The Incident at North Shore. Paul FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.

      In some ways, Blair McKellan’s escape from Lowerhall was a godsend for Sharon.

      Okay, it could never be good for anyone that a six-time killer was on the loose with an apparent agenda to continue the same grisly rampage that had seen him confined in the first place, and it especially couldn’t be good for the police officers who were likely to have to pick up the pieces. But Sharon was getting to the stage where she needed more from Geoff Slater than a simple tumble in the back of his CID car, and this incident ought to create sufficient time and space for them to at least discuss it.

      That said, in the first instance McKellan would cause nothing but problems. Sharon had just commenced the night-shift when the call came through. The sound of sirens echoing across the darkened sea and the flashing glare of searchlight beams emanating from the distant, high-walled structure on the South Shore headland was immediately sufficient to attract patrols from all over St Derfyn Bay. When news broke that it was Blair McKellan, and that he’d gutted one of the guards while making his escape, patrols had come dashing from neighbouring divisions as well, and even neighbouring force areas: Dyfed-Powys in the south, Merseyside in the north.

      Of course, as a relatively junior officer, still with only a couple of years in the job, there wasn’t much that Sharon could really do. She drove warily up South Shore Drive, the airwaves crackling incomprehensibly as radio messages rocketed back and forth, the black October sky reflecting the innumerable searchlights. But she’d only travelled half a mile before reaching the first roadblock. Somehow or other, PSUs had got there ahead of her. Two of their armoured troop-carriers sat at angles across the blacktop, their complement of tough guys standing around in visored helmets and Kevlar plate, some clutching PVC riot shields and hickory night-sticks, others – indicating that one of the carriers was in fact an ARV – with pistols at their belts and carbines across their chests. Local supervision was also on hand. Sharon saw Inspector Marquis in deep conflab with a man wearing the pale-grey helmet and body-plate of the Lowerhall security team. Beyond the scene of chaos, the road curved on along the rocky coast, spangled all the way with spinning blue beacons.

      A leather-gloved hand rapped at her window. She powered it down, admitting the face of Section Sergeant Pugh. He was a pale, severe looking man with short-cropped iron-grey hair, lean features and prominent cheekbones. Such a visage wasn’t made for smiling, which was a good thing as he rarely did.

      “What are you doing here, PC Jones?” he enquired.

      “Wanted to see if I could be of assistance, sergeant,” she replied.

      “Well, as you can see … the world and his brother have taken charge of this situation.” He sniffed disapprovingly, never having been one to hold faith in specialist outfits like Tactical Support or Firearms Response. “Get back to the town centre please, and cover your beat until further notice. And if anyone else thinks they’re going to toddle up here and spend the rest of the shift drinking coffee and chatting to their mates, you can tell them otherwise.”

      She nodded, powered the window up, shifted gear and spun the car around in a three-point turn. This was just what she’d been hoping for.

      En route back to town, she passed another local patrol easing its way along South Shore Drive. She flashed her headlights and the vehicles pulled up alongside each other. It was PC Mike Lewton and his young probationer, Rob Ellis. Lewton was burly and black-haired, with a thick moustache, pitted cheeks and a flattened nose. But he wasn’t the brute he looked and was usually good for a giggle. Ellis was younger, and even more fresh-faced than Sharon, but with a shaved head and jug-handle ears, there was something vaguely comical about him.

      “Don’t tell me,” Lewton said through his open window. “Pugh wants us to pick up the scrag ends?”

      “No work for us up there,” Sharon said. “That’s only for the big boys.”

      “Probably nothing to do anyway. Just come over the FR that McKellan’s lifted one of the asylum security vehicles. He’ll be halfway down the A470 by now.” Lewton pondered and shrugged. “Alright, no worries … see you later, Shaz.”

      As expected, on returning to town Sharon copped for three jobs straight away. Routine calls had been backing up while the emergency on South Shore had been occupying the airwaves. The first was a complaint about a bunch of yobbos playing football against someone’s front door, the second was criminal damage to a car, and the third a burglary. They each took her progressively deeper into what was known as the ‘Back End’ of town, where blocks of scabby flats and rows of run-down terraced houses alternated with boarded-up pubs, sex shops and tattoo parlours. This was the sort of seedy district that the holiday programmes rarely focused on. Not that St Derfyn Bay featured very regularly on holiday programmes these days. Who actually came to the seaside for a holiday in the twenty-first century? Perhaps there were one or two, but Sharon rarely saw them.

      When