Critical Threat (29 page)

Karl Donaldson came out behind the two officers and pulled Bill to one side. He spoke urgently in his ear. ‘Get her home, get her out of the way and get her to keep quiet, OK, pal?'

Bill turned to Henry for guidance.

‘Do as he says, Bill.' Bill's facial response did not look positive. ‘Trust me,' Henry assured him.

Bill gave him another look, one of incomprehension and fear.

‘You heard, Bill – trust him,' Donaldson said. ‘Get her home, and if you want to go home too, then that's fine.'

Henry nodded. ‘Do it.'

‘You're the boss,' he said, sounding aggrieved.

Carly vomited again, narrowly missing Henry's feet with the remainder of her breakfast. She was completely out of it, overwhelmed by shock. Bill led her out of the yard and down the alley. She did not resist.

‘They're good people,' Donaldson said.

Henry regarded his old friend, but then his attention was redirected when he heard the warning beep-beep of a vehicle reversing up the back alley. It was an ambulance.

‘For me?' Henry asked, squinting through his one good eye.

‘No, for the guy I shot.'

‘I assumed he was dead.'

‘He's not well, but he's conscious and we need to have speaks with him urgently.'

Two paramedics in green overalls dropped out of the ambulance and armed with their kits and a fold-away stretcher, they dashed into the house. It wasn't long before they reappeared with a body on the stretcher, completely covered as though it was a corpse. They rushed past Henry and Donaldson and slid the stretcher into the ambulance. One jumped in with it, the other clambered back behind the wheel.

‘Should I get in?' Henry asked.

‘Nah – you come with me … you're in this up to your neck and I think we can use you.'

Henry sat dumbly in the passenger seat of his Rover 75 whilst Karl Donaldson drove through the crowded streets of Blackburn. Henry's face was scrunched up in an expression of unhappiness, the posture of his body matching it.

‘Where are we going?'

‘You'll see.'

Henry had known Karl Donaldson for about ten years. They had first encountered each other when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating US-related mob activity in the north-west of England. That initial link-up had resulted in their paths crossing several times more over the next few years, both professionally and personally, and they became good friends. Donaldson even married an ex-Lancashire policewoman and settled just outside London, enabling him to commute into the city where he'd landed a job as an FBI legal attaché based in the American embassy. His role entailed a lot of liaison work with police forces across Europe.

Over the years, Henry had glimpsed a different side of Donaldson. He came across as a big, handsome, friendly guy who could charm his way into a mother superior's panties if he so wished, but underneath that veneer Henry had seen a band of ruthlessness a mile wide.

His appearance today, whilst welcome under the circumstances, was also a shock and Henry was somewhat mystified … but hoped for some answers soon.

Donaldson handled Henry's car easily. He had driven his own Jeep on British roads for over ten years and was comfortable with traffic. He had ordered Henry to get into the passenger seat, continually reassuring him about the crime scene and that it would be looked after and that it would all be taken care of, and after taking his keys, had settled behind the wheel and set off with a squeal of rubber. He headed swiftly back down Whalley Range out of town, anxiously checking the rear-view mirror until, at last, a smile crossed his face and he relaxed.

Curious, Henry glanced down at his door mirror and, with some shock, saw that the ambulance that had set off a couple of minutes before them was behind, no lights flashing.

Henry uttered, perplexed, ‘Is that the same ambulance?'

‘You'll see … now just relax, H, I'll explain soon.'

‘Am I being abducted?'

Donaldson laughed. ‘So I could have my wicked way with you? Don't kid yourself.'

As Henry adjusted his position to get more comfortable, he grunted in pain. He put a finger in his mouth and touched a tooth, which waggled loosely. Then he groaned again for good measure.

Donaldson accelerated through an amber light, straight across from Whalley Range into Plane Street, then Plane Tree Road and sharp right on to Robinson Street.

‘How the hell d'you know your way around Blackburn?'

‘Sat nav.'

‘And why is that ambulance still behind us? Why hasn't it gone to the hospital?'

‘Trust me, I'm an FBI agent.'

