Unlawfully At Large, page 17
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
As much as he hated the grubby little flat, Garston didn’t feel that he could trust either Angela or Rodent to take care of Winston without supervision, so he resigned himself to staying there with them, at least for the first night.
His mind turned to Errol. He’d tried calling him, but the idiot’s phone just rang until the answerphone kicked in. Then he’d made the mistake of ringing Errol’s other half, Sonia – a brassy woman with an attitude to match – only to have the stroppy fat bitch give him a massive ear-bashing, ranting that she hadn’t heard from Errol all day and promising that he was in big trouble when he finally showed up.
There had been a worrying segment on the news about a man being shot and seriously injured by police following an armed incident in East India Dock Road, but they hadn’t revealed anything about the man’s colour or identity. Nor had they disclosed any further information about the incident.
Surely, that couldn’t be anything to do with Errol – could it?
Chapter 13
Tuesday 11th January 2000
The briefing in the conference room at Arbour Square was due to kick off at eight o'clock sharp, and Jack only made it with a couple of minutes to spare.
The room was crammed full of people when he entered, and although he knew most of them, there were a few that he didn’t recognise. He assumed they were detectives drafted in from the host borough to assist with the enquiry. It wasn’t uncommon for AMIP to do that, especially with a major enquiry like this one.
At the front of the room, five chairs had been arranged to face the assembled officers. Quinlan sat front and centre, nervously adjusting the Joe Ninety spectacles that gave him such a professorial look. Nearer to fifty than forty, there wasn’t a single strand of grey visible in Quinlan’s shiny mop of black hair, which made Jack wonder if he secretly dyed it to keep it that way.
The matronly figure of DI Carol Keaton and DS Susie Sergeant occupied the two seats to his left, and DCS George Holland sat on his right, leaning back in his chair while he chatted with Quinlan.
Holland had absent-mindedly tucked his thumbs under his trademark Gordon Gekko braces and was currently pushing the elastic outwards in a style reminiscent of the TV comedian, Bobby Ball.
Does he ever take those things off? Jack asked himself as an irreverent image of Holland, tucked up in bed at night, pyjama bottoms held aloft by his braces, popped into his head. He quickly smothered the childish snigger that was brewing before it could reach his lips.
Quinlan waved him over and directed him to take the empty chair next to Holland. “We’re about to kick off so you’d better get a move on,” he whispered.
The mood in the room was sombre, business-like, but then they were here to hunt for a cop killer so it was hardly an occasion for joviality.
Dillon was sitting in the front row, almost directly opposite Tyler. He looked as fresh as a daisy, even though he’d probably had less than half the amount of sleep Jack had. Splendidly turned out as always, he didn’t appear to be any the worse for wear after being whacked with a lead-filled sap the day before. Jack could only marvel at his friend’s recuperative powers, knowing that almost anyone else would have gone sick. It really did confirm the old adage; no sense, no feeling.
The rest of Jack’s team were mingled in amongst Quinlan’s, and – unlike Dillon – they all looked pretty knackered. After speaking to Kelly earlier, Jack knew that most of them hadn’t finished work until well after midnight, and had only managed to grab a few hours of sleep before dragging themselves back in this morning. He’d experienced a little twinge of guilt on hearing that because, while they had all been busy grafting, he had been relaxing at home, enjoying his Indian takeaway, treating himself to a bottle of Peroni, and watching one of his favourite James Bond films on VHS.
After checking his watch, Holland stood up and cleared his throat. “Right, there’s a lot to get through, so let’s crack on.” Conversation amongst the waiting officers had been subdued anyway, but now it petered out until there was absolute silence.
“Yesterday, just after midday, PC Stanley Morrison, a forty year old officer based at Forest Gate police station, was shot dead at the Royal London, killed by a single bullet to the rear of the head. The fatal shot was administered while he was lying face down on a hospital bed with a pillowcase over his head. He had been handcuffed by that stage and posed no threat.”
