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co-ordinate; so much could go wrong and often so much depended on their success. They had never bothered Henry before because as a detective he just smugly handed them over to uniform and waited for the result. Now he was on the other side of the fence and the grass was not very green. He blew out his cheeks and wondered where the best place to hide would be.
    Before Henry could slide under his desk, curl up into a foetal ball and start sucking on his thumb, his senses were invaded by a shrieking, piercing, screaming noise which erupted all round him, stunning him. For the briefest of moments he thought it was the onset of a major panic attack. Then realised the noise was external.
    It was the personal attack alarm from the custody office.
    Without further thought or hesitation, Henry hurled himself out of his chair, grabbed the personal radio on the desk and bolted through the door towards the origin of the sound, one floor below. Even as he ran he was grateful that his cop conditioning had kicked in so quickly. One of his recurrent fears over the last few days was that he might have lost his edge.
    The prisoner had struck without warning, although the custody sergeant had been wary of the guy from the moment he had been presented to him by the arresting officer, PC Rod Phillips.
    He had started off placid and compliant, happy to stand where he had been told, a stupid lop-sided grin on his chops, while the PC outlined the circumstances of the lock-up, which was for an assault: whacking a beer glass over somebody’s head and then gouging the broken end into the guy’s face. The heavily blood-stained prisoner intimated he understood the reason for his arrest, and offered his name – Kit Nevison – address and date of birth quite willingly. He seemed to be acting rationally, did not smell too strongly of booze, and kept that inane smile on his face. The custody sergeant did notice he had glassy eyes with dilated pupils and he wondered if the prisoner was on speed. When asked, Nevison emptied his pockets and dropped the contents onto the desk.
    As the sergeant listed the property on the custody record, a female duty solicitor was shown into the office. The sergeant glanced past Nevison and smiled at her. ‘Come to see Grant?’ he asked, referring to another prisoner. The solicitor nodded. ‘Be right with you – soon as this chap’s been booked in.’ The solicitor moved to the back wall of the room and leaned patiently against it.
    Nevison turned slightly so he could watch her unobtrusively.
    â€˜Just stand back a bit and extend your arms out to the side, Kit,’ PC Phillips instructed him.
    The prisoner obeyed and the body search began. But as the arresting officer moved in and invaded his personal space, he reacted – or, in police terminology, ‘kicked off’.
    Somehow, from somewhere – probably from down a sleeve – a triple-bladed Stanley knife appeared in the man’s right hand; triple bladed in that three blades had been superglued together side by side, thus ensuring that the injuries it would cause would be three times more difficult to stitch together.
    With a manic scream, Nevison slashed the knife down across PC Phillips’ face, first one way, then back the opposite way, literally slicing the cheeks open wide. The officer reeled away, emitting a yowl of agony, his hands coming up to cover his face.
    The custody sergeant immediately pressed the panic-alarm button underneath the desk and reached for his side-handled baton.
    Things then went from bad to worse. Nevison spun round and grabbed the female duty solicitor.
    It took Henry less than thirty seconds to reach the custody office.
    â€˜Inspector to Blackpool,’ he said into his radio, ‘buzz me through to the cells.’
    He leaned on the barred gate, his eyes surveying the scene as the communications operator several floors above released the catch. He stepped into the danger zone. The