Unlawfully At Large, page 19
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
Rodent shook his head. Garston hadn’t said anything about a cream. “No, a bottle’s fine.”
She raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Er,” Rodent consulted the list, feeling flustered by her steady gaze. “I need dressings and bandages for a wound, enough to last for several days.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How big is the wound?”
Rodent didn’t know. He hadn’t seen it. “About six-inches long,” he said, guessing.
“That’s a big wound. Has your friend seen a doctor?”
“Of course,” Rodent said quickly.
“And didn’t the doctor give this friend of yours enough spare dressings and bandages to last until their next appointment?”
“Well…” Rodent began, but couldn’t think of anything else to say so he just stood there awkwardly.
Taking pity on him, the girl removed the list from his hand and studied it. “Go and wait by the counter,” she told him kindly. “I’ll be back in a minute when I’ve got all the things you need.”
“Thank you,” Rodent said, relieved that she hadn’t asked any more questions.
Leaning against the counter, he watched her flit gracefully around the aisles scooping up various items. She was wearing brown knee-length boots, he noticed. Sensible in this weather. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her, but she didn’t look like the type of girl who would hang around the streets with wasters like him.
As he glanced down at the chair she had been sitting on when he’d entered, he caught sight of a folded newspaper. It was that morning’s edition of The London Echo, and to his surprise, a mug shot of Claude Winston defiantly stared up at him from the front page. He leaned over the counter and picked up the red top, letting it unfurl so that he could read the headline.
‘EVIL COP KILLER UNLAWFULLY AT LARGE’, it proclaimed.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” the girl asked, making him jump. He hadn’t noticed her approach.
“What is?” he asked, confused.
“What that bloke in the paper did to that poor policeman yesterday,” she said, indicating the newspaper with her brown eyes.
“Oh, yeah, right,” Rodent said, handing her the newspaper. She placed it on the counter and turned to face him.
“You don’t recognise me. Do you?” she asked, returning to the staff side and ringing up his purchases on the till.
“You do look familiar,” he confessed, “but I can’t think where I know you from.”
“You’re Jimmy Dawlish’s kid brother, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” he said, wondering how she could possibly know that.
“Ronnie, isn’t it?”
“Rodney,” he corrected her. “Do you know Jimmy, then?” She looked far too young to have been one of his girlfriends – and way too smart. Jimmy had always preferred girls who had no opinions of their own and unquestioningly did as they were told, and Rodent couldn’t imagine this one fitting into that category.
She grinned. “My name’s Jenna Marsh, Kevin Marsh’s younger sister.”
Suddenly, everything made sense. Their brothers had been best mates for years. They had gone to the same schools, the same borstals, and the same prisons.
“We were in the same class at primary school,” Rodent said as the memories came flooding back. “I remember you now,” he said excitedly. “You always had your head buried in a book.”
Jenna chuckled. “Nothing’s changed,” she told him. “What about you? You were always a bit of a loner as I recall, and I always thought you looked sad.”
Nothing’s changed with me, either, he thought.
“I’m doing okay,” he said glumly. “Got a job and everything.” He wasn’t really sure if selling drugs counted as a proper job, but at least he was earning an income and not on the dole.
Jenna frowned. The last time anyone had mentioned Rodney to her had been a couple of years ago, and it hadn’t sounded like things had been going well for him.
“A friend of mine went to the same secondary school as you,” she said, “and I seem to recall her telling me that you left before taking your GCSEs. Surely that can’t be right?” Jenna had studied for those exams as though her life had depended on passing them all, and her efforts had been rewarded with a series of straight-A grades. She had then repeated the feat with her A levels. Although she had now taken a gap year to get some life experience, she intended to go to university in September to study medicine. Because she was so driven to succeed in her studies, Jenna struggled to comprehend that some people didn’t feel the same way about academia.
“I did,” Rodney said, smiling to mask his embarrassment. “You know,” he said trying to pull off a carefree shrug. “School wasn’t really for me and I wanted to get out into the real world and start earning a crust.”
Jenna didn’t know at all. “But didn’t you miss all your friends?” she asked. She had made so many during her secondary school years and she missed them all terribly now that she had left.
