Unlawfully At Large, page 32
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
“Thank you,” Stedman said, looking relieved.
“Communications,” Tyler said, moving swiftly on. “The TSG will use their own back-to-back channel until the premises are secured. If it all goes pear-shaped, switch straight to Kilo Foxtrot’s radio link and call for support.”
Tyler turned to Susie. “This is DS Susie Sergeant. She might not be all that as an artist, but she is a cracking detective, and she’s the Case Officer for this investigation. All paperwork goes through her, and no one goes off duty until released by myself or one of the DIs. Right, I’ll hand you over to DI Dillon and DS Sergeant to go over the route we are all going to take to the venue, the way the vehicles will line up for the convoy, and what everyone is going to be doing when they get there. Thank you for your attention, and good luck everybody.”
◆◆◆
At 1 a.m. a six-vehicle convoy – two TSG carriers, two unmarked AMIP pool cars, one marked Immediate Response Vehicle and a marked station van left Arbour Square for the four-and-a-half-mile journey across East London to the squat in Vicarage Lane.
They travelled on blue lights, with the unmarked cars sandwiched between the carriers and the IRV. Turning left into Commercial Road, they headed for the Limehouse Link Tunnel, their route taking them through some of the City’s less salubrious areas. Emerging from the tunnel, they sped along West India Dock Road and Aspen Way, taking the exit for the Royal Docks and City Airport. Cutting onto the A13, they continued to make good progress, ignoring the flashing speed cameras, and took the A1011 exit for Stratford and Canning Town.
They drove along Plaistow New Road until the junction with Densham Road came into sight. At that point, the convoy killed their blue lights and pulled over against the nearside kerb as had been agreed before they set off.
Dillon was travelling in the first pool car with Tyler and Susie Sergeant. While Tyler got out to have a final word with the TSG skippers, Brent and Beach, he used the time to ring George Copeland, who was with Kelly Flowers in the car that Susie had dispatched down to the scene earlier to cover the other end of Vicarage Lane.
“George,” he said as soon as the Yorkshireman’s bored voice answered, “we’re almost with you. Can you and Kelly relocate to outside the house in Evesham Road that backs onto the target address, just in case there are any runners.”
“We can, but I’m no Linford Christie, so you might want to send someone else. Otherwise, I’ll probably be lagging way behind Kelly if anyone has it on their toes.”
Dillon grinned as he imagined the comical sight of the overweight exhibit officer trying – and failing – to climb over garden fences in pursuit of a fleeing suspect. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sending an IRV around to back you up. They can do all the footwork if it’s required.”
Copeland sounded relieved. “In that case, as soon as it joins us, we’ll move into position. I’ll call you back once we’re set up. Make sure the TSG doesn’t go in until we say so, just in case we have any problems working out where we need to be.”
He terminated the call and dialled the number he had for Paul Evans. “Taff, Dillon here. We’re just around the corner in Densham road. Any sign of movement out the front?”
“No, quiet as the grave here,” Evans replied. “Three white females came out about half an hour ago, and there’s been no other activity since.”
“Are you sure Marley wasn’t amongst them?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Silly question, but do you reckon the three who left were hookers?
Evans laughed. “Well, they were all dressed as you’d expect prostitutes going out to work on a cold winter’s night would be: low cut blouses under flimsy jackets, short skirts, fishnet stockings and suspenders, high heels. Poor cows will end up with frostbite in their nether regions if they’re not careful.”
Dillon heard Jarvis chuckle in the background. “You can laugh, young Dick,” Evans scolded him playfully, “but it can’t be pleasant having hyperthermia of the muff.” That only creased Jarvis up more.
“Never mind their frozen fannies,” Dillon snapped, attracting a puzzled look from Susie, “how many people do you think there are inside?”
“At least seven, possibly eight. There’s Marley and whoever let her in – that could have been one of the three girls we saw leave or someone else entirely – and there’s also the two hookers and four punters who arrived after her. When you rang to say you were setting off from Arbour Square, Dick took a stroll past the address to see if there were any signs of life inside.”
“And…?”
“There was loud music playing inside, along with some raucous singing. Dick thought it sounded as though they were having a bit of a party.”
“Okay mate, I’ll let the TSG know. We’re going to be working off their back-to-back channel so you’ll need to change to that.” He gave Evans the frequency and rang off.
“So,” Susie quizzed him, “who’s got a frozen fanny?”
Dillon grinned. “You’ll have to ask Paul Evans, I’m far too shy to discuss such things.”
Susie snorted, derisively. “Shameless, yes. But shy? Definitely not.”
“It’s the new, sensitive me,” he told her, and before she could ridicule him, he nipped out to join in the little huddle outside the lead carrier, where Jack was still talking to the TSG skippers.
“Guys, I just spoke to the DC who has eyeball on the address. All quiet in the street outside, but it sounds like a bit of a party going on inside the squat.”
“Any idea how many are inside?” Beach asked.
“They reckon at least seven or eight,” Dillon said.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Jack asked.
Beach shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Have you had enough time to let the two units you’ve already got on plot know we’re about to effect entry?”
