Unlawfully At Large, page 39
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
“Carol, can I ask a favour of you?”
“Of course,” she said, with an indulgent smile.
“Before Susie informs the skinhead’s solicitors that they’re going to be charged, can you speak directly to someone senior at the CPS and see how they would feel about us also charging Dobson and his three buddies with offences relating to the manufacture and distribution of firearms and ammunition without a licence. Ultimately, these bastards are arms dealers so let’s see if we can sheet them for that as well. I did plan to do this myself, but I don’t think I’m going to have the time.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Carol informed him. “I took the liberty of contacting the CPS earlier to discuss the possibility of going down that route. The lawyer seemed very receptive but he wanted to wait until the lab had confirmed that they were real guns before making a decision.”
Jack was suitably impressed. “Excellent. In that case, can you get back onto him and seek a formal charging decision as quickly as possible.”
“Do you want me to do it now or wait until we finish here?”
“I think it can wait ten minutes more while we thrash out the plans for this evening,” Tyler said. “And can you inform Susie that she can keep three people to do the charging and put the case file together, but I want everyone else back here ASAP. We’re going to need every available person for tonight.”
“I’ll let her know before I call the CPS back,” Carol promised.
“Thank you,” Jack said, making a mental note to phone Holland as soon as the meeting concluded. Charging the bastards who’d sold the guns to PC Morrison’s killers might not bring their dead colleague back, but it would hopefully offer some degree of comfort to his grieving family, and by taking two weapons and a load of ammunition out of circulation, they might have prevented other innocent families from having to go through the same torturous experience at some point in the future.
Smothering a yawn, Tyler wearily turned to Wilkins. “Tom, can you talk everyone through the call you received earlier, please.”
Wilkins cleared his throat. “Yes, the call came in at six-thirty-three. We’ve traced the number to a phone box in Barking Road. It’s not covered by CCTV, which is a pity. The caller was a youngish sounding female with a London accent. She refused to give her details, but she provided some very important information.”
“Which is…?” Tyler prompted impatiently.
Wilkins shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsettled by Tyler’s relentless intensity. “She used to go to the same primary school as a boy called Rodney Dawlish,” he said hurriedly. “Apparently, their brothers were best buds. She hasn’t seen him for years, but yesterday, out of the blue, he strolled into the chemist where she works and asked for a load of bandages, dressings, steri strips and pain killers. When she got home, she saw the news and wondered if Rodney’s visit could be linked to Winston’s escape. Today, when he came back into the shop to purchase some more supplies, she confronted him and he reluctantly admitted that he was helping Winston. What’s particularly worrying is that he told her they were planning to drive him to the coast during the early hours. She doesn’t know where Rodney lives, only that it’s somewhere in the vicinity of Star Lane.”
“Wasn’t Star Lane one of the few roads that got missed when the night duty had to abandon the street search to rush off and deal with a fatal RTA?” Charlie White asked.
“It was,” Dillon said, “and although our illustrious leader –” he nodded towards Tyler “– was desperate for us to send staff down there this morning to finish it off, we had well and truly run out of people by that stage.”
“Anyway,” Wilkins continued, “Rodney’s nickname is Rodent, as in the name that the HEMS pilot overheard.”
“Thank you, Tom,” Jack said. He took a deep breath and studied the faces of his subordinates one by one. “I think it’s fair to say that almost all of the pieces of the puzzle are now in place. On Monday afternoon, all we knew for sure was that Winston had escaped from the RLH with the aid of two unknown suspects in a hijacked helicopter. After it put down in wasteland near Canning Town the trail went cold. Since then, through sheer hard work and tenacity, we’ve worked out that someone called Rodent picked them up in a red Rover 216. We’ve identified Winston’s helpers as Deontay Garston and Angela Marley, and we’ve worked out they’re using mobile telephones that end with the respective numbers 777 and 321. Thanks to the TIU, we know that these numbers have been predominantly pinged by the cell covering Star Lane, going to sleep there every night and waking up there every morning. Finally, we’ve received information that Rodent is Rodney Dawlish and he lives in the vicinity of Star Lane. When you add all this information up, it’s not unreasonable to conclude that Winston, Garston, and Marley are staying with Rodent at his place in or near Star Lane. Unfortunately, we don’t know the actual address. What we do know is that at some point overnight, the gang are planning to drive Winston down to the coast where, presumably, he’ll hop onto a boat and be smuggled across the channel. Without wishing to be overly dramatic, I think that the manhunt for Winston and his odious little crew is likely to reach its zenith tonight, and I’m really worried that if we don’t have him in custody by the morning, it’ll be because he’s slipped the net and made it to France.”
Steve Bull frowned. “Surely, if the TIU is still live monitoring their phones, it’ll be simple enough for us to follow them?”
Jack pulled a face like someone had just passed wind. “We’ll be able to follow their general direction, Steve, yes. But we’ll be playing catch up every step of the way, and we’ll only know the rough area the handsets are in, not their specific location. If Rodney drives somewhere remote and Winston jumps straight in a boat when they get there, we won’t be able to get to them in time to stop him. And consider this: what happens if they split up or turn their phones off or go into an area without reception?”
“I hadn’t considered any of that,” Bull admitted, sounding depressed.
“I have,” Jack said. “I’ve been thinking about little else since Tom came in and told me that the girl had called the MIR.”
“So, what do we do?” Dillon asked. “Knowing you as I do, I’m confident that you have something in mind.”
“There are two questions we have to address,” Jack told him. “Firstly, what’s our plan of attack to arrest them all tonight, before they leave Rodent’s address? Secondly, what’s our back up plan if we miss them and they set off for the coast?”
“Oh, is that all?” Carol asked, managing to sound underwhelmed. “And here was me thinking this was going to be hard.”
