sweat as he rushed about assisting Ray. He looked overwhelmed and fretful, as if he was expecting the crowd to suddenly rise up and lynch him at any moment, or for the council offices to suddenly go nuclear and blow them all to kingdom come.

For a moment, Sam recalled how Chris and Ray had appeared to him in his nightmare. Their taunts echoed momentarily through his mind:

You’re not in 1973. You’re in hell.

And then he saw Chris struggling to stop a kid on a Chopper bike from getting under the police cordon, and Ray shovelling stick after stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth as he strutted about aggressively jabbing his finger and bellowing orders, and all at once the menace they had possessed in the dream evaporated like morning dew.

Forget those damned dreams, Sam told himself. It’s just Chris and Ray, your old team. And you, Sam, you’re a copper, you’ve got a job to do.

Gene cruised forward, shoulders pushed back, belly sucked in. He back-handed the kid on the Chopper out of the way, ducked under the police tape, and surveyed the records office.

‘Speak to me, Ray. What’s the score? Anyone inside that place?’

‘The building’s evacuated, Guv,’ said Ray. ‘Leastways, it’s meant to be. Chris reckons he saw somebody up at one of the windows.’

‘I can’t swear to it,’ said Chris. ‘I thought I saw a bloke up there moving about, dead calm like.’

‘Could be one of the morning cleaners,’ said Sam.

‘Maybe,’ said Chris, frowning and looking confused. ‘Or it might just have been a reflection … You know, a seagull or summat like that.’

‘A seagull?’ snapped Ray. ‘You never said you thought it was a seagull.’

‘I didn’t think it was a seagull, not at the time.’

‘You said it were definitely a bloke, Chris.’

‘Yeah, I did. It were definitely a bloke – or a seagull.’

‘Can’t you tell the difference?’

‘Normally. But the more I try to remember, the less certain I am.’

‘Well, did it have a mop and bucket or a beak and bloody wings?’

‘I don’t know now, Ray. It’s doing my head in. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’

Sam peered hard at the rows of windows, and then, quite suddenly, he glimpsed something move.

‘You were quite right, Chris,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s a fella up there. Second floor, three windows in from the edge of the building.’

Everybody looked. A man was moving about in a second-floor window, making no attempt to hide himself.

Chris’s expression went from one of screwed-up confusion to self-satisfaction in an instant. ‘See? See? I were right. I said it were a bloke, Guv. I said so. Dead observant, me – eagle-eyed, you know.’

‘Eagles, seagulls,’ muttered Gene. ‘Cancel Bomb Disposal and get Johnny Morris down here, pronto.’

Up on the second floor, a window opened and the figure leant out. It was a man, dressed in black overalls, his face completely hidden beneath a black balaclava. In the eyeholes of the balaclava glinted little circles of light – he was wearing a pair of wire-framed John Lennon glasses.

At the sight of him, Sam felt a cold shiver run up his spine. That was no cleaner, and it was certainly no early-morning council worker going through the files. It was a terrorist.

‘What the hell’s he still doing in the building?’ Sam said.

‘Planting a bomb?’ suggested Chris.

‘Well obviously, Chris – but the IRA prefer blowing up other people rather than themselves.’

‘The dopey Paddy must’ve ballsed it up,’ growled Ray.

‘Maybe he’s new,’ said Chris. ‘Hasn’t quite got the hang of it.’

‘And maybe you lot should shut up and take cover,’ Gene suddenly intoned. ‘Get your heads down!’

The man in the balaclava had suddenly thrust the long muzzle of an assault rifle out of the open window and was peering through the sight directly at them. Sam threw himself to the left; Ray and Chris threw themselves to the right. Gene stood motionless, unblinking, as bullets whined down and smacked into the pavement about his feet. Rounds slammed into the police patrol cars parked across the road; the titchy, mint-coloured police Austin 1300s rocked and shuddered as wing mirrors shattered and tyres blew out.

The crowd of gawpers now screamed and surged back; coppers lost their helmets in the crush; the police cordon was ripped and went trailing away like fallen bunting.

‘Get everybody back!’ yelled Sam, scrambling behind a police car for cover. ‘Gene! For God’s sake, get down!’

Unhurriedly, Gene strode over to the car and crouched behind it; all the time, he kept his eyes fixed on the man with the rifle.

‘Stinking Paddy bastard,’ he said. ‘There’s no bomb in that building. It was just a trap to get us in close so he could take pot shots.’