“Not really,” he told her. “The other kids all thought I was funny.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny crazy?” she asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Rodent shrugged again, awkwardly. “Bit of both, probably,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Her face turned serious, and her big brown eyes seemed to bore into his, catching him completely off guard. They were beautiful eyes, he decided, feeling his throat go dry. Unlike his elder brother, Rodent didn’t have a lot of experience with girls and he felt totally tongue-tied in her presence.
“Listen,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially even though no one else was there. “This friend of yours with the wound, if he’s hurt himself doing something illegal, or if he’s been attacked by someone from a rival gang, he should still go to the hospital and get proper medical treatment.”
Rodent shook his head adamantly. “It’s nothing like that,” he said, wilting under the intensity of her questioning gaze.
Jenna’s face softened, and she placed a hand on his forearm, causing his pulse rate to spike. “I’m not trying to pry,” she assured him. “It’s just that I remember when Kevin slashed his arm wide open the night him and your brother broke into that Jewellers in Ripple Road. He didn’t go to the doctors for days, and by the time he did, it was badly infected. Nearly lost his arm, he did, the stupid sod.”
Rodent remembered it well. Despite the doctors calling the police, and Kevin being nicked for the burglary, he hadn’t grassed Jimmy up.
Jenna removed her hand, and he immediately found himself wishing that she hadn’t. The contact had been… comforting. It wasn’t often that someone showed Rodent kindness, or touched him in a manner that didn’t constitute an assault.
“Look, he hasn’t been stabbed, and he hasn’t hurt himself breaking into a shop,” he told her uneasily. “He had an operation in hospital last week but his stitches have popped and we need to change the dressing. That’s all.”
“That explains why all those packets of steri strips were on your list,” she said, “but I’m not sure they’ll be strong enough to hold a surgical wound together.”
Rodent shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He didn’t know and didn’t much care. He was just the delivery boy.
“Don’t you think your friend should go back and get himself checked out?” Jenna persisted.
“He can’t,” Rodent said without thinking, “not with the Old Bill looking for him.”
Jenna’s eyes narrowed, but before she could enquire further, the doorbell trilled and two middle-aged women walked in, talking very loudly. They made straight for the counter.
“Morning, Jenna, love,” the bigger of the two women said. Underneath her black hairnet, all Rodent could see was row after row of pink curlers. It was as if a huge colony of big fat slugs had taken up residence in her hair.
“Morning, Elsie,” Jenna replied without taking her eyes from Rodent.
“I need something for my grandson’s verruca,” Elsie said, seemingly unaware that Rodent was even there. “And while we’re here,” she confided, “poor old Maud needs some ointment for her piles, don’t you Maud?”
Maud, a slimmer version of Elsie, minus the hairnet, laughed unashamedly. “I do, dear.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Giving me some right jip at the moment, they are. Been itching like a bastard all morning.”
Rodent and Jenna exchanged glances as if to ask each other: Did she really just say that?
“No worries,” Jenna said. “Just let me finish serving this gentleman and I’ll get you some haemorrhoid cream, Maud.”
Gentleman! Rodent thought. He’d never been called that before. Blushing, he handed over the money for his purchases and waited for Jenna to give him his change.
“It was nice to see you again after all these years,” Jenna said with a warm smile. “Feel free to pop in and say hello any time you’re passing.”
Rodent grinned like he had just won the pools. “I will,” he promised. With an embarrassed wave, he turned and started walking towards the exit.
“Rodney,” she called out after him.
He turned; an expectant look plastered across his face. Please let her ask me to stay and talk for a little while longer, he prayed.
“Y - yes?” he stammered.
Jenna pointed to two large carrier bags sitting on top of the counter. “Don’t you think you should take your supplies with you?”
“Oh,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Yeah, of course. Mustn’t forget me supplies.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you two lovebirds,” Maud said, reaching behind for a scratch, “but if you could get me that cream for my piles, I really would be very grateful.”
Chapter 15
Garston had come up with an idea for getting Winston some replacement antibiotics, and he was annoyed with himself for not having thought of it sooner.
The contact who had sourced the uniforms they’d worn during the breakout – and still wore as they had no other clothes to change into – had once boasted that he could get his thieving hands on most things medical. Garston decided it was time to put his claim to the test. He dialled a mobile number and waited impatiently for his call to be answered.
“’Ello…?” a wary voice answered after the seventh ring.
“Flogger, that you?”
“Who’s asking?” the gruff voice was thick with suspicion.
“It’s Deontay Garston, you Muppet.”
