Текст книги "Just Another Day"

Автор книги: Steven Clark

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 10

Mike watched closely as John walked tentatively toward the severed finger. Whilst he strongly disagreed with his colleagues’ action in taking himself outside the relative safety of the shields, he knew why he had acted in the way that he had. John was a friend and an excellent negotiator and had brought dozens of situations to a peaceful and successful conclusion over the years; from talking down potential suicides, to actually taking the place of a hostage on one occasion. He had very accurately gauged the reactions of a man who had taken his son hostage and threatened to kill him after a particularly violent argument with the boy’s mother. She had sustained serious head injuries as a result of a severe battering over a period of about ten hours but had managed to escape to safety by crashing through the first floor bedroom window and sliding down the porch roof to the garden below.

As is so often the case, the boy was the unfortunate meat in the sandwich of an extremely volatile relationship which was doomed to disaster almost from the first weeks of the marriage. He had always been a sickly child and prone to all manner of illness and john had managed to persuade his father that,

‘James needs to be seen by the Doctor. After all Tom, this business is between you and your missus. Let your son go, I’ll come in and we can try and sort it all out without any more injury to anybody. I know you love him dearly and you don’t want him to suffer. I also know that you feel trapped in there and he is your only hope. He knows that you are hurting as well Tom. Let him go and you and me will get through this together.’

After the release of the boy, John had spent thirty hours as a replacement hostage before he was able to talk his captor out of killing both of them. The handgun that the man had cocked and held to johns head on several occasions was later found to be a genuine, but de-activated, nine millimetre automatic but there was no way of any one knowing that fact until the gun was examined after the event.

Mike Hogan knew this was a very different siege incident. John had ‘lost’ several situations over the years when he had been unable to prevent people from taking their own lives. He always knew that there would be some incidents that he could never resolve. There would always be a few where death was the inevitable outcome; some where the hostage taker actively sought out his own death. Known as suicide by cop, the individual would come out; all guns blazing, only for him to be shot by the police marksmen: but, the one job that he felt particularly responsible for; the one he found most difficult to come to terms with, was when a young female police officer was taken hostage during a bank robbery several years ago.

It wasn’t Johns fault and, deep down, John himself knew it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t stop him from feeling that weight of responsibility.

The young officer had been on foot patrol in the area of the bank. Maybe an older, more experienced officer would have called for assistance first or made a slower, more calculated and informed decision, but no one could criticise her bravery as she instantly ran into the bank when she heard the alarm sound and, along with a cashier and the manager, was held captive for twelve hours.

John, as the lead negotiator, had managed to persuade the hostage taker into allowing him into the bank to talk. The would be robber was not much older than the rookie officer, 20 or 21 years of age maybe and, it would later transpire, had no history of armed robbery. A few minor offences of street mugging and joy riding in stolen cars, but nothing of this seriousness.

He was using all his experience in taking his time, keeping the young gunman calm. Making sure that John himself was not seen as a threat to him and slowly but surely building up trust and a dialogue when the young officer, sat several feet away, saw her captor lower his firearm. Unlike the firearm he was facing today which, had two barrels and only held two shells before it had to be reloaded, the bank robber had a single barrelled sawn off pump action shotgun which held at least seven or eight 12 bore cartridges.

Although many witnesses recall instances seemingly happening in slow motion, it happened so quickly and unexpectedly that John had not been able to shout at the officer. He couldn’t stop her as she made a lunge for the gun. She grabbed it in a way that you might take hold of a Christmas cracker. She wrapped both hands around the barrel and pulled it towards her.

Even to this day, John was absolutely certain that it had not been the intention of the gunman to pull the trigger but, as he tried to pull the gun barrel back towards him, out of the young officers grasp, it went off fatally wounding her in the stomach.

She died instantly. Her spinal cord was cut clean through and two of her vertebrae shattered into several pieces. As she slumped to the floor with her mouth and eyes wide open, her insides emptied in a pool of blood, intestines and mucus around the gunman’s feet. He stepped back leaving a bloody footprint on the marble floor, as his own mouth opened in disbelief at the crumpled body below. John could plainly see the look of abject horror and panic on his face.

