Unlawfully At Large, page 20
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
They lapsed into an awkward silence, which Myers filled by pouring himself a large glass of barley water.
“How’s Mike Cummings doing?” he asked a few moments later. “The last time I saw him, he was being pistol-whipped by the man who tried to shoot me.”
“He’s fine. Bit concussed, like yourself.”
Myers smiled. “That’s good to hear. I was really worried about him.”
Bull fidgeted in his chair, unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable. “So, what about you?” he asked. “How badly were you injured?”
“Well, apart from having the headache from hell and this,” he gently tapped the gauze square on the side of his face, “I’m a bit shaken up but otherwise okay”
“What happened there, if you don’t mind me asking,” Bull said, pointing to the injury on the pilot’s face.
Myers grimaced. “When that bastard started shooting at me, a huge shard of plexiglass exploded out of the windscreen and imbedded itself in the side of my face. A couple of inches higher and it would have taken my eye out. It needed several stitches, but I’m told it’ll be fine.”
“I bet you when that happened you
His tone suddenly became light-hearted. “At least when it eventually heals, I’ll have a genuine war wound to tell all the girls about so I guess it’s not all bad.” The accompanying grin seemed a little strained.
“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need it as a chat-up line, what with being a helicopter pilot,” Bull said, smiling back.
Myers leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though he were about to let Bull in on a closely guarded secret. “Sounds sexy, I know, but really I’m just a glorified chauffeur.” He sat back in his chair and tapped his cheek. “But with this – well it’s the badge of a man who’s seen frontline action, and I’ll wear it with pride.”
His laugh was surprisingly carefree, but it didn’t fool Bull; he’d dealt with enough trauma victims over the years to recognise that the banter was merely a smokescreen to disguise how chewed up the pilot felt inside.
Bull glanced over at the nursing station and was unsettled to see the battle axe staring back at him. Quickly averting his gaze, he checked his watch and realised that nearly five minutes of his allotted time had already passed.
“What can you tell me about the hijack?” he asked, getting down to business. He could almost feel Tierney’s beady little eyes burning into the back of his head, but there was no way he was going to risk a second look.
Myers’ shoulders slumped as though he’d just received a terminal diagnosis. He took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “Mike and I were heading for the crew room when three black people came barging out. Their leader was a fearsome looking brute of a man. I’m a bit of a short-arse at five foot nine, but Mike’s nearly six foot tall and he towered over him. He was built like a tree trunk, and he had dead eyes that seemed to suck in light and reflect nothing back…” Myers voice tapered off as he replayed the incident in his head.
“Go on,” Bull coaxed him after a moment’s silence.
“…When he looked at me, I felt like he had already made up his mind to kill me and was looking forward to it. He…” Myers choked, cleared his throat and then licked his lips. “Sorry. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks that were blowing in the wind. I remember he was virtually doubled over with pain, clutching his stomach like he’d been shot. In fact, at one point, I thought I glimpsed blood on his fingers, but that could just have been my imagination.”
Steve Bull furiously scribbled notes in his daybook; acutely aware that his writing – not terribly easy to understand at the best of times – rapidly deteriorated whenever he started rushing. He hoped he’d be able to decipher it all later and wouldn’t be left with reams of embarrassing gobbledygook.
At some point in the future, Myers was probably going to have to attend an ID parade to try and pick out his attackers from a line-up. In accordance with Code D of PACE, a witness’s first description had to be served on the suspect’s solicitors before a parade could be held, and the sooner it was recorded, the more credence it was likely to be given, which was why Steve Bull had brought along three First Description Booklets. He only hoped he would have time to fill them in before Brenda the battle axe turfed him out.
Myers had stopped speaking again and he was clearly struggling to go on. After a moment, he reached for his glass with trembling hands and gulped down several mouthfuls of barley water. “Sorry,” he said again, “my mouth’s suddenly gone as dry as a bone.”
“Take your time,” Bull encouraged softly. “I know it’s hard, but you’re doing really well.”
“It’s very kind of you to be so gracious,” Myers said. “However, truth be told, I suspect I’m not doing very well at all.” With a wan smile, he raised the glass to his lips and drained the remainder of its content.
“At first, I thought the chap who was supporting him was a doctor,” he continued a moment later. “He wore greens and a path lab coat, and he even had a hospital nametag pinned to his chest. There was a slim woman with them. She was dressed as a nurse. Sorry, I couldn’t make out her face as she had a surgical mask on, and I’m embarrassed to say that all I remember about her was that she had nice legs.”
“Do you think you would be able to recognise the two men again?” Bull asked.
Myers nodded emphatically. “Couldn’t forget their ugly mugs if I tried, especially not the Neanderthal with the dreadlocks.”
“So, what happened next?” Bull asked, waving for Myers to continue with his account.
Myers thought for a moment, then picked up the story where he’d left off. “Mike challenged them. Next thing I know, a gun’s being rammed into the poor sod’s face and I’m being forced to airlift them from the building.”
“Can you describe the gun? “Bull asked.
