Critical Threat by Nick Oldham Page A

hell!’ he said again.
    The Astra’s engine was ear-splittingly loud, but Henry did not let up on it. He pushed it to its limits and as he shot a red light at the junction of Queens Road – on the corner, by the hospital – he was travelling at sixty, which was fast for the conditions in this built-up area. The BMW had dipped out of sight beyond a slight rise. Henry knew the road ahead was fairly straight, though it was narrow for a main road, and because of the time of day and the lack of other traffic, the BMW had the capacity to leave the Astra standing.
    â€˜
Just had a report of a stolen BMW from Accrington town centre in the last ten minutes
,’ the comms operator said from the control room at Blackburn, which covered this area. He gave details and asked if this could be the one they were chasing.
    â€˜Affirmative,’ the PC replied as he sat back and, intelligently, put a seat belt on.
    â€˜
Present location?
’ comms asked.
    â€˜Whalley Road heading towards Clayton … just passing the Fraser Eagle Stadium’ – Accrington Stanley’s football ground – ‘but we’ve lost sight of the car.’
    Henry was grimly undeterred. It was unlikely now that he would catch the BMW, but he always liked to go the extra mile and though he reduced speed, much to Mr Iqbal’s obvious relief, he decided to go as far as Clayton-le-Moors, then turn back. It was the thought that the BMW could be being driven by the third member of a terrorist cell that made him want to keep looking. Whilst he might be wrong on that score, he hated coincidence.
    â€˜
All patrols
,’ came the now urgent voice of the radio operator, ‘
treble-nine just received from a driver on Whalley Road, Clayton-le-Moors … reporting a BMW has just collided with two parked cars and flipped over on to its roof, just after the junction with Burnley Road … will give further details …’
    â€˜We’re one minute away,’ the PC shouted up. ‘Sounds like our man.’
    â€˜Thank you, God,’ Henry intoned and, once more, stuck his right foot down, bringing a further expletive from Mr Iqbal, who sank down into his seat and gripped his seat belt with two hands.
    The BMW driver had run the red light at the Burnley Road junction, but had been unlucky in that at that precise moment another car was legitimately crossing its bows to the green light. It had been travelling at about eighty mph and with the avoiding swerve on the greasy road, the driver had lost control. The BMW had fish-tailed out of the junction, crashed into one car parked on the left-hand side of the road, catapulted across to one on the opposite side and had then been flipped on to its roof, careering dramatically down the road, sparks flying until it pounded into another car, bounced off it and came to a crunching stop, spinning like a top on its roof and blocking the road in both directions, just on the Accrington side of a canal bridge.
    Henry stopped in the middle of the road twenty metres short of the BMW, flicked on all the Astra’s emergency lights. He and the constable bundled out of the car and trotted to the scene, the constable – efficient as ever – radioing through that they were off at the scene. Iqbal stayed in the Astra, still clutching the seat belt.
    The BMW had stopped spinning at ninety degrees to the road. It was a scrunched up mess. The roof was battered down, had damage all around it. Henry thought the driver would have been lucky to survive this in one piece as he reached the car and bent to peer inside, expecting blood and brains and broken bits of body everywhere.
    â€˜Shit!’ he breathed.
    The car was empty.
    Henry stood up, looking around, and worked out how the car had arrived at its current location, amazed that, following such a crash, the driver had managed to crawl out and leg it.
    â€˜Where the …?’ he started to say.
    â€˜What, boss?’