As he considered his next words, his face visibly clouded with anger. “Make no mistake, this was a cold-blooded execution carried out for the killer’s personal gratification.” Holland paused a moment to let that sink in. “PC Morrison was on duty with PCs Alec O’Brien and Sharon Lassiter, and they were providing a hospital watch on a man called Claude Winston, a drug dealing pimp who’s been on remand at HMP Pentonville since last November, having been charged with the attempted murder of two police officers.”
There was a collective intake of breath from those who were unfamiliar with Winston’s history.
“A joint risk assessment had been carried out by the drug squad, who were producing Winston, and the Duty Officer at Forest Gate, who was providing the staff to watch over him. They concluded that an armed guard was unnecessary. On paper, I cannot fault that decision,” Holland said, but his acerbic tone made it abundantly clear that he didn’t agree with it.
“On January fourth, that’s last Monday, the drug squad produced Winston to Forest Gate on a three day layover. However, before they could interview him, his appendix burst and he was rushed to the Royal London Hospital for surgery.”
“Pity he didn’t croak on the operating table,” Kevin Murray piped up from his second row seat, “or get gunned down by SO19 during the escape like his mate.”
A mumbled chorus of assent echoed around the room, and even Tony Dillon, who couldn’t abide Murray, nodded supportively.
“I agree,” Holland said, holding his hands up to quieten them down, “but unfortunately he didn’t. Winston was discharged yesterday morning, and arrangements were made to transport him back to Pentonville at one o’clock. However, with the help of three associates, two males and a female, he managed to escape in spectacular style less than an hour before he was due to be collected.”
“How did they know Winston was being moved, guv?” Dean Fletcher asked.
“We’re not sure they did know,” Holland said.
Quinlan chimed in with his opinion. “I’m inclined to think they would have waited until he was in the car before springing him if they’d known he was being moved. That’s how I would have done it.”
“Let’s concentrate on the known facts and leave the speculation till later,” Holland said, looking around tetchily. “As I was saying, PCs O’Brien and Lassiter were standing guard outside the room, while PC Morrison sat inside with the prisoner. The suspects, one dressed as a doctor, one as a porter, and one as a nurse, forced them into Winston’s private room at gunpoint. They restrained O’Brien and Lassiter using their own quick-cuffs and then drugged them before shooting Morrison.”
Murray’s hand shot up, interrupting the flow of Holland’s briefing.
“Yes, Kevin?” he said, clearly annoyed at the distraction.
“Boss, have you got any idea why they merely drugged O’Brien and Lassiter but shot Morrison?”
It was actually a reasonable question, Jack thought, which was unusual from Murray. Normally, his contributions were limited to telling crass jokes and making smutty innuendo.
Holland shook his head. “I don’t. We know they could just as easily have sedated him as they did the others because we found a syringe full of what we suspect will turn out to be ketamine on the floor next to the bed. I know DI Dillon has a theory. I suppose now is as good a time as any to share it with you all. Dillon?”
Dillon stood up and looked around the room. “For those of you who don’t know me, I was one of the officers who arrested Winston back in November. The man is as nasty as they come and, in case you haven’t already worked it out, he hates police officers. I think that after the gang drugged O’Brien and Lassiter, but before they got around to injecting Morrison, they made the mistake of giving Winston a firearm. Had they done this earlier, I suspect that we’d probably have three dead colleagues on our hands instead of one.”
Dick Jarvis raised his hand. “But why risk the noise of the gunshot alerting hospital staff?” he asked in his frightfully posh accent. “Surely it would have been more prudent to drug him like the others?” Dick was the youngest person on Tyler’s team and the most recent addition. A graduate entry, he was still a little wet behind the ears, and the wanton brutality of the people they had to deal with on AMIP still surprised him at times.
Dillon shrugged. “You have to understand that Winston isn’t rational. If Morrison resisted when they went to inject him, or if he said something disrespectful, or if he even looked at him in a manner he didn’t like, that would be reason enough in Winston’s eyes.”
