All that remained of the finger was the nail and the first two joints. Dave was initially too shocked to scream as he looked alternately at the hole in his hand, where a few seconds before his finger had been, and the mangled mess lying on the oily floor of the cab. Then, the pain erupted in his brain, and the blood began to flow freely from the little finger socket and he screamed in agony.

The noise of the blast and Dave’s agonising cry reverberated around the control rooms, the helicopter and the police vehicles.

Johnson jumped from the bunk behind Dave, ejected the shells from the shotgun and reloaded almost instantly. He stooped to the floor, picked up the shattered remains of the finger and screamed at his pursuers.

‘What bit of him d’yah want next boys; How about the whole fuckin hand eh?’, as he waved the finger in the direction of the armed response officers.

The voice in the earpiece was measured and calm.

‘If you have a shot, take it.’

‘That’s a negative’. said the recipient, ‘No eyeball on the target, Dave Watkins in line of fire, repeat, no shot at this time.’

Ged Duggan was breathing hard but controlled and his heart was beating like a drum. At the first opportunity, he would take out the gunman. Gold Command had been directing the pursuit and had given the green light to any of the marksmen to shoot the gunman and end the siege. Johnson had upped the stakes considerably in the last few minutes and there was now significant threat to life.

Dave Watkins vomited violently and uncontrollably and the gunman looked at him in disgust.

‘Get some fucker over here now. I want to talk.’ The gunman was beginning to regain control of his emotions and his anger subsided. He popped two pills in his mouth and quickly jumped back up onto the bunk and pulled the curtain across to hide him from the marksmen. The amphetamines would ensure that he remained awake and alert but Dave, now staring at the gunman with a mixture of horror and disbelief knew they would also make him more volatile and unpredictable.

Johnson knew that he was a dead man if they could pinpoint him in the wagon. He also knew that If Dave Watkins died, they wouldn’t have anything to wait for. Once his hostage was dead, the siege would be as good as over and they would blast him. He had to buy himself some time whilst he considered his options.

He saw the two armoured shields approaching him and the steel helmeted officers protecting another male behind. When they were about twenty yards away he shouted.

‘Okay, that’s close enough. Stop there and I’ll speak to you.’

‘Is the officer alright?’

John Walsh had been a police negotiator for fifteen years and had successfully negotiated the release of many hostages during that time. Most hostage situations tended to be domestic situations where partners, wives, husbands etc acted on the spare of the moment during some personal crisis. Whilst they were always traumatic for every one involved, they could more often than not be brought to a safe conclusion as the longer they went on without any blood being spilled, the more chance there was that the negotiator could talk the person round.

John was an excellent negotiator. Quiet with a strong, deep melodic type of voice, he never sounded patronising or condescending to his subjects. It was a golden rule never to rush any situation and he would successfully gain their trust over a period of time. Sometimes hostage situations would last for several days and at the end, he would be as shattered both physically and mentally as the hostage taker and he would have to be debriefed, counselled and analysed to make sure that he was also able to cope with the trauma.

‘You, behind the shield. Who are you?’

‘John, my names John and I’m here to talk to you.’

Okay. Now listen, and take this message back to your boss.’

Johnson held up Dave’s shattered finger and said, ‘This is a direct result of your fuckin boss’s stupidity. Tell him, if he wants to play again, I’ve got plenty of time and plenty of shells.’ He threw the mangled digit towards the shields and it landed halfway between the wagon and John.

There was a few moments silence and then John said, ‘Will you allow me to retrieve Dave’s finger?’

John knew this was an important first contact between himself and the gunman as a means of establishing a rapport between them. Also, this was the first time that the gunman had heard the name of his captive and John knew it was important to try and humanise him so his captor would think of him as a person and not a commodity.

Knowing Johnson for the animal that he was, he doubted whether or not he could appeal to him in any way. He didn’t have a better nature or any kind of compassion; but he knew he had to try.

‘What for. D’yah think it’s gonna be of any fuckin use to him now? You gonna use it to pick your fuckin nose or something?’

‘No’, said John, ‘I just think I should take it rather than leave it lying in the road. Its up to you, you’re in charge, but I would like to take it if you will allow me. I’m not armed in any way; I’m no threat to you.’

The two men looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. John could see that the gunman was thinking over his suggestion. Johnson looked away for a moment at Dave lying in his own vomit on the floor of the cab and then back to John.

‘I suppose so.’ said the gunman.

John breathed slightly easier and he knew that the next few moments would play a big part in gaining the trust of the gunman and to show him that he was not a threat. He had told him he was not a threat, now he had to demonstrate the same. Whether or not you could gain the trust of an animal like Johnson was another matter entirely. Dave’s finger lay some ten yards away from John and the sensible thing would have been to instruct his two protectors to move forward slowly with their armoured shields to allow him to pick it up in safety. It wasn’t just the sensible thing, it was the required thing. At no time was the hostage negotiator supposed to take any more risk than was absolutely necessary. John knew the rules full well.

He wanted to make a point of showing the hostage taker that he could be trusted implicitly and he stepped out from behind the protection of the five foot long heavy, bullet proof shields and stood next to the taller of the two officers who were identically dressed in protective boots, helmet, leg and arm protectors and flame retardant overalls. John had no protective clothing of any kind. Dressed casually and non threateningly in denim jeans and worn black leather jacket, he was completely at the mercy of the assailant.

Mike Hogan, the shield officer closest to John took a sharp intake of breath at his colleagues’ foolish act and took hold of him by the jacket sleeve quietly and forcefully without making a fuss, but also ensuring that John could not move forward.

He quietly whispered to his colleague, but at no time did he take his eyes off the cab of the wagon.

‘John,’ he hissed, ‘this is a bad fucking idea mate. Just stop and think for a second. We already know what an evil bastard we’re dealing with here. He could take you hostage as well. He might even just fucking shoot you John, just to make a point.’

John also never took his eyes off the cab of the lorry and replied just as quietly,

‘Mike, if I don’t try and move this along quickly, Dave Watkins might die from shock and loss of blood. I’ve got to try this.’ With a gentle tug, John broke free from his friends grip. He very much appreciated the words of wisdom from his protector; but he also knew that Dave was in a bad way.

Mike Hogan was well aware that John was breaking all the rules at this early stage of negotiations. He had worked with him on the successful conclusion of plenty of jobs in the past but he had a very bad feeling about the mental state of the nutter in the wagon. This course of action might be okay after talking with your subject for several hours and after having built up a reasonable amount of rapport between both parties, but after only a few minutes, ‘fucking suicidal’ thought Mike and he tensed as his colleague stepped forward.