The cashier, sitting on the floor several feet away screamed and ran for the door as the gunman instinctively raised the gun in her direction. This time he did intend to fire and the back of her head exploded like a pomegranate as bits of skull and brain tissue splattered against the outside of the bullet proof glass. The beautifully ornate mahogany counter of a few minutes before now smeared with blood and bone fragments. John was falling to the floor at the same time as the manager collapsed in a heap next to the cash machine and John heard the distinctive sliding action of the weapon as one shell was ejected to be replaced by the next cartridge of death.

He knew the metal legs and flimsy upholstery of the chairs would not protect him and, as he looked up in the direction of the gunman several feet away, he saw him slump to his knees. Almost in slow motion, and certainly with a sense of shock and horror, the gunman looked at the empty shells at his feet and at each of the motionless persons in turn.

First, the policewoman at his side with a hole the size of a small football in her back where the cartridge had exited her body, then to the cashier, almost headless, several feet away. He looked at the bank manager lying on his face, his light coloured suit peppered with blood. He was in such a confused state of mind, he’d pulled the trigger two or three times; he didn’t know whether he had shot the manager or not. Finally, he looked over to where John had cowered behind the chairs. Their eyes met. The young man, still kneeling, slowly shook his head. He leaned back heavily on his heels and looked up to the domed ceiling of the bank, tears streaming down his cheeks. It seemed like a long time as they were both trying to understand how it had happened and why. It was in fact only a matter of a few seconds before he lowered his gaze from above and looked down at the floor. He had never seen so much blood.

How could a situation change so dramatically in less than 30 seconds or so. One or two minutes before, everybody had been alive. Shocked, most certainly, frightened; absolutely, but all unharmed. Now, two people had died at his hands in the most violent of circumstances as the pools of blood from the two horribly disfigured persons spread out across the floor engulfing his knees in warm sticky crimson. The once beautiful building now resembled that of a war zone.

He didn’t speak, just looked back over at John, placed the stock of the gun between his knees and leant forward slightly. The fleshy under part of his chin pressed down on the stubby barrel of the gun and, looking away from John towards the two mutilated bodies, he squeezed the trigger.

That image, of the shotgun shell entering his lower jaw and exiting out the top of his skull; with blood, mucus, membrane and hair smashing their way out of the top of his head like a volcano erupting, would stay with him for many years. The later enquiry into the circumstances of the fatal shooting would conclude that the double murder and suicide could not have been prevented by John.

The evidence of the only other person to survive the carnage; the manager, who made particular mention of his negotiating skills and calm demeanour, was still not enough to prevent John’s feelings of failing his young colleague in her sudden and shocking death.  That was one of the few occasions where John was thankful of the counselling procedures and it helped him to eventually come to terms with his own guilt. Mike Hogan knew that John’s actions were to do with that earlier bank job. He wasn’t about to see another colleague murdered and just maybe, his judgement was a little impaired.

‘Well, pick the fucking thing up then.’

Mike’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the voice from the wagon. He saw John slowly stoop to the ground and pick up the severed finger. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wrap the white cotton gently around the digit as the blood red stain began to spread through the linen. He turned to walk away when he was halted by the voice from the cab.

‘Hey, John boy. Don’t be in such a hurry, come over here a minute. We need to get to know each other a little better.’

John hadn’t expected this and he was sure that the gunman would soon have two hostages instead of one. He wondered; might he be able to persuade the gunman to let him swap places with his injured colleague? He stood with his back to the open drivers’ window for a second or two; he was looking at Mike who was slowly shaking his head. The signal was very clear, without doubt his workmate was saying, ‘don’t go anywhere near this madman.’ He tried to think ahead. He turned and walked toward the wagon and there was an obvious concern in the minds of the watching police officers at the scene and also, back at the Incident Command Centre, who were viewing the situation in real time as the force Helicopter beamed back pictures of the unfolding scenario. They could hear every word Johnson was uttering and could easily discern the hostility in his voice. John stood directly beneath the window of the cab. He could not see the gunman as he was still concealed by the bunk area.

‘Take it out.’ he said to John.

‘What do you mean,’ he replied, ‘take what out?’

‘Porky’s fucking finger. Take it out of the hankie.’

