Critical Threat by Nick Oldham

life.
    Iqbal’s description of the man was circulated by the constable, though Henry knew that at five in the morning, the area would hardly be flooded with uniforms. In fact he recalled that at the briefing he had been told that there were only three officers on duty in Accrington after 4 a.m. – and he had snaffled one car for him and two vans for the prisoners, which meant, frustratingly, there was no one else to assist with the search until the reinforcements arrived.
    He settled behind the wheel of the Astra and drove through the drizzle, whilst thinking about Operation Enid, the highly suspect intelligence they’d had to swallow, and putting officers in unnecessary danger. He smiled grimly, anticipating the carefully chosen words he would later be machine-gunning at Detective Superintendent Greek, the SB boss. When he did it, he hoped that a few of the spooks would be in earshot too.
    He drove up to the railway station, saw no one fitting the description, then did a slow tour of the town. Mr Iqbal did not spot the intruder. Henry decided to call it off and get back to the scene.
    They had circled the town centre and were on Blackburn Road, an ASDA superstore on their right and a new-ish complex of retail outlets, car dealers and a cinema. The traffic lights outside ASDA were on red. Henry pulled into the nearside lane, signalling (to no one in particular) his intention to turn left. He checked his mirror and actually saw there was a car behind, a BMW, approaching slowly in the offside lane, obviously going straight on towards the M65, about two miles ahead.
    The lights turned green.
    Henry selected first and – the habit of a lifetime drilled into him by a succession of police driving courses – before moving checked his mirror and noticed that the BMW, instead of setting off, had stopped completely some twenty metres behind.
    â€˜What’s this guy up to?’ Henry said, his eyes still in the mirror.
    The PC in the back looked over his shoulder. Mr Iqbal had a look, too.
    Suddenly the BMW did a spectacular reverse U-turn, the whole car rocking, tyres squealing, even on the damp tarmac, and shot off back towards the town.
    Henry fumbled with his gear and tried to execute the same manoeuvre, which he succeeded in doing with much less panache than whoever was driving the BMW. As he did this, the PC in the back radioed in.
    In the seat next to Henry, Mr Iqbal grabbed the elbow rest on his door with both hands and said, ‘Fuckin’ hell!’
    â€˜Just hold tight, you’ll be OK, I’m a safe driver.’ He rammed his foot on to the accelerator, flicked on the blues, and pushed the Astra hard, making the underpowered engine scream in protest. It did, however, respond well and he was still in sight of the BMW when he reached the roundabout underneath the old railway viaduct where several roads converged just on the edge of town. The driver of the BMW switched off the lights on the German car as he gunned the vehicle up the steep incline that was Milnshaw Lane and, without even the hint of a pause, did a left on to Whalley Road, also quite a steep hill, and sped out of town.
    Henry was a skilled driver. He had done all the courses and more, and on top of that he’d had many car chases – even survived them – but even he had a shiver of dread when he too pulled out of Milnshaw Lane and caused a law abiding member of the public, tootling along in his Nissan, minding his own business, to brake hard, swerve, mount the kerb and just miss a lamp post.
    â€˜I’ll say sorry later,’ Henry promised.
    In the seat behind him, the PC had started a running commentary: ‘Now on Whalley Road in the direction of Clayton-le-Moors; speeds in excess of fifty and accelerating … didn’t get the registration number … yeah, blue BMW …’
    Mr Iqbal, even in the greyness of dawn, had clearly lost his colour, his face having drained of blood. ‘Fuckin’