“Deontay! Hello mate, what can I do for you?” The man’s tone became friendly, jovial even.
“Do you remember telling me that you could get your grubby mitts on every kind of medical supply that I could possibly imagine?”
“Yeah,” Flogger responded cautiously. “What is it you’re after?”
“I need a couple of weeks supply of antibiotics. Can you help?”
“Is that all? Piece of piss, mate. What type do you need?”
Garston didn’t know. He’d asked Winston before making the call, but his idiot uncle had never bothered to read the name of the pills he’d been prescribed or check the dosage. “Not sure, but they need to be strong. I’m after something that could be given to someone fighting off an infection after an operation.”
“Okay, let me make a call, see what me contact says. I’ve got your number. I’ll call you back in five.”
When five minutes turned into fifteen, and there was still no word from Flogger, Garston began to get impatient. He was on the verge of chasing the supplier up when his phone rang.
Caller ID showed a withheld number.
“What?” he said.
“Deontay, me ol’ mucker, it’s me, Flogger.”
“You were only meant to be five minutes,” Garston complained.
“Sorry about that,” Flogger said, amiably. “Me contact was otherwise engaged so I ‘ad to wait.”
Garston sucked his teeth. “I hope what you’ve got to tell me was worth the delay.”
“Course,” Flogger purred. “Me contact reckons you want either a penicillin or cephalosporin based prophylaxis. I can get a couple of boxes of that for you in six days.”
Garston was dumbfounded. “Six days? Six fucking days! He needs them now, not next week, you wanker.”
“Well, I can’t ‘elp that,” Flogger said, defensively. “Me usual provider’s gone and sodded off to Cuba for two weeks in the sun, so I’ve ‘ad to use a backup, and the geezer’s a little bit slower at getting me the pharmaceuticals.”
“Are you seriously telling me that I’ve got to wait until next Monday? Surely, you can source me some antibiotics from somewhere else? It’s urgent. I need them today.”
“Well…”
Garston could almost hear the cogs turning in his shifty associate’s mind. Flogger wouldn’t want to lose a sale, and he wouldn’t want to look bad in a repeat customer’s eyes.
“There might be a way,” Flogger said with some hesitance, “as long as you’re not too fussy about what type of antibiotics you end up with.”
Garston thought about this for a moment, Surely, it didn’t really matter? Antibiotics were antibiotics regardless of the brand. “I don’t care what you get me, as long as they do the job,” he finally said, massaging his temples as he spoke.
“In that case,” Flogger told him with renewed confidence, “I think I can help you, but I’ve gotta warn you, I’m gonna ‘ave to call in a favour and it ain’t gonna come cheap.”
Gaston rolled his eyes. Flogger was a greedy git, and he was trying it on because he knew he had Garston backed into a corner. Of course, from his perspective, he would simply see it as good business, an entrepreneur exploiting a client’s need to increase his profit margins. Garston didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?
“Not a problem,” he said through gritted teeth, “as long as you don’t get too greedy and start taking the piss.”
“As if I would!” Flogger had the cheek to sound indignant, as if his professionalism had just been maligned. He quoted a price and added his commission. “Let me know where you’re staying and I’ll get ‘em dropped off to you this evening.”
“No,” Garston said. There was no way he was going to reveal his location to Flogger, just in case he put two and two together and decided to sell the information to the cops. “Let’s meet on neutral ground.”
“Alright, then,” Flogger said, “what about that place we used last week when I gave you the uniforms?”
“That’ll do nicely,” Garston said. “What time?”
“How does seven o’clock tonight sound?”
“Sounds good,” Garston said, and hung up.
◆◆◆
After being removed from the helicopter, Peter Myers had been rushed by ambulance to Newham General Hospital in Prince Regent Lane, Plaistow. He had regained consciousness not long after arrival and, although the subsequent brain scan had been satisfyingly clear, the doctors had decided to keep him in overnight for observations as a precaution.
When he’d been reassessed by the consultant this morning during doctor’s rounds, the consensus had been that he was still suffering from the effects of a severe concussion and wasn’t yet fit enough to be discharged. To Myers’s disappointment, it was now looking like he was going to remain hospitalised for yet another night.
Upon his arrival at the all-male observation ward, Steve Bull dutifully reported to the ward sister, a stern-faced battle axe called Brenda Tierney, and requested access to the patient. During the brief conversation that followed, he found her to be marginally less friendly than a rabid Rottweiler.