John looked down at his right hand holding the bloody handkerchief and started to unwrap it.

‘Let me have a look.’ came the voice from within and with that, John spread the cotton covering to reveal the two inch long finger remains inside the blood stained handkerchief.

‘Lift it up here, closer to the window.’ John did as he was told and lifted his hands up. The gunman reached down and picked up the finger with his right forefinger and thumb. He examined it closely for a few seconds observing the torn skin and sinew trailing out from the opposite end of the fingernail.

‘Can you take him Ged’ came the voice in the marksman’s earpiece.

‘No shot, repeat, no shot. I think he’s holding the gun in his left hand pointing at Dave Watkins head.’

‘Roger, just to confirm, you have the authority at any time you consider appropriate. Understood.’

‘Yes, message received and understood.

Come on you bastard, drop your guard and give me just one shot. Lean out of the cab just a bit, one shot is all I need,’ Ged Duggan was perched on a table in a ground floor office some one hundred yards away and at about the same height as the bunk bed but, with the curtain of the sleeping area of the cab slightly drawn, he couldn’t take the chance of missing his target. He knew that with this animal, he wouldn’t get a second chance to save his colleague’s life.

Ged, looking through the sight, could see that the gunman was holding the severed finger in front of his face and appeared to be looking at it in some detail. He wanted to take the shot, but was not prepared for the consequences if Dave was not safe. He had to know that his colleague wouldn’t die because of his actions. Take it easy Ged, he thought to himself, his time will come.

Johnson looked down at the injured officer on the floor of the cab and said menacingly.

‘Not much good to you now Dave,’ emphasising the word, ‘But it still might be of some use to me.’

Dave groaned in pain as he looked away from those dark eyes and unshaven face. The stubbly cheeks and chin, the result of a couple of days of beard growth, gave Johnson even more of an evil appearance. Dave covered his bloody and damaged left hand with his discarded tunic in an attempt to stem the blood loss. The gunman looked back at ‘his’ negotiator stood below him and he leaned slightly forward to make eye contact with his new acquaintance.

‘Now then Johnny me boy. What do we do next?’

‘That’s up to you. The ball’s in your court. Tell me what you want and we’ll see where we go from there.’

‘That’s right. You’re right Johnny me boy. It’s up to fuckin me. I’ll decide. Not you. Not that fuckin lot out there,’ as he gesticulated towards the police officers in the distance, still holding Dave’s mangled finger and pointing it in their direction, ‘but me. I’m in fuckin charge here. Not you. Understood?’

The hairs on the back of john’s neck were bristling and he took a step back to try and defuse the hostility and he placed his arms out forward, palms facing his aggressor, and said, ‘Okay, okay, we can resolve this, calm down and we can sort this out.’

‘Too true we can sort this out. On my fuckin terms; but don’t tell me to fuckin calm down. I’ll tell you what to do. Don’t you fuckin do it okay?’

‘Okay, okay,’ said John. ‘Tell me what you want.’ John could see, all and sundry could see, that the situation was rapidly deteriorating and the gunman was becoming more and more agitated. The siege had gone on for several hours now and john tried to lighten things up a bit.

‘Do you want something to eat? You and Dave, you must be hungry. Something to eat and drink eh?’

‘Good idea. Good fuckin idea eh Dave? What d’ya fancy Dave? Pizza, Chicken wings? Something, ‘finger lickin good eh?’ He raised the severed finger between his own thumb and forefinger and licked the fleshy bloodstained fingerprint. As Dave weakly groaned his agreement to his captor, the gunman turned back to look at John.

‘We’re agreed, old Davey and me, we’d like something finger lickin good’ and at that, there were gasps everywhere as the watching participants saw the gunman place Dave’s finger in his mouth and grip it  between his teeth. He bit down hard and the magnetic listening device on the outside of the cab was able to pick up the tearing sound of bone and sinew as the deranged gunman bit down between the first and second knuckle joint and twisted and tore as the skin parted once more.

The tip of Dave’s finger containing the fingernail, remained in the gun mans mouth. The slightly larger part of the finger, he held between his own finger and thumb and, whilst not taking his eyes off john, he flicked it in the direction of the two shield officers and it sailed over their heads and landed on the grass bank behind them.

