Dark Winter Tales: a collection of horror short stories. Paul Finch

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