Dillon nodded. “They’ve been updated, they’re now on your channel, and they’re in place and waiting for the fun to begin.”
“Good,” Beach said, slipping his NATO riot helmet over his head. “In that case, let’s do it.”
With everyone back in their respective vehicles, the convoy moved off, turning right into Densham Road.
Moments later, it snaked left into Vicarage Lane. The road ahead was straight, except for a slight kink about a third of the way along, which gave the impression that two competing teams of builders had started at either end and then bodged the join in the middle.
Hugging the pavement line so that other traffic could overtake, the motorcade crawled towards the junction with Hurry Close. They were now less than one hundred metres from their destination. Fortunately, traffic was almost non-existent, enabling the line of police vehicles to swerve onto the wrong side of the road for the final approach. The vehicles coasted to a silent halt outside an unobtrusive house that stood virtually opposite the junction with Byford Close.
The station van had long since dropped back and was waiting near the junction with Densham Road. It would only come forward if it was needed for prisoner transport.
The two semi-detached houses that comprised the squat, built in the early fifties from the look of them, boasted a fairly large frontage, with a tarmac driveway big enough to accommodate four or five cars, although only one, a beat-up Ford Escort, occupied it at present.
The police drivers had switched their lights off as soon as they turned into Vicarage Lane and, as a precaution, a complete radio silence was in force as they prepared to exit their vehicles.
The Territorial Support Group officers were dressed in full public order attire, including black, flame-retardant overalls, NATO helmets, and short shields. Having carried out similar raids many times before, they alighted quickly and quietly, immediately taking up positions that had been designated to them in the rushed briefing an hour ago.
The AMIP cars pulled up behind them.
Looking around to see if he could spot his colleagues, Jack was pleased that there was no sign of the eyeball car containing Jarvis and Evans. That demonstrated good fieldcraft on their part.
“I hope that IRV has found George,” Dillon fretted. “Just in case Angela goes out the back when the TSG make entry.”
“It’ll be fine,” Susie reassured him.
The house, like most others in the street, was in total blackness. Up close, it appeared shabby and neglected in comparison to the properties on either side. The walls were pebbledashed a depressingly dull brown; all the upstairs windows had been boarded with ply; the downstairs windows and street door had been secured with thick timber, although a gaping rectangular hole had been chiselled out of the right side of the door in order for the squatters to install a crude locking system of their own.
The muffled sound of repetitive dance music escaped from inside, and the steady boom, boom, boom of a bass drum punctuated the still night air around them.
“It must be a delight living next to this lot,” Tyler remarked, feeling sorry for the neighbours.
The officers stood motionless as they waited for confirmation that the back was covered. They felt exposed, vulnerable; all they could do was hope that no one inside would see them. The boarded-up windows worked in their favour, as did the darkness; things would have been much tougher had the raid been carried out in daylight. Trying to make a discreet approach to a target address wasn’t easy when there was a small crowd of onlookers gathering, shifting from foot to foot and asking each other what was going on.
Finally, after what seemed like minutes but was, in reality, only seconds, George’s taut voice came over the radio in a tinny whisper. “Copeland to Dillon, we’re finally in place, guv. Sorry we took so long but we’ve managed to gain access into the gardens directly behind you. For your info, the target address is in total darkness at the rear.”
“Received, George. Stand by,” Dillon responded. He turned to see if Tyler was going to give him the green light and was rewarded with an affirmative nod.
Dillon crossed the drive in five purposeful strides and gave the TSG lads a thumbs up. He leaned into PS Beach’s ear and spoke quietly. “Time to use the big red key.”
Beach grinned, then turned and patted Ron Stedman on the shoulder. “Go, go, go,” he whispered urgently.
With that, Stedman removed the red ‘Enforcer’ battering ram from his shoulder, where it had rested, and hoisted it into a readiness position. Through the gap in the timber, they could see that the original door was a cheap, mass-produced model. There was a sturdy looking Chubb lock, but it was unlikely to offer much resistance to the kinetic force generated by the heavy ram, especially when it was wielded by someone as proficient as Stedman.
WHACK! WHACK!
The door flew open and Stedman stepped aside as a posse of officers surged into the hallway of the house.
“POLICE! POLICE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”
The ghastly music sounded even louder now that they had gained entry.
PS Brent and his PCs were first through the door, and they veered left, headed straight for the ground floor room from which the hellish racket was coming. The lights were on inside so at least they could see where they were going.
His ears throbbing, Brent’s eyes followed the cable that ran from the sound system sitting on top of an old cupboard against the far wall to the wall socket beneath. Gritting his teeth, he strode across the room and pulled the plug.
The room immediately went silent.
There were two large leather sofas, one on each side of the room, and both were occupied by a couple attempting drunken copulation.
“You can stop all that nonsense immediately, you randy bastards,” Brent ordered, his harsh voice sounding incredibly loud in the sudden silence.
The instructions turned out to be superfluous. On seeing the riot trained police officers standing before them, helmet visors down, shields held at the ready and batons raised, both couples sprang apart as though they had just been electrocuted.
Lola screamed, lowered her skirt and covered her breasts with her hands. She didn’t show them to anyone who wasn’t paying for the privilege.