There was complete silence, apart from the muted groans of their colleague in the cab who was beginning to wretch again at this latest act of cruelty. Johnson still fixed his gaze on the negotiator and John stared back. He hoped his face would not give away his feelings of revulsion towards his adversary. A few seconds more went by. The gunman leant a little closer to John. He was still protected by the metal side of the cab. Ged knew that the bullet would have no problem penetrating the thin steel next to the drivers window.

The AE was the latest version of the Accuracy International snipers rifle favoured by the UK police units. Some officers preferred an automatic weapon but Ged much preferred the single bolt action version. He had been practicing with the gun for several months on the range. He liked the fact that at just over 1.1 metres long and using the standard detachable box magazine with either 5 or 8 rounds, the lightness and feel of the rifle suited his grip. He was comfortable lying face down with the rifle securely fitted on to the bipod. It was a very accurate weapon up to a range of 500 metres and at this short distance, the telescopic sight presented no problems. He could easily take out his target, provided that he was sure that Dave was not also in his line of fire. The 7.62mm snipers bullet would have no difficulty in slicing through several bodies at once.

Suddenly, and without warning of any kind, Johnson spat the tip of Dave’s finger out of his mouth and it struck John firmly on the forehead. He instinctively closed his eyes as the severed tip fell to the floor. As the gunman opened his mouth to speak, he also spat a few drops of blood that was oozing from his lips and John was transfixed as they splashed onto his shoes and he stood there riveted and unable to move. His mind was screaming in silence telling him not to be sick. Remain calm, remain in control. Don’t be intimidated by this piece of sadistic shit. You’ve been in bad, bad situations before. Come on John, you know it’s classic, this animal is just letting you know he’s in charge. C’mon, breathe, breathe deeply. Count to ten.

He heard the words before he realised he had said them.

‘I’m not telling you what to do but, you both need something to eat and drink. Also, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a first aid kit so that the officer can at least bandage his injured hand. Would you allow me to make those arrangements?’

Although on the outside he was calmness personified, he wished he had his own shotgun and could blow this mans fucking brains out. John was not a violent man by nature; he was a regular churchgoer and God fearing man. His faith in humanity was being tested like it had never been tested before and, try as he might, he could not understand why God would allow such a piece of human excrement to walk on this good earth. Surely if any man deserved to die, it was this piece of, ... his thoughts were interrupted.

‘Yeah. Just do it. Couple of Pizza’s and some water.’

John bent down; his hand was shaking as he picked up the small finger tip, he quickly turned on his heels and walked away from the cab. He went to the grass verge behind the two shield officers and, after a few moments of scrabbling through the grass and debris, located the other part of Dave’s finger, wrapped the two pieces in his handkerchief once more, and slowly walked back to the police cordon. There was no way the two shield officers were going to turn their backs on the unstable gunman and they shuffled backwards until they reached the safety of the cordon.

‘John,’ said Mike Hogan, ‘are you allright? I don’t know how you remained so calm out there mate. That guys a fuckin madman.’

‘He’s a lot more than that Mike, he’s a psychopath and I’m pretty sure that he’s looking forward to killing Dave when he thinks the time is right. He’s popping pills like they’re going out of fashion to make sure he keeps himself charged up. The way things are, he’s only going to get more volatile as time goes by.

Dave is being systematically demoralised and brutalized by Johnson. He’s severely shocked and still losing blood and I just don’t know how long he will be able to cope with it.’

Chapter 11

Under the protection of the two shield officers once again, John made his way back to within ten or fifteen yards of the stranded wagon. He hadn’t noticed before, but he saw now how the wagon had come to a violent stop as the sharp edged metal wheel rims, now with their tyres hanging off, had bitten into the softer tarmac of the service road and become slightly buried. He could see quite clearly that the wagon wouldn’t move again until it was towed out of there by a recovery truck.

John had two hot twelve inch pizzas in their familiar cardboard packaging and a pack of six bottles of water. He thought he had managed to persuade Johnson by keeping his voice low and quiet, that it would be a good gesture if he would also allow Dave to tend to his injuries with the first aid kit that he had placed on top of the pizza cartons.

