Unlawfully At Large, page 3
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
“So, what happened?” Dillon asked, scathingly.
Skinner blew out his cheeks, spraying spittle everywhere. “Nothing bloody happened,” he said petulantly. “The fucker’s appendix ruptured before we could even speak to him. Peritonitis, I think they call it. Long story short, he’s going to be hospitalised for quite a while, which means by the time he’s ready to be discharged, the poxy production order will have expired and he’ll have to go straight back to prison. If we want to speak to him, we’ll have to go through the whole rigmarole of producing him again. It’s a bloody disaster, mate.” He thumped the chair next to him in frustration.
Serves you bloody right, Dillon thought, resisting the urge to smile smugly. “Has a risk assessment for the hospital watch been carried out yet?” he asked instead, noting that the uniformed officers were unarmed.
Skinner didn’t like the tone of Dillon’s voice, and he responded by folding his arms defensively, the way that small-minded people often do when put on the spot.
“Yes,” he said, guardedly. “I’ve carried one out myself, in conjunction with the local Duty Officer. It’s all been properly documented.”
“Look, I’m not trying to teach you how to suck eggs,” Dillon said, struggling not to lose his cool, “but have you considered requesting an armed guard. He’s a nasty fucker and his gang has access to guns.”
Skinner snorted at that. “Practically every villain in the country has access to firearms these days,” he said, dismissively. “Don’t worry, there will be three uniformed PCs with him for the duration of his stay. I’m happy that that’s enough and, more importantly, so is the Duty Officer who’s providing the staff.”
Dillon didn’t share his confidence. Unlike Skinner, he’d seen what Winston was capable of at first hand, and there was no doubt in his mind that armed officers were definitely warranted. By choosing not to go down that route, he felt that Skinner was making a big mistake. Cynically, he found himself wondering whether the decision was down to poor judgement or laziness. After all, getting the authority to deploy an armed guard involved a hell of a lot more paperwork than drafting in three lids from the local station do the job.
Skinner’s tone became slightly more conciliatory. “Look,” he said, pausing to smile indulgently, and looking like he was trying to pass wind. “It’s not like he’s a member of one of the Turkish or Albanian organised crime gangs we used to deal with at SO7, is it?”
Dillon scowled at him. “Meaning what exactly?”
Skinner spread his arms expansively. “Meaning it’s highly unlikely that anyone would care enough about the twat to try and spring him out of here, even if they could.”
Dillon could tell that there was absolutely no point in continuing the conversation. Skinner’s narrow little mind was made up, and nothing he said was going to change it. “I really hope you’re right, Frank,” he said, standing up to go, “because if you’re not, it won’t be your life on the line when the shooting starts.”
Chapter 3
Thursday 6th January 2000
At precisely eleven o’clock that morning, two smartly dressed men carrying expensive-looking briefcases turned up at Winston’s room and demanded access.
“Sorry,” PC Stanley Morrison said, barring their way, “this man’s in police custody and only authorised persons are allowed to visit.”
The elder of the two, a white man in his mid-thirties with a spray-on tan and heavily gelled hair, smiled indulgently and produced a laminated badge, which stated that his name was Oliver Clarke and that he was a fully qualified solicitor working for a company called Cratchit, Lowe and Clarke.
“I’m Mr Winston’s solicitor, and I’m here to visit him in that capacity,” Clarke announced. Morrison was surprised to hear him speak in a coarse East London accent more becoming of a barrow boy than a solicitor. He had expected something much snootier from the man’s flashy appearance, although now he came to think about it, maybe the unevenly sprayed-on tan should have given him a clue.
“This is my intern, Jeremy Peters,” Clarke said, introducing the thin black man in his late twenties who had accompanied him.
Morrison eyed the studious ebony-skinned intern carefully. He certainly seemed respectable enough, so he probably was exactly who he claimed to be, but orders were orders. “Do you have a formal ID like this?” he asked, waving Clarke’s laminate in his face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Peters said, smiling apologetically. He was far better spoken than Clarke and Morrison got the impression that he had come from a wealthy background, attended a posh school and an even posher university.
Morrison stared at them indecisively. He had strict orders that any solicitor requesting access to the prisoner was to have proper identification. Otherwise, a check was to be made with the Law Society and a drug squad skipper called Frank Skinner was to be consulted before they were admitted. Morrison knew that getting the intern checked out with the Law Society would take time, and now that he thought about it, no one had actually said anything about interns. Were they even registered with the Law Society? Morrison suspected not. He decided that his instructions were ambiguous enough to give him some leeway in how he interpreted them and concluded that as long as the solicitor checked out, which he did, there was no need to worry about the intern accompanying him.
“Okay,” he said, handing the ID back to Clarke. He opened the door and showed them in.
“I’d like to see my client in private,” Clarke said, nodding towards the bored-looking cop sitting in a soft chair opposite the bed, reading a magazine about angling.
Morrison was uncomfortable with that. “We were told that he wasn’t to be left alone,” he said.
“He won’t be alone,” Clarke said, smarmily, “he’ll be with us.”