Glowering at him with undisguised hostility, Tierney made it abundantly clear that Myers wasn’t well enough to provide a statement yet and it would be better all-round if Bull could come back the following day. Bull flashed her his most charming smile, explained the urgency of the situation, and then insisted on speaking to the pilot there and then. As a compromise, he promised that he wouldn’t stay long. The battle axe had grudgingly relented, but not before making it crystal clear that she didn’t want her patient’s recovery impeded by a drawn-out visit from the police. Vowing to chuck him out after fifteen minutes, regardless of where they were in the proceedings, Tierney stood aside to allow him temporary access to the patient.
Steve Bull found the pilot sitting comfortably in a soft chair beside his bed. He was so engrossed in a newspaper that he didn’t even notice the detective approach. At least three other tabloids were stacked on a table next to his bed, along with a bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water, a box of tissues and the obligatory bag of grapes.
Bull calculated that Myers was in his mid to late thirties. He had a wiry, muscular frame, and Bull’s first impression was that this was a man who took very good care of himself. Myers was taller than Bull had expected, with slender, well-manicured hands and a mop of jet-black hair that showed no sign of greying, unlike Bull’s thatch of brown, which was going greyer by the day. A large gauze strip was plastered across his right cheek, but other than that, Myers appeared in pretty good health.
“Peter Myers?” he asked, producing his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant Steve Bull from the murder squad. If you’re up to it, I was hoping we could have a little chat about your ordeal from yesterday?”
“Yes, of course,” Myers said, lowering the paper. “Pull up a chair.”
Bull purloined a chair from the next bed, which was empty at the moment.
“How are you feeling?”
Myers treated him to a melancholy smile, which accentuated the crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes. “Lucky to be alive.”
“You are lucky. Very lucky,” Bull agreed.
Myer’s demeanour became intensely serious, and the change made him look haggard. “Believe me, I know. The staff here couldn’t really shed any light on what happened, but I’ve been reading all about it in the newspapers. I can’t believe they shot a policeman before hijacking my helicopter. It’s ghastly. Have you caught them yet?”
“No, unfortunately not,” Bull said, shaking his head with regret, “but we’re working flat out and we won’t stop until we do.”
She raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Er,” Rodent consulted the list, feeling flustered by her steady gaze. “I need dressings and bandages for a wound, enough to last for several days.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How big is the wound?”
Rodent didn’t know. He hadn’t seen it. “About six-inches long,” he said, guessing.
“That’s a big wound. Has your friend seen a doctor?”
“Of course,” Rodent said quickly.
“And didn’t the doctor give this friend of yours enough spare dressings and bandages to last until their next appointment?”
“Well…” Rodent began, but couldn’t think of anything else to say so he just stood there awkwardly.
Taking pity on him, the girl removed the list from his hand and studied it. “Go and wait by the counter,” she told him kindly. “I’ll be back in a minute when I’ve got all the things you need.”
“Thank you,” Rodent said, relieved that she hadn’t asked any more questions.
Leaning against the counter, he watched her flit gracefully around the aisles scooping up various items. She was wearing brown knee-length boots, he noticed. Sensible in this weather. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her, but she didn’t look like the type of girl who would hang around the streets with wasters like him.
As he glanced down at the chair she had been sitting on when he’d entered, he caught sight of a folded newspaper. It was that morning’s edition of The London Echo, and to his surprise, a mug shot of Claude Winston defiantly stared up at him from the front page. He leaned over the counter and picked up the red top, letting it unfurl so that he could read the headline.
‘EVIL COP KILLER UNLAWFULLY AT LARGE’, it proclaimed.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” the girl asked, making him jump. He hadn’t noticed her approach.
“What is?” he asked, confused.
“What that bloke in the paper did to that poor policeman yesterday,” she said, indicating the newspaper with her brown eyes.
“Oh, yeah, right,” Rodent said, handing her the newspaper. She placed it on the counter and turned to face him.
“You don’t recognise me. Do you?” she asked, returning to the staff side and ringing up his purchases on the till.
“You do look familiar,” he confessed, “but I can’t think where I know you from.”
“You’re Jimmy Dawlish’s kid brother, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” he said, wondering how she could possibly know that.
“Ronnie, isn’t it?”