‘How are we going to do this?’ said John. ‘Do you want to lean out and take the cartons from me?’

‘Yeah, that’s no problem. And as I lean out, my fuckin head leaves my shoulders. What do you think I am eh, completely fuckin stupid? Come closer, open the door, and put the stuff on the drivers’ seat. Understood?’

‘No problem, there’s also some painkillers for Dave Watkins if you’ll allow him to take them.’

‘Just put everything on the fucking seat. I’ll decide what he gets and what he doesn’t ok?’ John didn’t say any more, he didn’t want to antagonise Johnson; he’d made his point about the bandages and just had to hope that the gunman would allow Dave to help himself to the strong painkillers. He nodded at Johnson and walked out slowly and deliberately from behind the protection of the shields.

“You; get your arse off the seat and get down there.’ Johnson growled at his captive and pointed to the passenger side of the lorry. Dave slowly and painfully got down into the foot well of the passenger area next to the shattered door window. He wasn’t allowed onto the passenger seat itself because the gunman wanted to make a point to John when he opened the door a few seconds later.

‘Right, stop there.’ Johnson shouted out to John who was about three or four yards from the wagon and it took him by surprise as he almost stumbled forward. He just managed to prevent the bottles of water and first aid kit from falling off the pizza boxes.

‘Put that lot on the floor, come forward, open the door and then go and get the stuff. Put it on the drivers’ seat. Close the door and then back away. Do not look up, and do not look at me at any time. Do you understand?’

John understood only too well. The last thing the gunman wanted was for john to be able to pinpoint his exact position in the lorry. He knew that the snipers bullet would have no difficulty in penetrating the thin metal. He opened the door slowly and kept his gaze low. At first he didn’t see Dave as he was sat on the floor on the other side of the wagon and he thought he was up in the bunk area. He saw quite clearly the remnants of the shattered steering wheel and the damaged steering column. He went back to where the pizza’s were and returned to the wagon and placed them on the driver’s seat. He heard him before he saw him. Just a little whimper in the gloominess of the dark cab and he looked to the floor where the noise had come from.

‘Oh my God’, he gasped. Immediately, he cursed himself. In the first instance, he didn’t want to alarm Dave. He looked a complete mess with congealed blood all over his face, bits of makeshift bandage everywhere, fatigued and hollow eyed. Secondly, Johnson had drawn a reaction from him and was about to take further delight in his captives suffering.

‘Not a pretty sight your mate eh. Take that message back to your other mates. Tell them how nice he looks. Tell them he will suffer a lot more if they make me unhappy. Now, fuck off.’

Johnson, in dramatic style and with words full of aggression and menace told Dave to eat the first piece. ‘If they’ve fuckin poisoned it bollocks, you’re gonna die before I get the chance to shoot yeh.

Dave had to tear the pizza with his right hand as no matter what, he couldn’t seem to get his left hand to obey his thoughts. He was feeling the pain in every part of his body. The blood in the exposed socket where his little finger had been was beginning to congeal slightly and was just oozing now as opposed to flowing freely. The bottle of water and two slices of food had begun to revive him slightly as he realised that it was now nearing lunchtime and he hadn’t eaten anything for almost twelve hours. He had grown steadily weaker as the morning wore on and the pizza was a welcome distraction from the throbbing in his head.

Johnson had allowed Dave to take the painkillers and, together with the food that he was greedily consuming, the effects were beginning to lessen his weakness. The fuzziness in his brain was starting to clear as the water rehydrated him and replenished a little of the fluid loss.

He tied a large field dressing type bandage around his left hand and discarded his tunic on the floor of the wagon. The fabric was saturated and couldn’t absorb any more fluid; It was literally dripping and Dave realised that over the last hour or so, he had lost a substantial amount of blood. He hoped that by eating and drinking as much as his captor would allow, he might be able to regain some energy. He knew his ordeal was a long way from being over. His stomach ached from the retching earlier when he had watched the gunman chewing on his finger, but he was determined to force down as much as possible. He had seen how quickly Johnson’s mood could change from relative calmness to outright rage and brutality and he didn’t know when he would be allowed to eat again.

