The Walking Dead

If Hegner was close to a similar state of panic, he showed none of it. Not even apprehension. He had started to hum a tune. One of those sickly sweet, sentimental songs that were played on the radio at this time, as Anne cooked his breakfast with that station on her radio. Irritation swarmed in Naylor, was kept with difficulty in check. The humming lilted on. He imagined consequences. Men and women of the Internal Investigation Branch, grim-faced and no understanding of the reality of pressures, would come out of the dark burrows, would examine the logs for details of the release of a prisoner, would confiscate mobile telephones and locate the source place of calls, would dig down into the earth, drag away concrete debris and uncover a body wrapped tight in plastic, would check the tasking of an RAF helicopter and…God, it was a bloody nightmare. He saw himself confronted in a police station's interview room by Branch officers — probably would know them, but no damn chance they'd acknowledge previous association. Heard the caution given. A bloody nightmare like no other. The American had said that a red carpet would be unrolled for him. Naylor doubted it. He gazed away, as far as his eyes could focus, along the length of the esplanade. Didn't believe in red bloody carpets. Saw emptiness, no one coming. He stamped his feet, beat a tattoo with his shoes. He flinched as the first of the sun's strength slid into that corner of the shelter hut and the light bounced on Hegner's darkened spectacles. He shifted again and let the breath, his frustration, whistle in his teeth.

The humming stopped. 'Calm yourself, Dickie. He'll come.'

'There's no one coming.'

'Think of the glass as half full. Just keep describing the faces and the walk.'

'Time is cut fine, they'll be starting to board. Where you said, there's no man coming.'

Naylor saw the wide smile, thought it was meant to belittle him. 'Your problem, Dickie, is that you let your worries get on top of you. Believe me, he will come, right here and right past us.'

* * *

They were approaching the last turn-off from the motorway. Then, with their sirens and lights, they would have a clear run into Birmingham's city centre.

'I mean, it's like Daff said when we were back there and drawing the gear…It's a pin in a damn haystack. He's God's definition of a great comforter.'

'Maybe they should have closed up the whole damn place.'

'Can't lock down an entire city. So the centre's closed and he, slimy little sod, goes somewhere else, where people are.'

'Don't see how we can win.'

Some talked quietly, some read their magazines but interjected. There was no bravado, no joshing and crack.

'We have the photograph, and we have this daft bloody bird on the T-shirt. But he'll wear a baseball cap, and have something over the T-shirt, stands to reason, to hide the belt.'

'Remember that briefing last year — I'm not trying to be funny — that business about the smile? The Israelis say they all seem to smile. They're smiling before they go off to screw those virgins.'

'Can't shoot every Asian lad who's in the city centre and bloody smiling. Bloody ridiculous.'

The Delta team were in the lead Transit and behind them were Golf and Kilo.

'Got to be a head shot, double tap and hollow nose rounds. Only place where there isn't a spasm is the head. Chest, even straight through the heart, and his hand's on the button switch, and up the shebang goes.'

'A head shot with a Glock at ten paces — it's a miracle. How you going to use the H&K, a crowded street and all that crap? He sees you aim, and you have to, and presses the tit, and it's curtains time.'

'At ten paces, if you don't drop him, blow his effing head off — and his finger's on the switch, you go with him—but you don't get the women like he does.'

'Best thing to hope for, pray for, he's not on my bit of pavement.'

They would be on the streets, along with every gun from West Midlands and Mercia, Warwick, Greater Manchester and South Yorkshire, before the shops and offices opened. The big man of Delta, the nick on his earlobe well healed, tried with gallows humour to break the Transit's pessimistic mood. 'You got it all wrong, guys, you haven't figured it. What to do is get out a bloody great bullhorn and shout into it. What you shout is: "Anyone here with a rucksack or a big belt that's heavy, take your hands out of your pockets, and raise them over your head if you're brave and principled"…How's that?'

'Don't mention that jammy bastard, just don't.'

'Because he's history'

The sirens and the lights took them fast through the traffic, and into the city's suburbs.

The first of the management and shop staff were let in through the side door.

There had been a bad Christmas and a dead New Year of trading. Few did not appreciate the importance of the sale as a way of jacking up the turnover of the brand-name stores at the centre.

Lights flickered on, lit the shelves and counters, piers and interior window displays.