Myers shrugged. “Not really. It was black, and it had a long barrel. I think it was similar to what they used in the old cowboy films, where bullets are inserted into the round bit in the middle, not into the handle like the more modern weapons the police carry.”
“You took them to some wasteland in Canning Town,” Steve said. “Can you remember anything they said during the journey that might help us to work out where they went afterwards or what they plan to do next?”
Myers considered this carefully. “While I was running the pre-flight checks, I became conscious of the doctor making a call on his mobile. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because of the noise from the rotors, but after we took off I heard him telling his associates that someone was going to meet them and they were going to spend a couple of days at his house until he could sort out getting the big man out of the country.” Myers suddenly grew excited. “He called him uncle! I’ve just remembered, the doctor repeatedly called the big man uncle.”
“Are you sure?” Steve asked, making a note in his daybook and underlining it three times.
“Positive,” Myers said.
This was an exciting development. In theory, if he was related to Claude Winston, it ought to make it much easier to identify the man dressed as a doctor. Of course, the expression could just have been used as a mark of respect. He knew that Turkish males often referred to their elders as uncle, even when there was no familial tie but, as far as he was aware, there was no such custom amongst Afro-Caribbean communities.
“That’s really helpful,” Bull said. “Anything else?”
“Well,” Myers said, scratching his head in thought, “I might have misheard, but I could have sworn he referred to the person who was meeting them as Rodent. I must have misheard, but it definitely sounded like Rodent.”
Bull made another note. “When did you say you heard them saying all this?” he asked.
“During the flight.”
“I don’t understand,” Bull said, frowning in confusion. “You couldn’t hear what was being said during the phone call before take-off but you managed to overhear bits of their conversation during the flight when it would have been even noisier. Can you explain how?”
Myers nodded. “The open faced helmets we wear are all fitted with internal comms. Out of habit, I donned mine before starting the pre-flight checks, but they didn’t put theirs on until we were about to take off. At some point, one of them must have somehow activated their microphone. I think it was the girl; she seemed to spend most of the flight staring out of the window while the other two huddled together to talk. I think that’s why I only caught snippets of what was being discussed rather than being privy to the whole conversation.”
That made sense. “So, what happened after you landed?” Bull asked after checking his watch again. The battle axe had just sentried past them, and he sensed that she was literally counting down the seconds until she could evict him.
Myers’s face darkened. “It’s all a bit of a blur, I’m afraid. The two men were arguing. The big one was unhappy about something and the doctor was trying to get him to calm down. It was only when I heard the big man say something about ‘not leaving any loose ends’ that I realised they were arguing about what to do with me. A car pulled up… It was a small Rover, I think…”
Bull held up a hand to stay him “Do you mean a Metro?” he asked.
Myers shook his head. “No, a 214 or 216, red in colour. Anyway, a skinny white boy with ridiculously bushy sideburns running down the side of his face got out, couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty… As the doctor ushered the brute with the dreadlocks towards it, the evil bastard spun and pointed the gun at me. I tried to duck down, but the flight harnesses held me firmly in place, effectively making me a sitting duck…”
Myers was struggling to speak; his breathing had become increasingly laboured and little beads of perspiration were erupting from every pore in his face.
Bull became aware of the mean faced battle axe striding towards them. “Go on,” he whispered urgently. “We’re nearly finished, and you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.” He wasn’t sure that Myers would, but he couldn’t go back without hearing the last bit.
Myers nodded and then wiped the moisture from his brow. He stared at his glass longingly but it was empty. “I’m told that two shots were fired at me,” he said, “but I only saw one muzzle flash. After that, everything went black. What I do recall is the doctor pushing the big man’s gun arm up at the last moment. Do you think he was trying to save my life?”
Before Bull could answer, the scary ward sister was looming over him. “Right, that’s it. Time’s up. On your bike, sonny Jim.”
◆◆◆
When the phone rang, Garston assumed it would be Flogger calling him back about the antibiotics, but when he checked the caller ID his heart sank. It was Sonia again. He took a deep breath and pressed the green button with his thumb. “Hello Sonia,” he said, readying himself for the verbal onslaught that was sure to follow.
“YOU BASTARD,” she screamed at him. “You got my poor Errol killed. How could you do that to him? He trusted you!”
“What the hell are you on about?” Garston spluttered, reacting as though he had just been slapped. If it hadn’t been for the indescribably raw pain in her voice, he might have thought she was drunk.
Sonia couldn’t speak, but her sobbing spoke for itself.
“The last time I saw Errol he was alive and well,” he promised her, neglecting to add that he’d been running for his life, with the Old Bill hot on his heels.
“He’s dead… my poor baby’s dead…”
Garston’s throat suddenly went dry. “I don’t understand,” he said lamely, but it didn’t take him long to join the dots. Errol was the unnamed man he’d heard about on the news – the one who had been shot by the police during the incident down by the BTNA yesterday afternoon.
A piercing howl escaped Sonia’s lips, and her pain washed over him like a tangible entity. “He’s fucking dead, Deontay. The police… those motherfuckers shot him yesterday…” she broke off, wracked by giant sobs. “… I thought he was gonna pull through, but he didn’t…” a long pause while she struggled to catch her breath. “…My poor baby died during the night, all alone with tubes sticking out of him and an armed guard sitting by his side instead of me.”