Already his black-gloved hand had reached beneath the folds of his coat to grasp the solid stock and trigger of his Magnum .45. He straightened up, steadied his aim on the roof of the patrol car, and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. The Magnum roared and kicked. Glass exploded from the open window. The man in the balaclava ducked away.

‘I’m taking control of this situation,’ intoned Gene. ‘Right now.’

Holding aloft the smoking Magnum, he went to rush forward, but Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

‘Guv, wait.’

‘Mitts off the camelhair, Tyler.’

‘We need to keep everything contained and under control,’ Sam urged him. ‘We need to clear the area of civilians, ensure the gunman remains inside the building, set up a cordon and sit tight until Bomb Disposal and armed backup arrive.’

‘Cobblers, you faggot. All we need is this’ – Gene waved the Magnum in Sam’s face – ‘and a little of that ol’ Genie black magic.’

‘Guv, stop behaving like a bloody—’

But Hunt had heard enough. He tore free of Sam and went racing forward, his camelhair coat billowing after him like a huge set of nicotine-stained wings.

‘Gene, don’t be a bloody hero,’ Sam cried after him. ‘Wait for Special Branch. Guv! Guv!’

But even as he called out, he knew that he had no choice, that there was only one thing he could do. Cursing his guv’nor under his breath, he grabbed a state-of-the-art, police-issue radio from Ray. It was bigger than a house brick. Sam wedged the cumbersome contraption into his belt.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered. ‘Be on standby. And keep everybody back.’

And before he could change his mind, he broke cover, sprinting after Gene.

As he ran he saw Gene up ahead, charging like a bull elephant, the Magnum raised and straining for action. The guv slammed into the front doors of the record office and disappeared inside. Sam pounded in after him, drawing his own pistol and tensing for trouble. He darted through the doors and skidded to a halt in the deserted hallway. From outside came the sounds of panic and screaming and bellowing policemen.

Gene gave Sam a sour look. ‘If you think I’m gonna stand here listening to yet more of your Mary, Mungo and Midge about waiting for backup, you’re even dopier than the front of your head suggests, Tyler. I’m going right up them stairs to nail me a Paddy bastard, and that, Samuel, is called law enforcement.’

‘I know I can’t stop you, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘But I can’t let you deal with this alone.’

‘Very neighbourly. But if you’re going to tag along, Sammy-boy, you’re going to have to try keeping your cakehole zipped, you read me?’

‘I read you, Guv.’

‘I don’t want no messing about, Sam,’ hissed Gene, suddenly leaning close. ‘No warnings, no orders to freeze. We find that murdering Bogside bastard, we blag him, we go for a pint. Got it?’

‘We can’t do that,’ Sam said.

‘You told me you’d keep it zipped, so zip it!’

‘We can’t open fire without giving due warning, Guv. That’s procedure.’

‘We’re CID, you milky tit. We’ll do what we have to.’

‘No, Gene – unlike the IRA, we play by the rules. That’s what makes them the bad guys and us the law.’

‘I am the law, Bo Peep, and you’ll damn well play this my way.’

‘But Guv, there’s a bomb in this building, primed to explode.’

Gene puffed out his chest and said, ‘You bet your bollocks there is, and he ain’t in the mood to argue. Now – cover me.’

He strode to the staircase and bounded up it two steps at a time. Sam raced up after him, his nervous system tight and jangling, alert for any hint of the man in the balaclava.

On the first-floor landing they found empty corridors and silent offices. Gene edged forward, past desks cluttered with bulky typewriters and heaped in-trays of paperwork. He slipped past a set of pneumatic tubes for the ferrying of internal mail and tucked himself against a row of metal filing cabinets. He tilted his head and tasted the air like a jungle cat, his eyes narrowing, his gloved finger tensing on the steel trigger of the Magnum. Then, without warning, he rushed on up the staircase, making barely a sound in his tasselled loafers.

By the time Sam caught up with him on the second floor, his heart was hammering in his chest. He found Gene striding about boldly, peering into offices, sticking his nose round doors, swinging the Magnum in all directions as if it were an extension of his body.

Something moved, and Sam and Gene both reacted instantly. They spun round, aiming their weapons along the length of the corridor, just as Balaclava Man appeared, round-lensed glasses glinting blankly, his assault rifle raised military-style with its stock nestling high against his shoulder.

‘Freeze! Police!’ yelled Sam, years of police training kicking in automatically.