“Rodney,” he corrected her. “Do you know Jimmy, then?” She looked far too young to have been one of his girlfriends – and way too smart. Jimmy had always preferred girls who had no opinions of their own and unquestioningly did as they were told, and Rodent couldn’t imagine this one fitting into that category.
She grinned. “My name’s Jenna Marsh, Kevin Marsh’s younger sister.”
Suddenly, everything made sense. Their brothers had been best mates for years. They had gone to the same schools, the same borstals, and the same prisons.
“We were in the same class at primary school,” Rodent said as the memories came flooding back. “I remember you now,” he said excitedly. “You always had your head buried in a book.”
Jenna chuckled. “Nothing’s changed,” she told him. “What about you? You were always a bit of a loner as I recall, and I always thought you looked sad.”
Nothing’s changed with me, either, he thought.
“I’m doing okay,” he said glumly. “Got a job and everything.” He wasn’t really sure if selling drugs counted as a proper job, but at least he was earning an income and not on the dole.
Jenna frowned. The last time anyone had mentioned Rodney to her had been a couple of years ago, and it hadn’t sounded like things had been going well for him.
“A friend of mine went to the same secondary school as you,” she said, “and I seem to recall her telling me that you left before taking your GCSEs. Surely that can’t be right?” Jenna had studied for those exams as though her life had depended on passing them all, and her efforts had been rewarded with a series of straight-A grades. She had then repeated the feat with her A levels. Although she had now taken a gap year to get some life experience, she intended to go to university in September to study medicine. Because she was so driven to succeed in her studies, Jenna struggled to comprehend that some people didn’t feel the same way about academia.
“I did,” Rodney said, smiling to mask his embarrassment. “You know,” he said trying to pull off a carefree shrug. “School wasn’t really for me and I wanted to get out into the real world and start earning a crust.”
Jenna didn’t know at all. “But didn’t you miss all your friends?” she asked. She had made so many during her secondary school years and she missed them all terribly now that she had left.
“Not really,” he told her. “The other kids all thought I was funny.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny crazy?” she asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Rodent shrugged again, awkwardly. “Bit of both, probably,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Her face turned serious, and her big brown eyes seemed to bore into his, catching him completely off guard. They were beautiful eyes, he decided, feeling his throat go dry. Unlike his elder brother, Rodent didn’t have a lot of experience with girls and he felt totally tongue-tied in her presence.
“Listen,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially even though no one else was there. “This friend of yours with the wound, if he’s hurt himself doing something illegal, or if he’s been attacked by someone from a rival gang, he should still go to the hospital and get proper medical treatment.”
Rodent shook his head adamantly. “It’s nothing like that,” he said, wilting under the intensity of her questioning gaze.
Jenna’s face softened, and she placed a hand on his forearm, causing his pulse rate to spike. “I’m not trying to pry,” she assured him. “It’s just that I remember when Kevin slashed his arm wide open the night him and your brother broke into that Jewellers in Ripple Road. He didn’t go to the doctors for days, and by the time he did, it was badly infected. Nearly lost his arm, he did, the stupid sod.”
Rodent remembered it well. Despite the doctors calling the police, and Kevin being nicked for the burglary, he hadn’t grassed Jimmy up.
Jenna removed her hand, and he immediately found himself wishing that she hadn’t. The contact had been… comforting. It wasn’t often that someone showed Rodent kindness, or touched him in a manner that didn’t constitute an assault.
“Look, he hasn’t been stabbed, and he hasn’t hurt himself breaking into a shop,” he told her uneasily. “He had an operation in hospital last week but his stitches have popped and we need to change the dressing. That’s all.”
“That explains why all those packets of steri strips were on your list,” she said, “but I’m not sure they’ll be strong enough to hold a surgical wound together.”
Rodent shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He didn’t know and didn’t much care. He was just the delivery boy.
“Don’t you think your friend should go back and get himself checked out?” Jenna persisted.
“He can’t,” Rodent said without thinking, “not with the Old Bill looking for him.”
Jenna’s eyes narrowed, but before she could enquire further, the doorbell trilled and two middle-aged women walked in, talking very loudly. They made straight for the counter.
“Morning, Jenna, love,” the bigger of the two women said. Underneath her black hairnet, all Rodent could see was row after row of pink curlers. It was as if a huge colony of big fat slugs had taken up residence in her hair.
“Morning, Elsie,” Jenna replied without taking her eyes from Rodent.
