Just Another Day (4 page)

Sergeant Chambers was well known in the force for being a steady pair of hands and was well respected by his officers and superiors alike.
He’d earned that respect over a long period of time by being fair but firm and taking an interest in their welfare. He had a good mix of youth and experience amongst his section. Dave Watkins was one of his younger officers. Always smart and well turned out. Reliable, enthusiastic, caring and with bucket loads of common sense. All the elements that go into making a good, well rounded officer, Dave had in abundance.

Here he was, at this very moment probably scared shitless by a fucking nutter with a shotgun. Yet, he still had the presence of mind to alert us to his situation and keep us informed of what was going on and this fucking arsehole of an Inspector wants to bollock him for not wearing his helmet, well, not today sunshine.

At some point in the future, Bob Chambers would have a nickname as befits the liverpudlian humour as a direct result of what happened next.

Bob’s anger did not rise to the surface very often but PC Tony Griffiths had seen him once or twice before when they had dealt with violent and dangerous or difficult situations. He recognised the tell tale signs. He saw the veins in Bob’s neck begin to swell; the lines on his forehead became more prominent. His eyes narrowed and his fists and arms began to tense. Bob was looking at Inspector James very intently.

Had Sergeant Chambers been a bull, you would have undoubtedly heard him snorting and seen him clawing at the ground with his cloven hoof. Bob’s body language left no one, except Inspector James, in an
y doubt whatsoever of his demeanour.

Griff quickly moved forward and stood directly in front of his Sergeant.
‘Can I have a quick word sarge?’

‘
Not now lad. I need to speak to the Inspector.’

‘
That’s what I’m afraid of boss.’ Said Griff as he was very politely, but very firmly, moved to the side by one of Bob Chambers shovel sized hands.

Griff looked at his mate, Steve Mullins who was still manning the radio. They both looked each other in the eye. Neither said a word, but each silently mouthed to each other those words that are often uttered when the situation is about to get volatile.

‘Oh Fuck.’

‘
Sir,’

‘
What is it Sergeant?’

‘
Can I have a word in your office?’

‘
If you’ve got something to say Sergeant, get on with it. Don’t prevaricate man. Time is of the essence if we want to conclude this drama. Speak up.’

The lava was rising and about to erupt.

‘Sir, you are without doubt, the biggest fucking arsehole that’s it’s ever been my misfortune to work with.’

Inspector James began to
splutter. ‘Be careful what you say Sergeant, I’ll have you on paper for this impertinence.’

‘
Sir, you can take that paper, roll it very tightly and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I couldn’t give a toss. Dave Watkins might get shot at any moment and the only thing I have heard you express concern about is the fact that he was not wearing his fucking helmet at the time that he was forced into a wagon by some psychopath with a sawn off shotgun. What fucking planet are you on?

You
Mister, who has never seen an angry man; you who has spent your entire career shuffling bits of paper; are not fit to lace that lads boots.

Now, fuck off out of my control room and, if Dave comes out of this ok, we’ll both come and see you and you can advise us in whatever manner seems appropriate regarding proper standards.
’

As Inspector James beat a hasty retreat from the control room muttering repercussions about career prospects, Bob Chambers became aware of the other officers in the control room and began to apologise.

‘I’m sorry lads. That should have been a private conversation. I am extremely sorry if I have caused embarrassment to any of you.’

He could hear a cheering and clapping in the background and at first was confused as to where it was coming from. There was a considerable amount of smirking and smiling from his lads, but no one was speaking.
He suddenly realised. The direct line to the Merseyside Police incident room was still open. They had been listening to the limited commentary Dave Watkins was able to convey through the Port Police radio system and had been monitoring the unfolding hostage situation. As a consequence, they had heard every word of Bob’s ‘interesting’ conversation with the Inspector.

Bob picked up the handset,
‘Hello, Sergeant Chambers here.’

‘
Hi Bob, it’s your friendly Force Incident manager here.’

‘
I’m sorry Larry. That was supposed to have been a private chat between Inspector James and me. Please give my apologies to the officers in your control room.’

‘
Apologies; you must be joking mate. We’re having a whip round here to buy you a bottle of scotch. Everyone here thought you were brilliant. He’s always been a tosser. Everyone knows that. Oh, and by the way, Chief Superintendent Mackay sends his regards. He has assumed overall command of the incident and says he would love to be a supporting character witness if James wants to push any disciplinary action in your direction.