Gunfire raked the walls. Gene answered with a shot powerful enough to punch a hole the size of a dinner plate through a door panel. A second shot flung what was left of the door entirely off its hinges. Balaclava Man vanished from sight.

‘I said no warnings, Tyler,’ Gene snarled.

‘We’re coppers,’ Sam spat back. ‘This is no time to start playing Charles flamin’ Bronson.’

Gene slammed fresh rounds into the hot breech of the Magnum in a way that suggested that he thought otherwise, then strode briskly through the drifting layers of blue gun smoke. He kicked away the shattered remains of the door, smacked the gun barrel back into the housing and took aim – but the room was empty.

‘The four-eyed Murphy’s legged it,’ he whispered back at Sam. ‘Head through them offices and try and cut him off. I’ll go after him this way.’

‘Guv, I don’t think splitting up is such a g—’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tyler, do you want to play cops and robbers or not?

And, with that, Gene was gone, striding off in pursuit of his quarry.

‘Damn you, Hunt!’ hissed Sam, dashing back along the corridor and through a series of empty offices, trying to keep his bearings as to where Gene and Balaclava Man might be.

Silently, he slipped into a long, drab office and saw the shattered window from which the gunman had first opened fire on them. On the floor, he saw a splattered line of blood leading across the room. But, as he followed it, Sam saw that it wasn’t blood at all but paint – thick, shiny, blood-red paint. The trail led to a far wall, where the crude image of a hand had been daubed, the palm outwards, the fingers spread. The letters ‘RHF’ were sloppily scrawled beneath it.

We’re meant to see this, thought Sam. That’s why he lured us in here. He wanted us to see this emblem. But what the hell does it mean? What the hell is the RHF? Is it some IRA splinter group?

Whatever the truth was, now was not the time to start puzzling it out. Sam heard the harsh clatter of the assault rifle, and the shuddering, cannon-like reply of the Magnum. A door crashed open, and Sam dropped behind a desk, aiming his pistol and preparing to fire. But his trigger finger relaxed at the sight of Gene lumbering into sight, Magnum raised.

‘Where’d he go? Sam, where the hell did he go?’

Gene glared all about him, anger rising like bile at the realization that he had been cheated of his quarry, that Balaclava Man had given him the slip.

‘Bastard!’ he spat, and punched a Britt Ekland calendar off the wall.

Sam stood up from the desk and fished out his police radio. ‘Ray? Are you reading me? The gunman’s got away from us – my guess is he’ll try to make a break for it. Keep the entire building cordoned off. Seal off every street. Set up a “ring of steel”. I don’t want so much as a cockroach being able to make it out of here without being picked up, you got that? … Ray? Ray, are you there? Speak to me, Ray!’

‘I’m here, boss,’ came Ray’s voice at last.

‘Did you hear what I just said?’ asked Sam.

‘Um … Kind of,’ muttered Ray. ‘I weren’t really listening.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because I’m … sort of … looking at Chris.’

‘And what’s Chris doing?’

‘Sitting on a bomb. As in, right on it. Right on it, boss. With his arse.’

Sam and Gene exchanged a blank look, then Gene grabbed the radio.

‘Speak, Raymondo – and this time, start making some chuffing sense.’

They found Ray down on the ground floor, hovering about in a corridor and anxiously chewing his Juicy Fruits.

‘We thought you might need a spot of backup,’ he said, ‘so we followed you in here. And then Chris got nervous – said he needed the khazi …’

‘The khazi? You mean this one here?’ asked Gene. Ray nodded. Gene said, ‘It’s the ladies.’

‘I know. I think he found the idea … exciting.’

Sam opened the door and went in. Chris was in one of the cubicles, sitting on the toilet seat, staring at him with a face sweaty and bloodless from terror. His bare knees were shaking.

Gene pushed his way in, loomed over Chris, and, after a few silent moments said flatly, ‘Explain.’

‘I got caught short,’ Chris stammered. ‘All this running about, it went to me guts. So I came in here for a … you know.’

‘Get on with it.’

‘I’d just sat down, Guv – I didn’t even get a chance to start ’coz, like, I suddenly realized …’

He looked down. So did everyone else. There were wires visible just under the rim of the toilet seat, one black and one red, running away into the bowl.

‘I heard a click,’ said Chris, ‘and then I saw the wires, and that’s when I knew …’

‘Looks like we’ve found our explosive device, folks,’ said Gene. ‘Chris – I never want to have say these words to you ever again, but open your legs for me, nice and slowly.’

