Unlawfully At Large, page 11
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
Ray Speed was the local duty officer, the Inspector in charge of Bartholomew’s team, and he had now arrived to take charge of the incident.
So far, the lift had stopped twice on its way up, and Winston’s party could have got out on either occasion, or they could still be inside, heading for the top floor. Regardless of where they alighted, Dillon knew they would eventually have to make their way back down via one of the other lifts scattered around the building. From what he’d seen of Winston, the man was in no condition to take on the stairs, which was good news because it bought him a little time to get organised.
Dillon and Ray Speed had spoken briefly on the phone, and they had agreed that their number one priority was setting up an exclusion zone around the hospital’s perimeter with armed officers stationed at each of the exits. Until the building was in total lockdown there was no point in even thinking about going after the suspects.
Dillon’s stomach churned at the thought. God, the media’s going to love this.
The last time that he had gone up against Winston, the Central Line at Liverpool Street underground station had ended up being closed for several hours. This time, a major London hospital was going to suffer the same fate. While closing a train station had left a few night-time travellers disgruntled because their journeys had been interrupted, the implications of shutting down the Royal London were too horrific to even consider. Important surgical procedures might be delayed or even cancelled, and how would the busy A&E department, which was always stretched to the very limit, be affected?
Perhaps a better plan would be to order a withdrawal and let Winston out of the building; the risk of collateral damage if they tackled him inside the hospital was staggeringly high. Hopefully, there would be well thought out contingency plans in place for just such a scenario, and these would be implemented shortly, relieving Dillon of the burden of having to make such a troubling decision.
Bartholomew rushed over, holding his radio up. It provided a welcome distraction from the tumultuous thoughts crashing around inside Dillon’s aching head. Hopefully, Nick was about to announce the imminent arrival of the skipper who was going to deal with the CS discharge.
“It’s just come over the PR that Terry’s chasing the one that got away in Cavell Street,” he said, excitedly.
“Is back up on its way to him?” Dillon asked. At the back of his mind, there was a nagging fear that Winston might not have been the only one who was armed.
Bartholomew nodded and then winced at the pain the movement had caused him. “There are multiple units converging on his position as we speak. Don’t worry, boss, Terry does decathlons for a hobby. The bastard won’t outrun him.”
◆◆◆
When Terry Grier’s urgent assistance call came out over their car’s Main-Set, DS Susan Sergeant and DC Kevin Murray were driving along Commercial Road on their way back to AMIP HQ at Arbour Square, having spent most of the morning at a case conference with Senior Treasury Counsel at Inner Temple.
“That’s just down the road from here,” Susie said, pulling the car into the kerb opposite Watney Market so that they could get their bearings. “I think it’s that side road up on the left,” she said a moment later, gently raising the clutch to allow the Astra to creep forward so that she could get a better view.
As they drew closer, Murray pointed a skinny forefinger at a sign on the corner of the road. “Cavell Street,” he read. “You’re right.”
“I usually am,” Susie replied with a tongue in cheek grin.
Murray licked his lips in anticipation, reminding Susie of a reptile – or at least what a reptile would look like if it was capable of growing a goatee. “The lid must be chasing that bloke right towards us.”
As she steered the car into Cavell Street, both officers instinctively released their seatbelts so that they could jump out quickly if the need arose.
Susie normally wore trouser suits and flat shoes to work, but she had uncharacteristically dressed in a skirt and heels today, wanting to make a good impression at the case conference. She was now ruing the decision, wishing that she had stuck to her normal attire. “It’s Sod’s Law that the one day of the year I wear a bloody skirt and high heels, I’ll end up having to chase a suspect,” she complained in her soft Irish lilt.
Murray grinned. “Tell you what, you stick to driving and leave any running to me.”
Susie glanced sideways at the skinny man sitting next to her, wondering if she had misheard him. With his smoking, drinking and poor diet, Murray was hardly the epitome of health and fitness. Even in heels, she could probably outrun him comfortably.
There was a harsh crackle of static and then a transmission came over the Main-Set. “MP to 167 Hotel Tango, please keep the commentary going…”
Operators at Information Room always seemed so incredibly calm and composed, Susie thought. Of course, it could all be a front; for all she knew, they could all be running around NSY like a bunch of headless chickens.
There was more static. “MP from 167, we’re now in Stepney Way, heading towards Sidney Street…” The chasing officer was breathing hard, but he sounded focused, and he was still clearly going strong.
“Shit!” Susan cursed, gunning the accelerator. The foot chase had veered off to their right well before reaching their position and it was now heading away from them.
◆◆◆
Errol Heston had failed to put any distance between himself and the young policeman who was breathing down his neck, and fatigue was now setting in. His legs had grown so heavy that he could hardly lift them and his searing lungs felt ready to explode.
Knowing he couldn’t keep this gruelling pace up for much longer, he thought about pulling the revolver on his pursuer, just to put the frighteners on him. The problem with doing that was if he fired the gun – if he literally just let off a warning shot in the air like they did in the movies – the police would twist it into something far more sinister and he would end up being charged with attempted murder. As it was, just carrying a loaded shooter would get him banged up for five years.