Henry waggled his tooth again. It sent a shock of exquisite pain through his face.

Donaldson dropped down on to Philips Road and turned left into an area that was mainly industrial estates within easy reach of the M65. They were not far from Blackburn police station and Henry assumed this was their destination.

Assumed wrong.

There were lights at the junction of Philips Road and Whitebirk Drive – a dual carriageway, also known as the arterial road which curved around the north-west perimeter of Blackburn, hence the name. To reach the police station, Donaldson should have turned right. Instead, he drove straight across the lights on to Whitebirk industrial estate, a sprawling conglomeration of business units of all shapes and sizes, which seemed to expand continually into the hillside beyond. Henry had always known it to be there. It was probably one of Blackburn's oldest industrial estates, post-cotton.

Henry could still see the ambulance in the wing mirror, following them.

Donaldson muttered something. Henry turned to him to ask, ‘What?' but realized the American was talking into a tiny radio mike. To Henry, he said, ‘Nearly there, pal.'

‘Nearly where?'

‘There,' he said mysteriously. ‘Actually, I could get into deep shit for bringing you here and letting you see where “there” is. But because I trust you, I'm willing to take a chance …'

‘Eh?' Obviously Henry's brain had been addled from the beating he'd just taken, compounded by the horrendous bloodbath. He thought he might have damaged something up there, because this was making no sense to him.

Donaldson drove to the far reaches of the industrial estate, which got grottier and grottier the further they went. He steered down a cul-de-sac and then turned in through some high steel gates, topped with barbed wire, and drove through an open shutter door into a cavernous industrial unit which was surrounded by a ten-foot-high steel mesh fence. The ambulance tailgated them in and the shutter door started to close as soon as the vehicles stopped moving.

The unit was similar to thousands of others: breeze-block built up to about ten feet, then the remainder constructed of corrugated steel walls and roof. There were no windows and illumination was provided by banks of strip-lighting hanging from the roof.

The floor was made of poured concrete and on it were parked many vehicles. Henry recognized Donaldson's Jeep and amongst the others was a Royal Mail van, a United Utilities transit van and a Tesco home delivery box van; there were also several non-descript cars of a variety of makes and a liveried Lancashire Constabulary traffic car.

And the ambulance.

Donaldson eased his big frame out of Henry's car and leaned on the roof, looking across at his bemused friend, who had also got out and was staring around the unit with a little-boy-lost expression.

‘Welcome to Homeland Security, Blackburn Branch,' Donaldson said, with a wide sweep of his arms.

Henry nodded, still unable to take it in, but slowly beginning to slot things together.

He watched the paramedics pull the stretchered casualty out of the ambulance and carry him across to a door in one corner of the unit. With a bit of contortion, they managed to manoeuvre through without tipping him off.

‘That's Bob and Bob,' Donaldson explained for Henry's benefit. ‘American Special Forces, both highly trained medics.'

‘Of course they are,' Henry said, as if seeing two Delta Force soldiers dressed up as Lancashire Ambulance Service paramedics, carrying a man who had been shot on a stretcher between them, across the floor of an industrial unit on the edge of Blackburn, was the most normal thing in the world.

Henry's legs went weak.

Donaldson saw him sag. He rushed round to him, held him up under the armpit and led him across the unit. ‘There won't be too much time for explanation,' he said. ‘I'll just get you cleaned up, get some painkillers down you and then we'll try to keep the American Secretary of State alive … how does that sound?'

‘Just doody,' Henry said, using an expression bandied about by his youngest daughter Leanne, which seemed entirely appropriate for the situation.

D
onaldson steered Henry diagonally across the floor of the unit, through the doors the paramedics/soldiers had gone with the injured man. This led into a narrow corridor off which were a number of half-glass doors on the left. Henry presumed that there were offices behind them. There was a wooden staircase at the far end, leading up to the first floor.

Donaldson took him to a door marked ‘toilet' and said, ‘Get in there, wash yourself off, and I'll be back in a few minutes with some new clothing for you.'