The man’s flippancy riled Morrison, who didn’t like solicitors much at the best of times. He opened his mouth to fire back a sharp retort but, before he could speak, Peters cut in, his tone conciliatory. “Officer,” he said, “we’re three floors up, and none of the windows have an opening big enough for a man of Mr Winston’s considerable stature to squeeze through.”
To make his point, he nodded towards the windows, which Morrison saw only had narrow top openers fitted. Winston had to be a good six-feet-five inches tall in his stockinged feet, Morrison estimated, and he easily weighed in at eighteen or nineteen stone.
“Besides,” Peters continued, “the door has a glass panel in it, so you’ll be able to see in from outside.”
Morrison considered that, realised that the intern was right and that no harm could come of allowing them to speak in private, which they were allowed to do with their client anyway.
“Fair enough,” he said, “but we’ll be right outside, so no funny business.” The last comment was addressed to Winston, who simply sucked through his teeth in response.
◆◆◆
As soon as they were alone with their client, the two suited men pulled up chairs, sitting next to his bed with their backs to the door to prevent the officers outside from being able to read their lips. They were probably being a little paranoid, but it was better to be safe than sorry, especially given the nature of the discussion they were about to have. They both sat as close to the patient as they could, leaning in and speaking in hushed tones.
“How are you doing, uncle?” Deontay Garston asked. Now that he had dropped the phony accent he’d used while masquerading as Peters, he sounded every bit as much a local boy as Oliver Clarke.
“You’ve scrubbed up pretty well, nephew,” Winston said with a chuckle. “The posh accent you put on was impressive. It certainly had the pigs fooled.”
Garston allowed himself a modest smile of self-satisfaction. “I’ve been practising,” he said.
“Mr Winston,” Clarke cut in. “Just for the record, I’m not happy about having to lie to the police to get your nephew in here. If they had checked with the Law Society or my firm, I could have lost my job –” he swallowed hard “– or worse.”
Winston sneered at the spineless toad. “Get over it,” he snapped. “You’re being well compensated for getting the boy in to see me, so shut your mouth and do your job.”
“My job is to represent you, not assist you to break the law,” Clarke insisted edgily.
Winston ignored him. “So,” he said to his nephew, “you know what we had planned for my return journey to Pentonville, is it still on?”
Garston glanced uneasily at the solicitor, unsure about how much information to reveal in front of him.
Winston waved this away dismissively. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, staring at the lawyer and loading the last word with contempt. “If he says anything to the filth, he’ll be in as much trouble as we will.” His voice became full of menace as he leaned forward. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
Clarke couldn’t hold his eye. Looking down at the floor, he gave a forlorn shake of his head. “No, I won’t say a word,” he confirmed, the modulation in his voice expressing a mixture of fear and shame.
Winston gave a satisfied grunt.
“What were you going to say?” he asked, returning his attention to his nephew.
“I think I’ve come up with an even better escape plan,” Deontay declared. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Clarke cringe at the use of the word ‘escape’. “Your being in here might actually work in our favour. If we can find a way to overcome the three cops outside your room, we’ll have all the time in the world to make good our escape.” Lying awake in bed the previous night, it had suddenly occurred to him that if they snatched Claude from a police car, and the cops had a chance to use their radios, they might only have a couple of minutes to make good their getaway before reinforcements started to arrive. If, on the other hand, they broke him out of here and secured the guards so that they couldn’t summon help, they could well have upwards of an hour. It was a game-changing difference as far as their chances of success were concerned.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Winston said scathingly. “The problem is, how are you gonna do that without them using their radios, and without alerting any of the hospital staff?”
Deontay smiled nervously. “I’ve already thought about that,” he said. “I know a bloke who can source me some powerful sedatives. All I need to do is work out a way to administer them.”
Clarke was looking thoroughly miserable now.
Winston rolled his eyes in contempt. “Just get a couple of shooters, and we can pop the fuckers,” he said. “You don’t need to make things more complicated than they need to be.”
Deontay raised a cautionary finger to his lips, afraid that Winston was going to blurt something out loudly enough for the officers outside to hear. “Leave it with me, Claude, I’ve already got an idea of how this might work. I just need to recruit the right people to help me pull it off.”
“Well, don’t fuck about,” Winston instructed harshly. “If they can get the infection under control and bring my temperature down, the doctor reckons I’ll probably be fit enough to be released on Saturday. If not, it’ll be Monday morning, straight after doctor’s rounds.”
“Don’t worry, uncle,” Deontay told him. “Before I leave, I’ll introduce myself to the ward sister and make sure they know I’m your legal rep and give them a code word. That way, I’ll be able to call in and get updates every day without arousing suspicion.”
Chapter 4
Monday 10th January 2000
It was still dark outside her bedroom window when Melissa Smails awoke to find their black cat, Merlin, sitting on her chest, staring down at her with his big green eyes and purring loudly.
Meow, he said by way of greeting.
Merlin had recently taken to sleeping at the bottom of the bed, which she didn’t really mind, but he had also taken to waking her up when he wanted his breakfast, which she was far less enthusiastic about.