Right Bob, now here’s what we’ve got so far. The chopper has been up for about fifteen minutes and thinks he’s got an eyeball on the wagon. He’s going in for a closer look but making sure he’s far enough back not to be spotted.
The best chance we’ve got at the moment of ending this peacefully and with as few casualties as possible; are if our target isn’t aware he’s being tracked.’

‘
Thanks Larry. We all feel a bit useless at this end.’

‘
No problem Bob. We’ll keep this line open so you lads can follow the plan. We’ve got the details of the wagon and the container numbers from your lad at the gate so the chopper should be able to confirm the details soon enough. Oh, just one more thing Bob, before I go. I think Mr James will need plenty of sugar in his brew. Might just need it for shock. And if
you’re
making the tea, make sure it’s sugar you put in and not rat poison. Speak to you soon Bob.’

Bob laughed weakly and thanked his long time friend for his help and the line went quiet.
He was aware that his officers were looking at him in the control room and looked up.

‘
OK lads, get the kettle on. Not a lot we can do now except listen and wait. They’ve got good lads out there who are well used to dealing with hostage situations.  Dave will be all right. I can feel it in me water.’

He sounded far more confident than he felt.

‘
Hotel Charlie One to control’

Steve Wilson had been a member of the Air Support Group and a regular Police Air Observer in the force helicopter for about three years. He, his two fellow Observers and the Pilot, were well experienced in spotting and tracking stolen cars and the crew had an excellent record of being able to direct the ground patrols to the right location to ensure the villains were locked up. This was a bit different. This was one of their own who was in serious danger. His stomach churned a little more than usual as he said to himself,
‘let’s do this one right boys.’

T
he ‘Chopper’ was a Eurocopter EC 135 capable of a top cruising speed of 170 mph and its powerful twin turbine engines could propel it from its base at Woodvale Aerodrome to most places in the force area in a fairly short time.

‘
Receiving you loud and clear Hotel Charlie One. Pass your message.’

‘
Target vehicle confirmed. Eastbound in nearside lane on M62 just passing services at Burtonwood. Believe target vehicle not aware of our presence.’

The two black unmarked Range Rover Armed Response Vehicles had been rolling for several minutes and heard the message loud and clear. The normal ARV’s were highly visible and easily identified with their high visibility markings and external blue lig
hts and were usually crewed by two uniformed officers. They would normally be the first firearms officers to attend any incident.

The officers in the blacked out range rovers were quite a bit different. As Specialist Firearms Officers from the Force Dynamic Intervention Team, their specific role within the broader firearms unit was hostage rescue.

They joined the M62 at the Rocket junction at high speed. ‘Blues and Twos’ ensuring their progress was swift. They knew it would be a race against time as the longer the situation prevailed, the longer their colleague was in danger.

Two teams consisting of four men in each vehicle was a standard response to a hostage situation.
The teams trained constantly for just such an event. This job was something out of the ordinary. To rescue hostages from a building was one thing. To attempt a rescue from a vehicle travelling at sixty miles an hour on a motorway was something altogether different!

A Sergeant and three cons made up each unit. Each was an expert marksman and a Class One driver.
Each vehicle was exceptionally powerful, armour plated and fitted out with an awesome amount of weapons and specialist kit.

For all their equipment and training, Sergeant Lee Evans knew they would need at least an equal amount of luck and good fortune. Even the most comprehensive training, and training was what they did for most of their duty time, would count for nothing if it wasn’t accompanied by a little good fortune along the way.

‘Romeo Victor One to Romeo Victor Two receiving?’

‘
RV 2 receiving. Go ahead.’

‘
Be advised we’re ten miles behind the target vehicle. Hotel Charlie One will further advise when we are within two miles at which time we will go to silent approach. Received?’

‘
That’s a Roger RV 1, message received.’

Jos Lewis was the skipper of RV 2 and had worked with Lee on the ARV’s for four years.
They had been through quite a few scrapes together during their time with the unit. The eight officers who made up the two ARV’s had the utmost respect for each other and had developed deep friendships and respect in a way that only officers who have placed their lives in each others hands could understand.