Garston slumped down in the lumpy armchair, shocked. “I don’t know what to say,” he stammered.
“Tell me the truth, Deontay,” Sonia demanded, and he could tell she was on the verge of hysteria. “Were you with him when this terrible thing happened? Was he helping you spring that horrible fucking uncle of yours from the hospital?”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” Garston hissed at her. As much as he felt for Sonia’s unspeakable loss, he couldn’t afford to have her mouth off like that.
For a long moment, she was unable to reply. “I’m not fucking stupid,” she eventually told him, squeezing the words out between sobs. “Errol wouldn’t tell me what he was up to yesterday, other than to say he was doing a job that would pay for our wedding…” her voice choked off as the implication of what she said hit her.
There would be no wedding.
There would be no future together.
“Why would you assume he was working for me?” he asked petulantly. “Errol did jobs for lots of people.”
“Yeah, well lots of people didn’t have their waste of space shit cunt uncles bust out of hospital yesterday, did they?” she yelled defiantly. “I know you been running his business while he’s been inside, so don’t insult my intelligence by claiming you had nothing to do with his escape.”
Errol had always said that Sonia was a firebrand and that there was no stopping her once she got herself wound up. Garston decided to try and steer the conversation away from Claude’s escape.
“Listen, Sonia,” he said gently. “I swear to you that Errol wasn’t with me when he got shot. Until you just called, I had no idea what had happened. I promise you I’m not responsible for your man getting shot.” Well, not directly responsible, he mentally corrected himself. “And as for Claude, well I’d be grateful if you kept your thoughts about me being involved in that to yourself.”
He hung up, feeling drained.
After giving the matter some thought, he decided not to mention Errol’s death to the others just yet. It would only complicate things. He was worried about Sonia, though. If she started shouting her mouth off that he had been involved in his uncle’s escape, it wouldn’t take long for the Old Bill to get wind of it and came looking for him. With that in mind, he dialled the number for his fisherman friend in Rye to confirm that everything was still on to get Winston out of the country before the weekend.
Chapter 16
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
After what seemed like minutes, but was in reality only seconds, the irritating noise finally stopped, signifying that the tape was running. The red light on the twin-deck recorder started to flash, indicating that the equipment was working properly.
“Right, this interview is being tape-recorded. It’s exactly twelve midday on Tuesday the eleventh of January two-thousand. We are in interview room number two at Whitechapel police station. My name is Susan Sergeant and I am a Detective Sergeant attached to the Area Major Investigation Pool based at Arbour Square. I am going to ask everyone present to identify themselves, starting with my colleague, DC Murray.”
Murray sniffed, and then fidgeted in his seat. His underpants had become wedged in the crack of his arse and he was very uncomfortable. “DC Kevin Murray, also attached to AMIP at Arbour Square,” he said between wriggles.
Susie glanced across at Mullings, who stared back sullenly; scrawny arms folded across a pigeon chest in defiance. He was trying to act tough but she could smell his fear. Unfortunately, she could also smell the rancid blend of aromas from his shoeless feet and unwashed armpits. The room was windowless and stuffy, and there was nowhere for the offensive pong to go but up her nose.
“No comment,” Mullings said.
Susie groaned at his stupidity as she stared at him, unimpressed. “The interview hasn’t started yet, Gifford. This is the bit where we tell the tape who we are.” She gave his solicitor an imploring look and the man leaned in and whispered something to his client.
“My name’s Gifford Mullings,” the prisoner said after sucking through his teeth.
Susie nodded her thanks to the smartly dressed solicitor with the unevenly sprayed on tan, inviting him to speak with a flourish of her hand.
“I’m Oliver Clarke, a solicitor from Cratchit, Lowe, and Clarke. I’m here to advance and protect the rights and entitlements of my client and ensure that the interview is conducted fairly –”
And to bleed the legal aid coffers dry, Susie thought cynically. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kevin Murray tugging at the cheeks of his trousers, and it was very off-putting. Luckily, with the interview table between them, neither Mullings nor Clarke could see what he was doing, although they might have wondered about the strange faces he was pulling.
“– and to that effect, I will interrupt if I feel the line of questioning is inappropriate or unfair or not in accordance with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984.”
Susie then went on to caution Mullings. When she’d finished, she asked if he understood what the caution meant.
“Course I do,” he said smugly. “I’ve probably heard it more times than you have.”
There was no arguing with that.
“Gifford,” Susie began, “yesterday, you were charged with the offences of taking and driving a vehicle without consent, otherwise known as TDA, and possession of Class A drugs. Is that correct?”
Clarke sat forward in his chair. “Do you intend to question my client further in relation to matters for which he has already been charged?” he challenged.
Supercilious twat, Susie thought. She made a point of addressing her answer to the prisoner, not the solicitor, which immediately wound Clarke up a treat. “While serious enough in themselves, Gifford, these matters pale into insignificance in comparison to a murder charge, which you are now potentially facing. Do you understand that?”
