Unlawfully At Large, page 10
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
Nick Bartholomew was standing a yard or so to Dillon’s left, still hiding behind the bogus doctor. While not directly in the line of fire, he was still near enough to feel extremely uncomfortable, and he knew that once Winston had finished with Dillon, he would turn his attention on him.
Moving slowly, so as not to draw attention, Bartholomew felt for the canister of CS spray in the pouch on his utility belt. Without taking his eyes from the gun-toting psycho, he unclipped the Velcro fastening and removed it.
Nick knew that if he was going to make a move it would have to be very soon, while Winston’s attention was still focused on Tony Dillon to the exclusion of everybody else around him.
The angle of attack was all wrong for what he had in mind, so Nick cautiously shuffled a half step to the left, dragging his unresisting prisoner with him.
To his enormous relief, Winston didn’t seem to notice, and the fake doctor was so absorbed in what was going on between Winston and the detective that he didn’t protest.
Bartholomew’s legs felt like rubber, but he forced them to move again, propelling himself and his prisoner yet another step to the left. The can felt damp in his hand, clammy and uncomfortable. He could feel beads of sweat running down the side of his face, and his shirt felt unbearably sticky as it clung to his perspiring body.
It was all down to timing now, Bartholomew realised – well, timing and luck.
He was suddenly consumed by self-doubt. What if he dropped the canister at the vital moment, or missed with it altogether? He had never used the stuff in anger before. In fact, for all he knew, the canister might be out of date and not even work when he tried to use it.
During his Officer Safety Training sessions, the instructors had rammed home how unwise – stupid was the actual word they had used – it was to discharge CS in a confined space like this. Unlike pepper spray, CS didn’t just target the person who was sprayed, it spread outwards, affecting anyone unfortunate enough to be standing within reach of the ever-expanding cloud like nuclear fallout.
Despite his considerable misgivings, Bartholomew knew that he simply didn’t have a choice. He swallowed hard, knowing he was only going to get one chance at this, and that was going to be…
…NOW!
Roughly shoving his prisoner aside so that he could get a clear, unobstructed shot, Nick Bartholomew brought his right arm straight up, making sure that the CS was aimed directly at Winston’s chest – always aim at the centre mass and then work the stream upward till it hits the face, he recalled his instructor telling him.
When he pressed the trigger mechanism with his thumb, he was relieved to see a concentrated jet shoot out of the cannister’s nozzle. In a textbook display, it struck Winston’s upper chest and then travelled upwards to soak the gunman’s face.
Winston immediately raised his left hand to block the liquid, but it was too late. The CS had already started to affect the soft tissue of his mucous membrane, attacking the eyes, nose and throat. Letting out an agonised scream, he pivoted towards Bartholomew and angrily pulled the trigger twice.
Fortunately, Bartholomew was no longer there, and both bullets imbedded themselves harmlessly in a thick concrete wall, several feet off target, spewing out plaster fragments and generating a fine mist of dust.
Without the threat of the gun to hold him at bay, Dillon charged forward and, taking hold of Winston’s gun hand in both of his for the second time that day, he wrenched it downward with savage force.
Winston dragged his sleeve across his face to wipe the disabling substance away, but that only made things worse. He couldn’t open his eyes, and he was struggling to draw breath.
Weakened to the point where he could hardly stand, he was on the point of dropping to his knees when he realised that the CS was having an equally detrimental effect on Dillon.
“Nick, Nick, give me a hand,” the detective spluttered, and there was an unmistakable urgency to his plea. “Drop the gun,” Dillon coughed, tugging at his arm again.
“Never!” Claude Winston screamed. He clung to the weapon defiantly, as if it were a magic talisman, something enchanted, which – as long as he retained control of it – would guarantee his eventual success.
As Deontay Garston watched his injured uncle fight a hopeless battle against the hulking detective, Angela appeared by his side and placed a tentative hand on his arm. Her hair was bedraggled, her uniform was torn, and she looked totally shell shocked. “What should we do?” she implored, looking as vulnerable as a lost child.
Garston seriously considered grabbing Angela’s arm and making a run for it. In his weakened state, Winston didn’t stand a chance, and Garston knew that if they remained where they were for much longer, they would both end up in the clink with him.
A wave of pessimism flooded over him.
They were done for.
Without the map to guide them, he had no idea how to find the alternative escape route he’d been told about. Within minutes, all the hospital exits would be in lockdown, so even if they got out of their current predicament, it would only be a matter of time until they were run into the ground. Short of flying out of here, there was no chance of…
Wait a minute! Flying! Of course!
For the first time since the wave of armed officers had surged toward him on the ground floor, he experienced a fleeting glimmer of hope. Perhaps there was a chance after all, albeit a very remote one.
“Get yourself over to the lift and wait for me,” he whispered to Angela. Ignoring her protests, and praying that she wouldn’t desert him the moment he turned his back, he pulled a heavy leather sap out of his white coat and ran towards the uniformed policeman who had sprayed Claude. The man was now trying to help his muscle-bound colleague, who was struggling after being exposed to the CS gas.