Psychologists had likened it to battle zone situations where combat troops would risk their own lives to save a comrade. Whilst it was often thought of as fighting for Queen and Country, patriotism or whatever, it was just as likely to be fighting for your mate to save his life in exactly the same way as if the boot was on the other foot. You knew without question that when the bullets were flying, your ‘oppo’ would put his life in danger to save you. Quite extraordinary bonds developed between them as they had to trust each other implicitly and without hesitation. Hesitation meant that someone could be hurt or killed. Hesitation was simply not acceptable.

The training for the unit was incredibly stressful and the failure rate for prospective candidates was inevitably high. Whilst individual acts of bravery and heroism were often needed, the most important aspect was that of the team. If you weren’t a team player, you wouldn’t make the grade, plain and simple.

Extremely fit, mentally very strong, ready to deploy at a minutes notice, sometimes in the middle of the night, unable to discuss situations with your nearest and dearest. Being able to adapt and alter the plan as it developed. Most importantly, being able to pull that trigger either as a consequence of what you see yourself through your telescopic sight or, perhaps even more difficult, being told by someone that you may not even have met before, an Assistant Chief Constable or Commander, when that message arrives in your covert earpiece,
‘green for go, repeat, green for go.’

There are not many men or women who are able to tick all those boxes.

All the officers had to go through psychological evaluation on a regular basis and particularly so after an Operation to assess their mental fortitude. If an ordinary officer made a mistake, it could normally be rectified without too much of a problem. Bit different for the firearms lads. If they made a mistake, the wrong person or the innocent civilian may end up on the mortuary slab and the personal implications for that officer would be devastating. The implications for his family would be just as devastating.

‘
What did you do today dad?’

‘
Well sunshine, it’s like this. I meant to shoot the bad guy who was holding the gun to the hostage’s head, but he leaned down at the last moment and I shot the lady that he was holding instead. How was your day at school love?’

How does the officer involved come to terms with the fact that he has killed an innocent person, does his family know, can he ever tell them. How do they react if they do know, could he ever pick up a firearm again, would he ever be allowed to? The questions, the doubts, the waking up in the middle of the night with the images of a head exploding. Could anyone ever truly come to terms with something like this? A thousand questions and ‘what if’s’. How many answers?

On the film set, you could re-shoot the scene time and again to get it right.

‘
Quiet please, Action.  No that hasn’t worked people, let’s try that one more time, turn your head a little more to the right, and, Action.’

Real life, on the other hand, isn’t like that.
No rehearsals, no second chances.

‘
Hey mate, he doesn’t look too good.’ Dave Watkins was pointing towards Joe the lorry driver.

‘
What are you on about?’ said shotgun.

Joe was sweating profusely and his face was flushed. Dave knew that Joe’s sickly appearance was about more than the situation he had become embroiled in, he was quite ill.

‘I need to stop for a minute. I need my pills.’

‘
What pills?’ said the gunman.

‘
They’re by my bunk behind you. Got a bit of a heart problem. I’ll be OK, but I need to get them. I can control things when I take one a few times a day, but if I get stressed, I need to take extra ones. It won’t take a minute, but I need to pop one under my tongue. I can’t do it while I’m driving. I need to stop just for a few minutes.’

Like most modern lorries, there was a sleeping compartment behind the drivers seat for when they were doing out of town or long distance runs.

‘Where are they?’

‘
In the little locker; behind the officer.’

‘
Right bollocks, reach behind you and get his pills.’ said Johnson to Dave. ‘If you fuck about, you’ll have two arseholes where you once had only one. Understand?’

Both control rooms were listening to the unfolding conversation and tensions were increasing all round.

‘Be advised Romeo Victor One and Two, target vehicle is weaving between the nearside and centre lanes and is slowing.’

The helicopter was hovering about one mile back and zooming in using the broadcast quality TV camera housed in the mission pod underneath the aircraft. The crew also had an array of other cameras which, depending on the situation they were dealing with, could be utilised. A
good quality digital camera for taking still photographs was also part of the kit. Steve didn’t think they’d be using the still camera today. The TV quality camera was also a thermal imaging unit and really came into its own during the hours of darkness when picking up heat sources. It was so powerful; it could even pick up a heat source from within a household refuse bin.

On occasions, ground patrol officers had been directed to a ‘wheely’ bin in the driveway of a house (a favourite spot for hiding by escaping thieves etc) only for the officers to discover that the heat source was in fact a load of composting grass and garden clippings.