Shaking and sweating, Chris nervously obliged. Gene peered into the toilet bowl.

‘What can you see down there, Guv?’ asked Ray.

‘Shipyard confetti,’ Gene replied.

‘That ain’t true, Guv,’ whined Chris. ‘I haven’t dropped anything yet, I’ve kept it all in.’

‘That’s not a euphemism, you pillock – that’s the kind of bomb you’re sitting on,’ said Gene. ‘There’s a wad of explosives down there the size of a house brick; it’s been packed with nails and metal splinters and ball bearings – a little concoction the IRA call “shipyard confetti”. You’ve primed the detonator by plonking your cheeks on the seat, Chris.’

‘Oh my God! Get me out of here, Guv! Please!’

‘You’ll just have to wait for Bomb Disposal,’ said Gene. ‘If you try to stand up you’ll trigger the mechanism and next thing you know you’ll get half a ton of metalwork shooting right up your Fray Bentos.’

‘I really needed to go when I came in here,’ grizzled Chris, ‘and now I really, really need to go, like, urgent, like.’

‘Shit on it, you might defuse it,’ said Gene. ‘Ray, stop standing about like a spare prannet and get this place sealed off. Our gunman’s probably a mile away by now but have the whole area shut down just in case.’

‘Will do, Guv.’

‘And get onto those lazy sods at Bomb Disposal and tell ’em to get their arses down here double pronto!’ Gene called after Ray as he hurried away. ‘I do not intend to lose one of my officers today, even if it is just this dopey doughnut.’

‘Sit tight, Chris,’ said Sam. ‘You’ll be okay as long as you don’t move.’

‘You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ Chris cried.

‘And give up spending time with you in the ladies’ bogs?’ asked Gene. ‘After all the years I’ve dreamt of this moment?’

‘We’ll stay with you, Chris, don’t worry,’ said Sam, patting Chris’s shoulder. ‘Gene, I don’t get it. This doesn’t feel like the IRA.’

‘It bloody does to me,’ put in Chris.

‘Not their usual way of operating, I’ll grant you that,’ said Gene.

‘We’ve been lured in here on purpose,’ said Sam. ‘This booby trap here, it’s meant to make a point. And that gunman, he wanted us to see what I found upstairs – a red hand, Gene, painted on the wall, and the letters RHF. Mean anything to you?’

‘Sam, as your superior officer, may I suggest that we discuss the finer details of this situation at a more conducive moment? Right now, I’m more worried about the ruddy great bomb primed to explode under our colleague’s rear quarters.’

‘Don’t keep mentioning it,’ Chris wailed.

‘Hard not to, Christopher, it does rather dominate.’

Chris buried his face in his hands and started to rock backwards and forwards.

‘Chris, sit still,’ said Sam. ‘You’re safe as long as you don’t move.’

Peering at the two visible wires, Gene mused, ‘Red wire … black wire …’

‘Don’t even think about it, Gene,’ said Sam.

‘It’s fifty–fifty. Worth a punt, you reckon?’

‘Leave it to Bomb Disposal. That’s what they do.’

‘Bomb Disposal!’ Gene scoffed. ‘If them nobbers can defuse one of these things then how hard can it be?’

‘Gene, don’t start tampering. I mean it.’

‘I can’t stay here,’ Chris was moaning into his hands.

‘Keep calm, Chris,’ said Sam, trying to sound calm himself. Gene was eenie-meenie-miney-mowing between the red wire and the black one.

‘I don’t want to die like this,’ Chris cried.

‘Nobody’s going to die, Chris! Gene, leave them bloody wires! Chris, keep still!’

But panic was starting to set in. Chris was shaking, rocking, staring out through his fingers with wild eyes. Sam planted his hands on Chris’s shoulders to keep him where he was, but that just seemed to make things worse, as Chris howled that he was too young to die and began fighting to get out. He clawed at Sam and shoved him away, leaping up from the seat and instantly tripping over the trousers that were coiled around his ankles.

Sam heard himself cry out, ‘Chris, no!’ and instinctively threw himself backwards, covering his face with his arms, bracing his body for the shattering impact of the explosion, the agony of a thousand nails ripping into his flesh at high speed.

But no explosion came. There was just silence, and the sound of Chris stumbling and tripping frantically away along the corridor outside.

Lowering his arms, Sam found himself looking up at Gene, who was holding the snapped end of the red wire in his gloved hand.

‘If only I had the same luck with the gee-gees,’ Gene said.