Acting with a single-minded determination born of desperation, Garston charged straight up to Nick Bartholomew and viciously belted him across the side of the head with the cosh. It was full of lead shot and Bartholomew went down like a stone, landing groggily on his hands and knees.
Satisfied that the uniformed cop had been incapacitated, Deontay turned his attention to the two big men, trying to position himself for a clear shot at the detective. The CS was already starting to sting his eyes, and he wondered how long it would be before he was forced to withdraw.
The first ineffectual blow glanced off Dillon’s shoulder, merely annoying him. The second swing, more through luck than skill, connected with the side of his neck, stunning him.
Before the policeman could recover, Garston wrapped a supportive arm around Winston’s waist and half walked him, half dragged him towards the safety of the waiting elevator.
“Come on Claude, you can do it,” he coaxed through gritted teeth. His legs were almost buckling under his uncle’s gargantuan weight, but somehow Garston managed to keep going. “Close the doors, close the doors!” he ordered as soon as they were inside.
Angela did as she was bid, this time finding the correct button.
Releasing his uncle, Garston swivelled to see Dillon stumbling towards the lift, arms outstretched to block the doors. Clearly disorientated, the detective was swaying from side to side as though he was on the deck of a ferry during a rough channel crossing.
“Come on, come on!” Garston screamed as the doors finally began to move.
Stunned or not, Dillon was rapidly closing the distance between them, and Garston raised his sap in readiness to take another swing at him.
Dillon’s equilibrium was all over the place; he stumbled, righted himself and carried on, but his floundering had cost him valuable time. Just as they were about to close, Dillon crashed into the doors and thrust both hands into the tiny gap.
“NOOO!” Garston cried, and immediately lashed out with the sap, hoping to break the cop’s fingers.
Dillon saw the blow coming just in time, and he reacted by snatching his hands back.
With nothing to impede their progress, the metal doors came together with a soft jolt and the freight elevator began its upward journey.
Chapter 8
Dillon leaned against the elevator door to steady himself. The right side of his neck ached like hell, and it was throbbing in unison with the left side of his head. He could hardly open his eyes and the floor under his feet seemed to be swaying up and down like a see-saw. He shook his head to dispel the dizziness, causing a small constellation of stars to explode in front of his eyes.
“Bollocks!” he raged, pounding the metal door with the bottom of his fist. Gasping for breath, and coughing like he smoked fifty a day, he looked around, taking in the chaotic farce in an instant.
Bartholomew was back on his feet, rubbing the side of his head as he staggered across to join Dillon.
“You okay?” Dillon asked. He reached an arm out to steady the junior officer and guide him away from the area contaminated by CS incapacitant.
“Yeah, I think so,” but Bartholomew sounded far from certain.
Dillon studied his eyes; pupil dilation looked equal, which was a good sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, raising two.
Bartholomew stared, squinted, and then stared some more. “Five,” he eventually said. Seeing Dillon’s eyes widen in alarm, Bartholomew broke into a lopsided grin. “I’m joking!” he said.
Dillon scowled at him for a moment. “That’s not funny,” he said.
Bartholomew shrugged. “It was a little.”
Dillon laughed, which made him cough uncontrollably. When he finally got the hacking under control, he turned to stare at the smaller man, his expression thoughtful. “Listen, I’m very grateful for your intervention back there.”
Tears streamed down his face as he spoke, but Bartholomew knew this was just a side effect of the CS and not an emotional outpouring of gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
In a moment of spontaneity, Dillon wrapped an arm around Bartholomew and dragged him in close.
Bartholomew winced as his throbbing skull was pummelled into Dillon’s shoulder. “Please!” he squealed. Then quieter: “Please – don’t be so grateful, boss. I don’t think I can stand the pain!” Disentangling himself, Bartholomew sagged down on his haunches and rubbed at the bump on his head.
But Dillon wasn’t listening. “We need to find out where Terry is,” he said, dabbing at his eyes. “I won’t be happy till I know he’s safe.”
◆◆◆
Grier was exceedingly proud of the fact that he’d never lost a prisoner during a foot chase. Nor had one ever escaped from him once he’d actually laid his hands on them – at least not until today. The suspect had somehow got the better of him during the struggle in the freight elevator, and now his one-hundred-per-cent record was on the line.
To be fair, the bald man had a considerable weight advantage over Grier, which he’d used to good effect by slamming Terry into the side of the elevator so hard that it had taken his breath away. Temporarily winded, all he’d been able to do was place his hands on his knees and suck in one mouthful of air after another as he watched his burly prisoner decamp from the scene in futile anger.
By the time Terry had sufficiently recovered to set off after him, the bald man had opened up a big lead. And, thanks to the interference of the fake nurse who had just spitefully stuck out her leg and tripped him up, that lead was about to grow even bigger.
Landing heavily, Terry slid along the shiny linoleum surface on his hands and stomach. Somehow, without losing too much forward momentum, and with all the elegance of a foal standing up for the very first time, he managed to scrabble back to his feet and continue running.
Glancing back, he saw that the nurse had already turned her attention to DI Dillon, and she was now hanging from him like a kid being given a piggyback ride.