The room had gone deathly silent as the detectives digested Dillon’s words, and Jack could tell from the thoughtful expressions on their faces that every officer present was mentally putting themselves in Morrison’s place and imagining what he must have gone through. And for what? The killing had not only been senseless, it had been totally avoidable.
“It’s a sobering thought, and an indication of how dangerous the man we’re hunting is,” Holland said, indicating for Dillon to sit down again. “We know they planned to leave the hospital in a stolen car, but when Mr Dillon and his two colleagues turned up unexpectedly, Winston had to radically alter his plans. There’s no denying that the gang were incredibly lucky; one of the suspects made good his escape on foot while the other three managed to make their way to the roof and hijack the HEMS helicopter. That was found on wasteland in Canning Town a short time later, and we think it only put down there because India 99 and India 98 were rapidly converging on it. I’ll hand over to Mr Quinlan to take you through the investigation from that point onwards.”
“Thank you,” Quinlan said, standing up and self-consciously fiddling with his glasses. “Killing a policeman obviously wasn’t enough to satiate their bloodlust because, after landing, the fugitives shot the pilot, a man called Peter Myers. Fortunately, they waited until they’d alighted the aircraft to open fire on him and, as luck would have it, the plexiglass windscreen deflected both bullets. One shot missed entirely, the other gouged his helmet. Although he was rendered unconscious by the impact and he sustained a nasty concussion, no permanent harm appears to have has been caused.”
“Was he able to shed any light on where they went afterwards?” Steve Bull asked. He was sitting next to Dillon in the front row.
Quinlan shook his head. “No, Steve. As I said, he was badly concussed and we haven’t been able to speak to him yet, but that’ll be addressed as a priority today, and hopefully, he might be able to provide some useful information. Perhaps, I could ask you to look into that for me?”
“Of course,” Bull said, wishing he’d kept his gob shut.
Another hand shot up in the third row. “I think I’m going to ask you all to hold back on your questions until I’ve finished,” Quinlan said, waving the man’s hand down. He smiled reassuringly at the man who was now looking rather embarrassed. “Don’t worry, I promise you’ll get another chance to ask your question, but I want to complete my overview first.”
He cleared his throat. “So, as I mentioned earlier, one of the suspects made good his escape on foot. He then carjacked a London Taxi outside the hospital, but this was later spotted by DS Sergeant and DC Murray, and they followed it along East India Dock Road until SO19 arrived and carried out a hard stop just shy of the slip road to the Blackwall Tunnel Northern Approach. Instead of surrendering, the suspect pulled a gun on them and promptly got himself shot. Unfortunately, despite making it through surgery, he passed away during the night.”
“Not exactly a loss, is it boss?” Murray said, earning himself a look of disapproval from George Holland.
Quinlan carried on as if no one had spoken. “A wet set was taken from him at the hospital during the early hours and rushed up to NSY for urgent comparisons. Do we have a result back yet?” The question was addressed to Susie Sergeant.
“Yes, boss,” she said, consulting her blue daybook. “The deceased is an IC3 male called Errol Heston, a low-level thug with petty form for possession of cannabis, a couple of ABHs and some public order offences. Basic research hasn’t revealed any obvious connection between him and Winston.”
Quinlan thanked her. “So, where are we as far as the investigation is concerned? Well, we’ve already seized all the CCTV from inside the hospital, and I’m hoping its footage will yield clear facial shots of Winston’s, as yet, unidentified accomplices before they donned their masks. The getaway car’s been impounded and will be forensically examined later today. Hopefully, that will give us the unknown suspect’s fingerprints and DNA. The car itself was stolen from Beckton train station a couple of hours before the escape, and we’ll combine local authority CCTV and ANPR to backtrack its movements between those times.”