“I need something for my grandson’s verruca,” Elsie said, seemingly unaware that Rodent was even there. “And while we’re here,” she confided, “poor old Maud needs some ointment for her piles, don’t you Maud?”
Maud, a slimmer version of Elsie, minus the hairnet, laughed unashamedly. “I do, dear.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Giving me some right jip at the moment, they are. Been itching like a bastard all morning.”
Rodent and Jenna exchanged glances as if to ask each other: Did she really just say that?
“No worries,” Jenna said. “Just let me finish serving this gentleman and I’ll get you some haemorrhoid cream, Maud.”
Gentleman! Rodent thought. He’d never been called that before. Blushing, he handed over the money for his purchases and waited for Jenna to give him his change.
“It was nice to see you again after all these years,” Jenna said with a warm smile. “Feel free to pop in and say hello any time you’re passing.”
Rodent grinned like he had just won the pools. “I will,” he promised. With an embarrassed wave, he turned and started walking towards the exit.
“Rodney,” she called out after him.
He turned; an expectant look plastered across his face. Please let her ask me to stay and talk for a little while longer, he prayed.
“Y - yes?” he stammered.
Jenna pointed to two large carrier bags sitting on top of the counter. “Don’t you think you should take your supplies with you?”
“Oh,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Yeah, of course. Mustn’t forget me supplies.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you two lovebirds,” Maud said, reaching behind for a scratch, “but if you could get me that cream for my piles, I really would be very grateful.”
Chapter 15
Garston had come up with an idea for getting Winston some replacement antibiotics, and he was annoyed with himself for not having thought of it sooner.
The contact who had sourced the uniforms they’d worn during the breakout – and still wore as they had no other clothes to change into – had once boasted that he could get his thieving hands on most things medical. Garston decided it was time to put his claim to the test. He dialled a mobile number and waited impatiently for his call to be answered.
“’Ello…?” a wary voice answered after the seventh ring.
“Flogger, that you?”
“Who’s asking?” the gruff voice was thick with suspicion.
“It’s Deontay Garston, you Muppet.”
“Deontay! Hello mate, what can I do for you?” The man’s tone became friendly, jovial even.
“Do you remember telling me that you could get your grubby mitts on every kind of medical supply that I could possibly imagine?”
“Yeah,” Flogger responded cautiously. “What is it you’re after?”
“I need a couple of weeks supply of antibiotics. Can you help?”
“Is that all? Piece of piss, mate. What type do you need?”
Garston didn’t know. He’d asked Winston before making the call, but his idiot uncle had never bothered to read the name of the pills he’d been prescribed or check the dosage. “Not sure, but they need to be strong. I’m after something that could be given to someone fighting off an infection after an operation.”
“Okay, let me make a call, see what me contact says. I’ve got your number. I’ll call you back in five.”
When five minutes turned into fifteen, and there was still no word from Flogger, Garston began to get impatient. He was on the verge of chasing the supplier up when his phone rang.
Caller ID showed a withheld number.
“What?” he said.
“Deontay, me ol’ mucker, it’s me, Flogger.”
“You were only meant to be five minutes,” Garston complained.
“Sorry about that,” Flogger said, amiably. “Me contact was otherwise engaged so I ‘ad to wait.”
Garston sucked his teeth. “I hope what you’ve got to tell me was worth the delay.”
“Course,” Flogger purred. “Me contact reckons you want either a penicillin or cephalosporin based prophylaxis. I can get a couple of boxes of that for you in six days.”
Garston was dumbfounded. “Six days? Six fucking days! He needs them now, not next week, you wanker.”
“Well, I can’t ‘elp that,” Flogger said, defensively. “Me usual provider’s gone and sodded off to Cuba for two weeks in the sun, so I’ve ‘ad to use a backup, and the geezer’s a little bit slower at getting me the pharmaceuticals.”
“Are you seriously telling me that I’ve got to wait until next Monday? Surely, you can source me some antibiotics from somewhere else? It’s urgent. I need them today.”
“Well…”
Garston could almost hear the cogs turning in his shifty associate’s mind. Flogger wouldn’t want to lose a sale, and he wouldn’t want to look bad in a repeat customer’s eyes.
“There might be a way,” Flogger said with some hesitance, “as long as you’re not too fussy about what type of antibiotics you end up with.”