The bald man was bloody fast, Grier acknowledged grudgingly, but he was faster, and he was determined to make up the lost ground.
Grier temporarily lost sight of the suspect when he turned right at the end of the corridor, but he wasn’t overly concerned by that. Unless his quarry nipped into a ward, which was unlikely given the fact that to gain entry you had to be buzzed through by someone inside, Grier knew that he would eventually come to the staircase that he and Bartholomew had ascended on their way up to join Dillon.
Grier allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction when he regained sight of the fleet-footed fugitive a few seconds later, and another when he realised that he had substantially closed the gap between them. Relaxing into his stride, he focused on his breathing and visualised himself applying handcuffs to the man he was chasing.
As the pursuit continued, the bogus porter started glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds like a marathon runner desperate to cross the finishing line before his nearest competitor could overtake him. That was a good sign; if the fleeing man had any confidence in his ability to maintain his current speed over any distance, he wouldn’t be wasting so much energy looking back.
By the time they reached the staircase, Grier had bridged the gap a little more. He tried to transmit on his radio, but the wire connecting the handset – the talking brooch as it was often referred too – had become detached during their earlier struggle. He attempted to slip the connector back into the socket but thought better of it after he almost tripped himself up because he wasn’t paying enough attention to his footing.
They descended at a recklessly fast pace, taking the stairs three at a time, clinging to the bannister and blindly throwing themselves into each turn. Luckily, no one was coming the other way because a collision at that speed would have been ugly.
As he reached the ground floor, Grier spotted a bored hospital security guard leaning against a wall up ahead, and he shouted to the man to help him stop the fleeing suspect. The guard was short and middle-aged, with the figure of a man who had eaten too many doughnuts.
With a look of trepidation plastered across his face, the security guard moved away from the wall he’d been holding up, spread his arms wide and started shuffling from side to side like a Sunday league goalkeeper getting ready to try and save a penalty kick from David Beckham. His chubby face was scrunched up in fierce concentration as he clumsily attempted to wrap his arms around the suspect’s waist, only to be shouldered effortlessly aside.
The bewildered guard was sent tumbling to the floor, where he rolled a couple of times before coming to an abrupt stop in a rather messy heap. For a moment, he lay there as unmoving as a bouncy castle that had just been deflated.
As Grier raced past a second later, he was relieved to see that the guard’s only obvious injury was a dented pride.
Up ahead, the suspect barged through a glass plated exit door leading out into an area at the side of the hospital where the ambulances all parked up between calls. Once outside, he paused for a moment, head frantically turning left and then right as though trying to decide which way to run. A second later, the suspect disappeared off to the left, heading towards Raven Row and the back of the hospital.
Grier dodged past a nurse who had stopped to stare at him quizzically, zigzagged around an elderly couple, one of whom was using a Zimmer frame, and cannoned through the exit door after him.
The IRV that he and Bartholomew had arrived in was parked off to the right, blue lights still flashing, which probably explained why the fleeing man had opted to go left. Following suit, Grier immediately collided with a petite paramedic coming the other way. Manhandling her to the side as gently as he could, at the same time apologising profusely for his clumsiness, he set off towards Raven Row desperate to regain sight of the bald suspect.
By the time he reached the road, his quarry was nowhere to be seen. Cursing profusely, Grier ran into Milward Street, which was set almost directly opposite the rear of the hospital car park. He paused by another parking area that led through to Cavell Street, eyes scanning left and right. Surely, the bald man couldn’t possibly have come any further than this?
Grier took a moment to reattach the loose cable into his radio and then strode purposefully into the middle of the car park. Being careful to avoid all the dirty puddles that had formed after the earlier deluge, he dropped flat on the floor as though he were about to do start doing press-ups.
His eyes traversed the cold, wet concrete floor from one side of the car park to the other, and his diligence was rewarded by a blur of movement beneath one of the SUVs parked nearest to the Cavell Street exit.
Springing back to his feet in triumph, he saw that the suspect was already up and running. The man’s surgical mask had come off, and as he glanced back Grier was afforded a decent look at his face. Doing his best to commit it to memory, he set off in pursuit.
Now that he had the man clearly in his sights, he pressed the orange emergency button on his radio, which cleared the airwaves and gave him a few seconds of priority transmission. “Hotel Tango from 167, active message… chasing suspect concerned in a murder at the Royal London Hospital… Cavell Street towards Stepney Way... suspect is a bald-headed IC3 male… dressed as a hospital porter and wearing rubber gloves…”
◆◆◆
Dillon and Bartholomew had retreated a safe distance from the CS contaminated area and, although his eyes were still streaming, Dillon was at least now able to open them without too much pain. From afar, he followed the slow progress of the needle in silent fury. It had now almost reached the top floor.
There were procedures in place to deal with a CS discharge inside premises, and he was waiting impatiently for a local supervisor to turn up and implement them so that he could get back to the business at hand.
“Where the hell is this skipper coming from?” he demanded of Bartholomew, “Greater Manchester?”
Bartholomew stopped rubbing his head long enough to shoot Dillon a sideways glance. “I’ll get back on the radio, boss, but Mr Speed said he was sending someone straight up.”