As she lay there, she could feel the reassuring outline of her partner’s large body pressed against her back, and she instinctively snuggled into him, siphoning off his body warmth. He was snoring loudly, and she elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to turn over. He licked his lips noisily, grumbled something in his sleep and then fell silent.
“Strewth, Merlin, why don’t you ever wake daddy up when you’re hungry,” she complained, rubbing the residue of sleep from her bleary eyes. As if offended by the reprimand, the snooty cat jumped off of her chest and wandered out of the room with a haughty swagger.
That cat has definitely got a serious attitude problem, she thought as she yawned.
Craning her neck, Melissa – Mel to her friends – squinted at the glowing red digits of the clock-radio on her bedside table. Her heart sank when she saw there were only nine minutes left until the alarm was due to go off. She badly needed to pee, but if she got up to use the loo now there would be no point in returning to her lush warm bed afterwards, so she pulled the 15-Tog duvet tightly around her neck and rolled over, determined to stay put until the alarm sounded. Unfortunately, her bladder was having none of it. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go – right?
Mel, who had grown up in Australia, hated the harsh British winters; they were always cold and bleak and depressing, and it didn’t matter what shift she was rostered to work at the hospital, it was always dark when she woke up and always dark when she went to bed.
Mel was down to work an 08:00 – 20:30 hours shift today, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that at least she would get to see a few meagre hours of daylight, unlike when she worked the dreaded 20:00 – 08:30 hours night shifts that came around all too frequently. When she was on those, her sleep pattern meant that several days could pass without her seeing the sun at all, and after a while, the perpetual darkness made her go a little cranky.
Thankfully, after today’s shift, she had three whole days of glorious leave to look forward to. Dave, her partner of four years, was a paramedic with the London Ambulance Service. He was also going to be off, and they were planning to visit his parents in Cornwall for a couple of days, driving down first thing in the morning. It would probably be too cold to surf, even for a diehard like her, but she was looking forward to a brief respite from all the noise and pollution of the big city.
Despite needing to urinate, Mel was finding it harder than usual to drag herself out of bed today. It didn’t help that the flat’s ancient heating system had packed up on Boxing Day, and since then the place had been colder than an Eskimo’s igloo.
Despite Dave phoning their tight-fisted landlord every day, there was still no sign of the tradesman the wanker had repeatedly promised to send around to carry out emergency repairs. That was probably because the boiler didn’t even have a current safety inspection certificate; it didn’t just need repairing – it needed replacing, and a job like that would cost the skinflint they were renting the flat from more money than he was prepared to part with.
Their six-month tenancy was up for renewal at the beginning of March, but they had already decided not to stay on. The heating debacle was just the latest in a long list of things that had gone wrong since they had moved in. Not only was the property riddled with damp and falling apart, but the drains also kept getting blocked up. On top of that, one of her neighbours was a bit of an oddball and the other one was – if the pungent smell wafting out of his flat and the steady stream of callers was anything to go by – selling drugs.
As much as Mel would have preferred to remain cocooned in her lovely warm duvet, she began to worry that if she didn’t get up soon, she would end up wetting the bed.
Having delayed the inevitable for as long as she could, she timidly slid her feet down onto the cheap carpet, feeling around for her slippers in the dark and gasping as cold air engulfed her calves in its icy grip.
On Friday just gone, they had found an old electric heater in a utility cupboard while clearing it out. It was now plugged into the socket beside the bed, and Mel bent down and switched it on. She wondered why she was bothering; even when sitting directly in front of it, as she was now, the only way to tell that it was on was from the faint smell of burning it gave off.
Mel had showered before going to bed the previous night, so all she had to do now was slip out of her PJs into her work clothes, but she was dreading losing all the residual heat from her sleepwear while she swapped one outfit for the other.
As she sat in the dark, shivering, Mel’s hand scuttled across the bedside table like an angry crab until she found the switch for the small lamp. Squinting at the sudden brightness that invaded the room, and unable to stand the cold any longer, she reached back onto the bed and snatched the duvet from Dave. “Sorry, sweetie,” she said as she draped it over her shoulders.
Poor old Dave squirmed in his sleep and wrapped his arms around himself, but he didn’t wake up. He was wearing his Superman pyjamas. Truth be told, he looked more like a ‘Man of Stodge’ than a ‘Man of Steel’, but she loved him anyway.
Before the boiler died, the flat’s heating had been programmed to come on an hour before they were due to get up, which meant that Mel could hang her clothes over the bedroom radiator when she went to bed, knowing they would be lovely and warm when it was time to get dressed.
Without the benefit of central heating, Mel had been forced to find an alternative method of warming up her clothes, and her solution was – if she said so herself – pretty fucking ingenious. Picking up her unwieldy hairdryer, she turned the blower up to max and spent a few seconds running it over each item of clothing before putting it on, taking special care to ensure that her socks were toasty warm. Dave, who constantly astonished her by his ability to sleep through virtually anything, didn’t even stir at the incredible racket coming from the rickety hairdryer as it rattled away in her hand.