He was well aware by now that Sergeant Chambers would have spoken to Mandy and told her that he had been kidnapped and he hoped that the news had not filtered through to the twins. Mandy was strong, but he prayed that she was not aware of the full circumstances of his ordeal. Of course they would have told her, but he hoped they would have played it down a bit. Yes she was strong, hard headed even on occasions but, when it came to her family and any pain they might be in, she was as vulnerable as any loving wife and mother.

She liked Dave’s Sergeant, Bob Chambers, and they had enjoyed the Section Nights out when she had seen the jovial sergeant keeping an eye on his brood of young officers. ‘Sergeant Bob’ as she called him affectionately, had taken quite a shine to Dave’s lovely wife in an innocent, fatherly way, and he would laugh at the ‘do’s, when she would drag the protesting Sergeant onto the dance floor for a quick jive and he would end the dance, hobbling away from the floor complaining about his arthritic hip, holding his heart and shouting to Dave, ‘If I was twenty years younger, sunshine, I’d sweep your missus of her feet. You wouldn’t stand a chance mate.’

Dave would retort, ‘Aye boss, she’s always had a thing about older men, or in your case, much, much older men.’

‘Cheeky young bugger’ Bob would mutter as he headed for the bar and a refill of his pint pot. Whenever there was a new addition to the block, Bob would go out of his way to organise a night out at the Police Club to ensure he or she settled in with the other officers. Buying the first round of drinks, which always went down well with the troops; and then settling back to see how the evening developed.  He liked to see them mature into fine police officers over the years, giving advice when required and severe reprimands when needed. All his officers knew that he would back them to the hilt when they needed him, provided that they had acted in good faith and with the right intentions, but woe betide any one who tried to pull the wool over his eyes as he would bollock them up hill and down dale until he made them see sense. One of his many expressions would be, ‘Now, remember lad, don’t turn an honest mistake into a dishonest one.’ He would then go on to explain, usually over a cup of tea or a beer, how it was always better to throw your hands up, and admit when you had made a mistake.

‘Everybody makes mistakes, its all part of the learning curve son,  But, if you make an honest mistake, and then try to hide it and start telling porkies, you end up in a right old mess. Honest mistake lad, freely admitted. That’s the way forward. No one wants to hang any body out to dry son; we’ve all been there, even old bastards like me. Now, sup up, and you can buy me another pint.’

Dave wondered how he had broken the news; he knew it would be gently, he also knew that Bob would be hurting too.

She wasn’t unduly worried when the ‘phone rang just after eight o’clock as although Dave usually rang if he was going to be home late, sometimes it wasn’t possible if he was in the middle of taking a witness Statement from someone or stuck with a prisoner in the Custody Suite and couldn’t get to a telephone. Sometimes, ‘Sergeant Bob’ would ring saying he was going to be late or one of the lads on the Section would keep her informed so she wasn’t phased when she saw the familiar police station number show up on the caller identity facility on the telephone display.

As soon as he said, “Hello Mandy, Bob here,” she knew this was not an ordinary call. She recognised his voice as soon as he began to speak; she also recognised the slight crack in his voice instantly. Before he could say anything else, she cut across him.

‘Bob, just tell me. If its bad news, don’t go round the houses. Tell me straight; please. Just say it straight out.’ There was a momentary silence as Bob decided how to tell her. How on earth could he tell someone he thought of as a daughter that her husband had been taken prisoner by a madman with a shotgun?

‘Is he dead Bob? Please just say it if he is.’

‘No. Love, he’s not dead but it is a serious situation. I’m on my way round to the house now but I didn’t want to just turn up in the police car without warning.’

Mandy’s knees were buckling, her body couldn’t hold her up and she sat heavily on the stool next to the phone. ‘Is it an accident Bob? Has he had an accident on the way home? Has he had a car crash?’

‘No’. said Bob. ‘He’s involved in a serious incident and he’s been taken hostage in a wagon. I don’t want to say too much over the phone love. I’ll be at the house in fifteen minutes. Get the kettle on and you can make me one of your special cups of tea, nice and sweet, just like us eh?’ He couldn’t help it, it was just part of his nature to try and lighten the atmosphere whenever he was the bearer of sad or traumatic news. ‘Two rounds of toast wouldn’t go amiss either sweetheart. See you soon.’