The man who had been pumping away on top of her sprang to his feet, naked as a newborn.
Brent grimaced at the sight. “Cover that bloody thing up before I arrest you for possessing an offensive weapon,” he shouted at the tattooed man, whose manhood was so hard that it had turned purple.
The couple on the other couch was far slower to respond, but the reason for this instantly became obvious when an officer shook the man lying on top of the prostitute and discovered that he was fast asleep. The girl pinned underneath him seemed quite relieved when he was unceremoniously dragged into a sitting position, allowing her to wriggle free.
Now that entry had been gained, the TSG officers scattered in all directions, securing every room in the premises. Shouts reverberated throughout the building as officers banged loudly on locked doors, demanding that they be opened up quickly. The alternative to rapid compliance, they warned, was to have the locks forced open by a pair of size twelve keys.
A naked man with the numbers 18 tattooed into the base of his shaven skull was dragged, screaming and swearing, from the downstairs toilet, where he had been taking a leak.
The numbers signified his membership to Combat 18, a violent neo-Nazi group that had chosen its name in honour of Adolf Hitler. The number 1 represented the first letter of the alphabet: A for Adolf, and the number 8 represented the eighth letter of the alphabet: H for Hitler.
The far-right extremist was taken into a vacant downstairs room and ordered to sit in a chair. Clad in nothing but a stained pair of shreddies, he did as he was told, looking bleary-eyed and confused from all the drugs and alcohol he had consumed during the last few hours.
While Brent and his officers had deployed across the ground floor, Beach had led his crew straight upstairs.
Considering that they didn’t know the exact layout of the house, which caused some minor confusion in the first crucial seconds of the raid, he still managed to get his officers into most rooms inside of a minute.
Only three of the eight bedrooms failed to respond.
On Beach’s instruction, these were forced open.
One of the rooms was clearly unoccupied, much to the disappointment of the officer who had just booted in the door, but the second contained a slim white male in his middle thirties who was spooning a dark-skinned woman on a tatty double bed that had definitely seen better days. The woman was so completely spaced out that she hardly even noticed the violent entry, but the man was up in an instant. Naked as the day he was born, he grabbed a clear bag of white powder from the bedside table next to him and made a dash for the en-suite loo, clearly intent on flushing the incriminating drugs away.
A Parteiadler tattoo – the German eagle sitting atop a wreath containing a Swastika that had become the emblem of the Nazi party – spanned his entire back, with the wingtips reaching from shoulder to shoulder. Staring at the tattooed man in disgust, PC Stedman sent him flying across the room before he could pull the chain and dispose of the evidence. His colleague, PC Smith, casually strolled over to the bowl and peered in. “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” he enquired aloud.
As the unfortunate skinhead staggered up from the floor, clutching his stomach and complaining about police brutality, he was met by a satisfied smirk that spoiled his entire day.
Fishing the bag of cocaine out of the bowl with a coat hanger, PC Jay Smith raised his visor and said with great pleasure: “You’re nicked sunshine.”
Downstairs, Dillon had sneaked into the venue on the tail of the last officer. He knew he ought to have waited outside, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was no way he was going to miss out on all the action.
“Copeland to Dillon. Guv, we’ve got someone coming out of a back window, top floor, furthest window on the right.” George’s voice announced over the radio as the final bedroom door was kicked open.
As Dillon ran up the stairs towards the room in question, he heard an officer shouting for the suspect to stop.
Predictably, the runner ignored the order. Several officers stampeded down the stairs, intent on giving chase through the gardens. They nearly knocked Dillon over in the process.
“Bloody suits! You were meant to wait outside until you were called forward,” one of them called over his shoulder.
Dillon ignored the rebuke. “George, tell me you’ve caught the bastard!” he yelled into the handset. “George!” he said again, annoyed by the lack of response. Cursing profoundly, Dillon followed the small group of officers into the rear garden.
“Have you got the suspect?” Dillon demanded when he caught them up.
“Sorry, boss, whoever it was shot over the fence like a whippet. I didn’t have a chance.” PC Reeve apologised sheepishly. He was out of breath and covered in mud, where he’d slipped in one of the garden’s flowerbeds.
Dillon shook his head in disappointment, then patted the TSG officer on the shoulder.
“Never mind, you did your best,” he told the older man.
“I know, Sir. But it wasn’t good enough, was it?” PC Reeve said, disappointed.
“DI Dillon from DC Copeland, receiving, over,” George transmitted.
“Yeah, go ahead, George,” Dillon replied, trying not to sound too pissed off.
“Sorry about the delay, boss, but we got the fucker, two gardens down.” Copeland couldn’t keep the pleasure from his voice.
“Well done, George,” Dillon beamed. “Is it Angela?” He crossed his fingers, hoping the answer would be a resounding ‘YES’.
“Negative, boss. Just some Asian twat who says he ran because he’s wanted on a warrant.”
“Received,” Dillon acknowledged glumly. “Do a namecheck to confirm he’s wanted, and then take him straight out to the van. I’m going back inside to supervise the search.”
He found Tyler and Susie Sergeant waiting for him in the communal hallway. Unlike him, they had played by the rules and waited in the car until called forward.