The quiet conversation in the chopper was interrupted by the spotter, ‘Target vehicle moving to nearside lane. Stop, stop, stop, vehicle has stopped on hard shoulder, repeat, vehicle is stationary, all persons remain in the vehicle at this time.’ The helicopter hovered at a safe distance waiting for the vehicle to move once more.

Joe managed to bring the wagon to a stop before crashing. The pain was crippling, he could feel the tell tale band of his heart condition tightening quickly around his chest and he thought he was about to collapse.
He had stamped hard on the brakes and caused the wheels to lock and skid to a halt. Dave was suddenly off balance as he was reaching behind into the bunk area. He was violently thrown forward with the momentum of the quickly slowing vehicle and his shoulder hit the windscreen with considerable force.

His police radio dislodged from the harness under his tunic and Dave saw it tumble, almost in slow motion
. Dave was screaming in silence; this isn’t happening, this is not fucking happening. The radio struck the dashboard hard, bounced up onto the windscreen, then down onto his knee, and fell to the floor of the cab under Dave’s feet. Both the gunman and Dave looked at each other, the floor of the cab, and then back to each other.

He screamed at Dave.
‘You fucking twat.’ He turned the stock of the sawn off round and hit Dave hard between the eyes. The skin on his forehead split instantly and he was severely stunned as his head snapped back and smashed into the metal pillar of the passenger door causing another wound to open on the back of his head. Johnson’s eyes bulged and all the veins stood out on his neck as he screamed at Dave.

‘
Who’s listening? Who knows; who fuckin knows we’re here?’ He moved towards Dave who was trying to push himself back up into the passenger seat.

Joe leant on his drivers’ door handle, more in accident than intent as he cowered away from the madman sat alongside him. He was trying to get as far away from him as possible. The handle moved and the door suddenly opened and the momentum of his weight made him tumble onto the road surface several feet below.
Out of instinct and abject terror, he jumped to his feet and ran and stumbled towards the rear of the lorry.

A car and a motorcycle swerved and narrowly missed him. Horns sounded, brakes and tyres squealed and screeched. The smell of burning rubber filled the air.
There was no sound of tearing metal no screams of pain. Miraculously, there were no accidents, no motorway carnage.

Joe ran unsteadily along the hard shoulder. Each footstep taking him further away from the mayhem behind. He might die from a heart attack, he thought as the exertion took its toll on his body, but at least he wouldn’t die at the hands of the maniac he had escaped from.

‘You fucker, you’re gonna die.’ Shotgun lifted the sawn off to shoulder height and pulled the trigger. As the muzzle erupted, Dave ducked down and fell to the floor of the lorry. The passenger door window behind him shattered and fragments of glass and plastic door trim sprayed out in a wide arc onto the grass embankment of the Motorway hard shoulder.

‘
Be advised, shots fired, repeat, shots have been fired. One male, believed to be the driver, out of the vehicle on hard shoulder approximately one hundred metres to the rear of the wagon. Appears unharmed. Casualties inside vehicle not known, repeat, not known if there are any casualties in the vehicle.’

The two control rooms, and the two Armed Response vehicles, now also stopped on the hard shoulder two miles behind the stationary lorry, listened in stunned silence to the calm, matter of fact, commentary of Steve Wilson as he viewed the scene through the camera lens of the helicopter.

‘The male who exited the driver’s side door is a heavy set man of about 55 years; he is now collapsed on the embankment on the safe side of the Armco barrier on the hard shoulder about 300 yards to the rear of the target vehicle.’

The high powered camera zoomed in to its maximum telephoto capacity.

‘A white Vauxhall cavalier motor car, has just pulled up on the hard shoulder. The driver, a male about 30 years of age and a female who looks to be about 25 years appear to be tending him. The male believed to be the lorry driver is making gestures towards the wagon. He is now being helped into the rear of the cavalier by the female who has climbed in alongside him. The other male is getting into the drivers side of the cavalier. The vehicle has rejoined the main carriageway at high speed and has now passed the stationary lorry. I will maintain my position to the rear of the target vehicle. I am not in a position at this time to give any further details regarding the occupants of the cavalier. Hotel Charlie One to control, please acknowledge this information.’