Every time a vehicle passes an Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera its details are run through the database to see if there are any interest reports on it. If there are, for instance, because it’s shown as being stolen, concerned in crime, making off without payment – which basically means that the driver has driven out of the garage without paying for their petrol – or it’s marked up as having no insurance, the hit is flagged up to local patrols for them to be on the lookout for it. However, as the car hadn’t yet been reported stolen, there were no reports on the Ford Scorpio, which meant a retrospective search would have to be carried out on NADAC - the National ANPR data centre – to see if it had passed any of the system’s cameras without triggering an activation.
“The getaway driver, Mullings, had a mobile on him. We’ve requested call data, cell site and billing information from that. As DI Dillon suggested last night, there’s a good chance Mullings will have been communicating with the others involved in the breakout by phone. We might be able to link them all by calls made between their phones or by their handsets mirroring each other’s route on the way to the hospital. If we get any matches, the plan is to ping the outstanding phones and see if we can narrow down their current location. A pound to a penny says that the two unknown suspects are still with Winston, so if we find them, we also find him.”
Quinlan looked around the room until his eyes came to rest on Juliet Kennedy, who was dressed as though she were about to go out on a dinner date. The Ilford born Crime Scene Manager had a reputation for always being glammed up, even when processing the most gruesome of scenes. “Where are we with forensics, Juliet?” he asked.
“Record photography on the room where PC Morrison was shot has been completed, and it’s been forensicated for fingerprints, DNA and fibres. I’m not overly hopeful that we’ll get anything out of that if I’m honest, Andy. The suspects were gloved up and wearing surgical masks. However, the syringe that was found on the floor by the bed might give us something. I very much doubt that they intended to leave that behind, and it might well yield prints or DNA. Obviously, the contents of the syringe will be tested and compared to whatever chemicals were in O’Brien and Lassiter’s blood. The hospital thinks it was probably a strong dose of ketamine or something similar, but we’ll have to wait and see. The Ford Scorpio’s over at Charlton. That’ll be examined today. The bag of white powder and the compact mirror that George Copeland found in the Ford Scorpio is being rushed up to the lab this morning, as are the coats that were also recovered inside. I think there’s a really good chance we’ll get DNA and prints off those. The SPM is being carried out at one p.m. today over at Poplar mortuary. Who’s going to that, by the way?”
Any suspicious death required a Special Post Mortem examination to be carried out by a Home Office Forensic Pathologist, and the process normally took between four and five hours to complete.
“Carol’s the DI who’ll be attending, and Kevin Murray’s the exhibits officer,” Quinlan informed her, pointing at each of the officers as he spoke.
“Carol, can you make sure a pathologist’s briefing document is prepared before you go, and I’ll meet you there at about twelve-fifty,” Juliet said.
“I’ll get it done straight after the meeting,” Carol Keating, a no-nonsense woman who reminded Jack of the late Hattie Jacques, promised.
Quinlan’s eyes roamed the room until they came to rest on a tall, stick insect thin, DC with a thick bush of unruly brown hair that resembled a bird’s nest, a huge beak of a nose, and eyes the size of saucers. “Dazza, how are we getting on with the CCTV?” Quinlan asked.
“Not as well as I’d like,” Darren Blyth informed him in his thick Mancunian accent. His voice was surprisingly deep, which wasn’t at all how Jack had expected him to sound.
“It’s all been downloaded for us by the hospital but, typically, it’s not in a compatible media format to play on our antiquated system. I’ve got a tech specialist coming over from Newlands Park later today to run it through a programme that’ll supposedly convert it. If that works, we should be able to view it and produce some stills later today.”
Quinlan didn’t look happy, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Let me know as soon as we can view the footage please, Darren,” he said. “Susie’s going to be conducting further interviews with Gifford Mullings, the getaway driver, at midday and it would really help if we can play a CCTV compilation of the hospital footage to him.”
“Actually, Andy, I’ve got a bloke on my team who’s a bit of a geek,” Jack said, leaning across to address Quinlan. “He might already have some software that can assist you. Reggie?”