He could hear multiple sirens in the distance, and they were getting louder by the second. It seemed as though they were converging on him from every direction. He risked a glance over his shoulder and was horrified to see that the lanky cop was now only an arm’s length behind.
Errol jammed on the anchors, jinked left, then right, and as the startled policeman drew level with him, he palmed the man off, sending him toppling straight over the bonnet of a parked car to land face down on the tarmac. He didn’t have the energy to celebrate, so he just gritted his teeth and set off again.
Up ahead, a black London Taxi had just stopped to drop a fare off at the junction with Sidney Street. As he reached the cab, the driver looked out of his window dispassionately and said, “Sorry, mate, I’m about to finish for the day so I’m not taking any more fares.”
Pulling the gun from his waistband, Errol yanked the driver’s door open and rammed the revolver into the cabbie’s frightened face. “OUT!” he screamed, looking back over his shoulder to make sure there was no sign of the cop who had taken a tumble.
The cab driver was aghast. “You can’t do that,” he spluttered indignantly. “This cab’s my livelihood.”
Errol grabbed hold of his shoulder and unceremoniously dragged him out.
The cabby tried to resist, but he was half Errol’s size and about thirty-years older. “Gerroff,” he shouted defiantly as he struggled to disentangle himself from the bigger man’s grip.
Ignoring his protests, Errol gave him a firm shove that propelled him away from the cab and left him lying in a crumpled heap on the wet pavement.
Errol slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. The seat was too close to the steering wheel for comfort but he didn’t have time to adjust it. Slamming the selector into drive, he jammed his foot to the floor and the cab lurched off towards Commercial Road.
“Wanker!” the cabby yelled after him, running into the road and shaking his fist at the man who had just deprived him of his wheels.
Despite the bitter coldness outside, Errol left the driver’s window down to let in some much-needed fresh air. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, he thought as he adjusted the rear-view mirror, I might actually pull this off.
◆◆◆
Officers were now turning up in their droves. As each new cluster arrived, Ray Speed gave them a thirty second briefing and quickly deployed them in a loose perimeter to secure all the exits. Their orders were simple: visual containment. No one who even vaguely fitted the description of the three suspects was to be approached without SO19 support.
There were already four Trojan units on scene, and now their duty officer, call-sign Trojan One, had arrived. His name was Inspector Pat Connors, and Dillon knew him from way back.
Dillon quickly assembled all the AFOs and briefed them fully, noting how grim they became when they were told how their fellow officer met his death. He felt it said much for their training and professionalism that none of the twelve firearms officers present made a single comment.
Connors started by making tactical deployments of his four three-man teams. Their mission was fundamentally one of containment and support while they awaited the arrival of more ARVs and a level-one-response team from their training facility at Lippits Hill in Loughton.
Connors agreed with Dillon that, in the short-term, the only thing Winston and his gang would be thinking about was getting away from the hospital as quickly and quietly as they could, and they would apply all their energy to making sure that happened without further incident.
From a policing perspective, the problems would start when they realised that they were trapped inside. At that point, they would start to panic – and that was when things would get interesting.
Connors knew from bitter experience that one of two things would happen once the gang worked out that they had no way out. They would either accept defeat and lay down their weapons, or they would adopt a siege mentality and start taking hostages.
With Claude Winston running the show, Dillon knew that the former scenario wasn’t a realistic option, and with a heavy heart, he confided his fears to Connors.
“I really hope you’re wrong,” Connors said, looking grim, “because when that happens, more often than not, people tend to start dying.”
Chapter 9
Susie gunned the sluggish Astra along Stepney Way, wishing that the clunking diesel engine had a little more oomph in it. She suddenly became aware of a siren and, glancing in her rear view, she saw that an Immediate Response Vehicle had just turned into the road. While still a little way behind, it was coming up on her at a great rate of knots, roof bar strobing a dazzling blue, headlights flashing alternately, first left and then right. The yelping of the two-tones steadily grew in volume until the noise became deafening.
Susie was desperate to find a space big enough to pull into in order to let the gung-ho response driver by, but there were no gaps anywhere. The driver, who obviously didn’t realise they were police officers responding to the same shout as him, was furiously pointing towards the nearside, trying to make her understand that he wanted her to give way.
“I bloody well know,” she shouted at the mirror, “but there’s nowhere for me to pull into, you tosser.”
“Temper, temper,” Murray chided, earning himself a fierce look of rebuke.
He squirmed in his seat, withering under the intensity of her glare. “Alright,” he said defensively, “there’s no need to go all premenstrual on me.”
“Oh, shut up you cretin,” Susie snapped. If she hadn’t been driving at speed, and therefore felt the need to keep both hands firmly on the wheel, she would have slapped him around the head for making a comment like that. Not that it had surprised her in the slightest; Murray was a racist, sexist, homophobic misogynist, and he had a gift for insulting just about anyone he came into contact with. The staggering thing was that he genuinely seemed to have no idea how unpleasantly inappropriate he was virtually every time he opened his mouth.