Henry complied and found himself in a tiled loo with a couple of wash basins and mirrors. He leaned on a basin and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his whole visage a scarred, swollen mess. His cheek was swollen and purple and he thought he could see it throbbing.

There was blood streaked all over him.

He slid his leather jacket off and had a look at the slashed arm, grateful that Kate had brought it for him when he'd set off for London. Its thickness had probably saved him from being seriously wounded. Four hundred quid to replace, he thought sourly, pulled his shirt off and tossed it on the floor. It needed to be incinerated. Then he got to work, washing himself down, aware that his jeans were a mess.

The water did little for him, other than to clean off the excess blood and make him look a little more presentable.

Donaldson reappeared bearing a change of clothing over his arm.

‘These should all fit you,' he said and handed it all over – jeans, T-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. Henry stripped in front of him and stepped into the fresh, clean clothes, which fitted him snugly. ‘Sorry, but I ain't got any trainers for you. You'll have to stick with the ones you've got.'

‘No worries,' Henry said.

The toilet door opened and a pretty, white-coated black woman in her late twenties entered, a stethoscope dangling around her neck and a notepad in one hand.

‘Walking wounded,' Donaldson said, nodding at Henry, who managed a pathetic smile. ‘This is Dr Arlene Chambers, Henry. She'll give you a quick once-over, see if your brain has been permanently damaged or not.'

‘Hi,' she said brightly. ‘What happened to you?'

‘Er … been in a fight, was well on the way to losing it, got slashed by a knife.' He held up his left hand, which he had washed and was bleeding again. ‘And got whacked in the face.'

‘OK – let's have a look at you.' She turned to Donaldson. ‘Karl, a bit of privacy, please.'

‘Ma'am,' he said, and Henry saw the doctor quiver with pleasure and flutter her eyelashes. He reversed out and left them alone. Dr Chambers began a fairly thorough inspection, concluding with taping up the cut on Henry's hand.

‘That cheekbone is undoubtedly broken. An X-ray will confirm it, but that's one thing we don't have here. Your hand could do with stitching, but those strips will hold it together for the time being … I know you're not going to have time to go to hospital just yet.'

‘I'm not?' Henry exclaimed.

‘The rest is just bruising, soreness and swelling – all the usual things you get when you fight. These will help with the pain.' She handed him two tablets as big as pebbles. ‘Army issue – very effective.'

‘If you can swallow them.'

The door opened and Donaldson came back in. ‘Finished?'

‘He's all yours,' the doctor said, smiled at Henry, looked up gooey-eyed at Donaldson, and left them.

‘OK?'

‘Never better.' Henry put his mouth to a tap, filled it with water, then swallowed the tablets with a bit of difficulty.

‘I think you're only supposed to have one,' Donaldson said.

Henry shrugged.

‘Follow me.' Donaldson led him back out into the corridor and in through a door which had ‘The Swamp' scribbled on it. Beyond was a large office with a big window, blinds drawn. A roomy old settee dominated one wall and three easy-looking armchairs and two plastic chairs made up the rest of the seating. A microwave, oven, kettle, coffee-maker, toaster, fridge and an array of loaves of bread, packets of bagels, jam, marmalade, peanut butter, tea, coffee and milk cartons covered a worktop next to the sink. This was obviously a chill-out room.

‘Take a seat,' Donaldson said, and Henry lowered himself gratefully into one of the armchairs as the American boiled the kettle and made two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Henry.

‘Fuck, I'm sore,' Henry said, adjusting his position.

‘You look it … but Arlene's magic medicine will work wonders in no time, especially a double dose of it.'

Henry raised his eyebrows. Chit-chat time was over.

‘OK – quick story from me,' Donaldson said.

‘I'm all ears.'

‘The American Secretary of State is visiting the north of England at the request of your Foreign Secretary, who is also your local Member of Parliament.'

‘That much I know.'

‘She's due to reach Lancashire this afternoon after visiting Liverpool,' Donaldson said. He settled his big frame into the seat next to Henry, crossed his long, muscular legs. ‘As you can imagine, the security arrangements are way up there.' His index finger pointed skywards.