Garston thought about this for a moment, Surely, it didn’t really matter? Antibiotics were antibiotics regardless of the brand. “I don’t care what you get me, as long as they do the job,” he finally said, massaging his temples as he spoke.
“In that case,” Flogger told him with renewed confidence, “I think I can help you, but I’ve gotta warn you, I’m gonna ‘ave to call in a favour and it ain’t gonna come cheap.”
Gaston rolled his eyes. Flogger was a greedy git, and he was trying it on because he knew he had Garston backed into a corner. Of course, from his perspective, he would simply see it as good business, an entrepreneur exploiting a client’s need to increase his profit margins. Garston didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?
“Not a problem,” he said through gritted teeth, “as long as you don’t get too greedy and start taking the piss.”
“As if I would!” Flogger had the cheek to sound indignant, as if his professionalism had just been maligned. He quoted a price and added his commission. “Let me know where you’re staying and I’ll get ‘em dropped off to you this evening.”
“No,” Garston said. There was no way he was going to reveal his location to Flogger, just in case he put two and two together and decided to sell the information to the cops. “Let’s meet on neutral ground.”
“Alright, then,” Flogger said, “what about that place we used last week when I gave you the uniforms?”
“That’ll do nicely,” Garston said. “What time?”
“How does seven o’clock tonight sound?”
“Sounds good,” Garston said, and hung up.
◆◆◆
After being removed from the helicopter, Peter Myers had been rushed by ambulance to Newham General Hospital in Prince Regent Lane, Plaistow. He had regained consciousness not long after arrival and, although the subsequent brain scan had been satisfyingly clear, the doctors had decided to keep him in overnight for observations as a precaution.
When he’d been reassessed by the consultant this morning during doctor’s rounds, the consensus had been that he was still suffering from the effects of a severe concussion and wasn’t yet fit enough to be discharged. To Myers’s disappointment, it was now looking like he was going to remain hospitalised for yet another night.
Upon his arrival at the all-male observation ward, Steve Bull dutifully reported to the ward sister, a stern-faced battle axe called Brenda Tierney, and requested access to the patient. During the brief conversation that followed, he found her to be marginally less friendly than a rabid Rottweiler.
Glowering at him with undisguised hostility, Tierney made it abundantly clear that Myers wasn’t well enough to provide a statement yet and it would be better all-round if Bull could come back the following day. Bull flashed her his most charming smile, explained the urgency of the situation, and then insisted on speaking to the pilot there and then. As a compromise, he promised that he wouldn’t stay long. The battle axe had grudgingly relented, but not before making it crystal clear that she didn’t want her patient’s recovery impeded by a drawn-out visit from the police. Vowing to chuck him out after fifteen minutes, regardless of where they were in the proceedings, Tierney stood aside to allow him temporary access to the patient.
Steve Bull found the pilot sitting comfortably in a soft chair beside his bed. He was so engrossed in a newspaper that he didn’t even notice the detective approach. At least three other tabloids were stacked on a table next to his bed, along with a bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water, a box of tissues and the obligatory bag of grapes.
Bull calculated that Myers was in his mid to late thirties. He had a wiry, muscular frame, and Bull’s first impression was that this was a man who took very good care of himself. Myers was taller than Bull had expected, with slender, well-manicured hands and a mop of jet-black hair that showed no sign of greying, unlike Bull’s thatch of brown, which was going greyer by the day. A large gauze strip was plastered across his right cheek, but other than that, Myers appeared in pretty good health.
“Peter Myers?” he asked, producing his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant Steve Bull from the murder squad. If you’re up to it, I was hoping we could have a little chat about your ordeal from yesterday?”
“Yes, of course,” Myers said, lowering the paper. “Pull up a chair.”
Bull purloined a chair from the next bed, which was empty at the moment.
“How are you feeling?”
Myers treated him to a melancholy smile, which accentuated the crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes. “Lucky to be alive.”
“You are lucky. Very lucky,” Bull agreed.
Myer’s demeanour became intensely serious, and the change made him look haggard. “Believe me, I know. The staff here couldn’t really shed any light on what happened, but I’ve been reading all about it in the newspapers. I can’t believe they shot a policeman before hijacking my helicopter. It’s ghastly. Have you caught them yet?”
“No, unfortunately not,” Bull said, shaking his head with regret, “but we’re working flat out and we won’t stop until we do.”