Susie finally spotted a large enough gap up ahead, and she pulled into it to let the IRV pass. Instead of blatting past her, the IRV drew level and stopped, its crew giving her daggers. The driver wound down his window angrily, and she could tell that he was about to have a go at her for having got in his way. Already angered by Murray’s premenstrual comment, she had no intention of allowing this dickhead to let off steam at her.
Susie scowled at them. “We’re AMIP,” she shouted, “and don’t you dare bloody moan about me blocking your way because I pulled over the first chance I got. You must have the forward vision of a mole if you think otherwise.”
The driver looked like he was about to reply, but then he saw the fire blazing in those pretty green eyes, thought better of it and simply nodded.
Murray nudged her elbow. “Susie…”
“What?” she demanded, ready to punch him if he made another stupid remark.
Murray pointed, and as she followed his finger, she caught sight of a uniformed officer sprawled in the road between two parked cars.
They sprang out of the car and rushed to help him. As they assisted the officer to his feet, she recognised him at once from his AMIP secondment during the Whitechapel murders of the previous year.
Murray also recalled Grier. “Terry! Bloody hell, mate. Are you alright?” he asked, running his eyes over the taller man with uncharacteristic concern.
The young PC nodded brusquely as he brushed himself down. “I’m fine,” he said, looking more embarrassed than hurt. “Just a few cuts and grazes to my hands and knees.”
The IRV pulled level with them. “Which way did he go, Tel?” the operator shouted.
Grier pointed straight ahead, towards the junction with Sidney Street. “He went that way. He’s only got a few seconds ahead of me. If you hurry, you might still catch him.”
The IRV operator nodded, and as it shot off, the driver gave Terry a thumbs up.
Murray led Grier back to their car. “Jump in the back, mate,” he said, half guiding him, half pushing him in.
Once everyone was inside, Susie set off after the IRV, only to see that it had now stopped at the junction, having been flagged down by an irate looking white man in his early sixties who had run out into its path, waving his arms like a nutter.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Murray said, irritably. “Why have the lids stopped to speak to that twat when they’re supposed to be after a murderer?”
The man he was referring to was jabbering away to the IRV operator in a clear state of agitation, and as he spoke, he kept pointing towards Commercial Road. Suddenly, he jumped into the back of the IRV, which then rocketed off in the direction he had indicated.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” Murray said, scratching his head.
Not having a clue what was going on, Susie tucked into the IRV’s slipstream and followed behind.
The mystery was solved moments later as the IRV’s operator broadcast an update over the Main-Set. “MP, MP, active message, Hotel-Tango-Two-Three…”
“Hotel-Tango-Two-Three, go ahead, MP over…”
“MP the IC3 male suspect that 167 was chasing has now car-jacked a black London Taxi cab at gunpoint, and he was last seen heading along Stepney Way towards Commercial Street within the last minute…”
The IRV operator proceeded to broadcast the cab’s registration and Taxi licence number. “We’ve got the owner on board, and we’re searching the immediate area, but all units are to approach with caution.”
When they reached the junction with Commercial Road, the IRV turned right and started bombing along the outside of the traffic.
“No point in us trying to follow him without blues and twos,” Susie said. “Let’s have a punt the other way.” With that, she turned left and set off towards Limehouse.
◆◆◆
By now, over thirty officers had attended the assistance call at the hospital, and there were still more en route. Two carriers of TSG had just turned up, and they were being deployed to manage crowd control. Trojan units from Central and South London were being drafted in for the armed containment. Even a DPG Ranger unit from Central London was responding.
The debacle had been formally declared a major incident, and a senior member of the hospital administration staff had been sent to obtain a set of blueprints and floor plans to enable the police to co-ordinate their search and any subsequent evacuation. No decision had been made regarding evacuation yet, but one would be called for soon. With a gunman running loose in the hospital they had to consider the safety of the patients, staff and the public above all else.
Inspector Connors decided to use an ARV parked at the front of the hospital as his forward control point, from which to co-ordinate the deployment of resources with Ray Speed.
Divisional Chief Superintendent Charles Porter was en route, and he would take on the role of Gold once he arrived. Unfortunately, he was travelling from Area HQ at Edmonton in North London, where he’d been attending a Borough Commander’s meeting, so it was going to take him a while to get there. Until he formally assumed control, Speed was the man in charge and he had adopted the call-sign of Silver.
While they were waiting for the floor plans to arrive, one of the hospital’s security team came forward and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.
“What is it?” Dillon asked. He didn’t welcome the intrusion, which he suspected would just be another gripe about how long the hospital was going to be closed. He had already fended off a couple of those.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said, “but I’ve just received an alarming call from the HEMS team upstairs. The call was cut off mid-flow, but before the line went dead, they said someone was trying to force their way inside, and I wondered if it might be connected to what you’re dealing with.”
Dillon’s eyes widened. “I thought the HEMS was in a secure area that couldn’t be accessed by the public.”