Even Tyler had to laugh at that.
“Perhaps it’ll be easier if I tell you my initial thoughts and we can build on that,” Jack offered.
“Och, I can hardly wait,” Charlie White said with a wry grin.
“I’ve had Reg check in with the TIU to make sure that they’re going to continue to live monitor the 777 and 321 numbers for us,” Tyler said. “They’ve been appraised of the situation and they’ve promised to continue the live monitoring throughout the night as long as we pay the overtime bill.”
Dillon rolled his eyes. “It always comes down to money,” he said, scathingly.
“Right now, both phones are still in the same cell where they’ve been for the majority the past two days,” Jack continued.
“The cell that covers Star Lane?” Steve asked.
“That’s right,” Jack confirmed. “The chances are that they won’t dare move Winston until the early hours when the roads are at their quietest. With that in mind, DI Dillon’s arranged for the Technical Support Unit to deploy a signal detector van before midnight to see if it can narrow down the location of the two phones to a specific address. Dill, what’s the score with that?”
“Sorry – a what?” Wilkins asked, looking confused. He wasn’t the only one. Carol and Charlie White appeared equally bewildered.
“It’s a van equipped with directional tuning equipment that can search for individual IMEIs and isolate where phone signals are coming from,” Dillon explained. “Unfortunately, they can’t deploy until after eleven p.m., but that might work in our favour as telephone traffic will be considerably lighter by then.”
“I would have been much happier if we could have got them out on the streets for ten o’clock,” Jack said, “but that’s clearly not to be so we’ll have to settle for what we’ve got. I’m planning to send out a couple of pool cars with people in scruffs to start cruising the area from nine-thirty onwards. There’s no point doing it any earlier as the Rover might not be there. If either car spots the Rover, we’ll try and plot up around it and wait for the suspects to approach the car. As soon as they get inside, we can move in and arrest the bastards.”
“Surely that’s too dangerous,” Wilkins protested. “As far as we know, they still have one of the firearms that they bought from the skinheads so only armed officers should approach them.”
Jack treated him to a mirthless smile. “I’m well aware of that,” he said patiently. “That’s why Mr Dillon has spoken to SO19 and arranged for a team of SFOs to be on standby.”
“Oh,” Wilkins said, blushing.
“With luck, the TSU will be able to identify the house that the suspects are holed up in before they set off for the coast, and then we can all sit back and enjoy the show as SO19 move in and arrest them,” Jack said. “However, if Winston and his cronies move off before the TSU has located their hidey-hole, it won’t matter too much if we’ve already got their car under our control because we can just call the SFOs forward to carry out a hard stop.”
“Winston won’t come quietly,” Dillon warned them. “Trust me, he will go out in a blaze of glory rather than surrender.”
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bull said.
Dillon shook his head, grimly. “I’m telling you now, when he’s challenged, he’s going to open fire and it’s going to be a blood bath.”
The room went eerily quiet as the implications of his words set in, and Wilkins and Keating looked at him and then each other with growing unease.
“What happens if they manage to get Winston out of London before we locate them?” Bull asked.
“Then we’re in the shit,” Jack said, glumly. “I can only think of one other tactic we might be able to employ, but I don’t want to discuss that until I’ve firmed up its viability.”
“That’s very cryptic of you,” Steve said drily, “and not very confidence-inspiring if you don’t mind me saying so?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Jack said, blithely, “seeing as you’re the person I’m going to be entrusting to make it happen.”
“Me?” Bull swallowed hard and a look of dread swept over his features. “In that case,” he said timidly, “I recommend that we all start hoping and praying that plan A comes off without a hitch.”
There was nothing that Jack could say to that, so he started issuing orders, which seemed to galvanise the others into action. “Steve, can you go and get Dean and Reg for me. I need to discuss something with the three of you. Then I’ll need you to knock up a couple of Directed Surveillance requests in case we need them for later. I’ll phone Mr Holland and warn him that they’re coming his way. Dill, can you get the SFO team and TSU crew here as soon as possible so that we can get them fully briefed. Carol, can you speak to Susie and then get back onto the CPS. Tom, can you start ringing around and spreading the word that I want every available officer in the main office for a briefing at nine o’clock sharp. Make it clear I will not be a happy bunny if there are any stragglers. Right, we’ve got a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in, so let’s crack on and make a start.”
Chapter 29
Melissa Smails was on the final leg of her five-kilometre run. Despite the blistering cold, she was sweating profusely inside her tracksuit as she puffed a trail of breath out like an old-fashioned locomotive.
With Dave suddenly coming down with man-flu, the trip to his parents in Cornwall had fallen through at the last minute. It had been a relief in a way; after Monday’s awful drama on the ward, she was quite content to spend a few days at home with her big bearded Teddy Bear, vegging out on the sofa and watching old films on TV.
On a positive note, the heating was working again. The landlord had finally sent someone around to sort the boiler out this morning, which meant that she would be able to enjoy a nice hot shower when she got back and then lounge around in her jimjams for the rest of the evening without worrying about frostbite setting in.
Mel turned the corner into her road and jogged along the perimeter of the park. She checked her watch and saw it was coming up to a quarter to nine. Easing into warm down mode, she took it nice and slow over the last couple of hundred yards.
When she came to a stop outside the communal entrance of the house that contained her flat, Mel placed her hands on her knees and lowered her head, sucking in air hungrily. Keeping her diaphragm extended, she breathed in deeply and concentrated on lowering her pulse rate. As Mel began to stretch off her hamstrings, she became aware of a red car pulling up beside her.
“Evening,” the scrawny looking white male who lived in the ground floor flat called cheerfully as he slammed the driver’s door shut. “You must be mad going running in this weather.” He gave her a wonky smile that exposed prominent front teeth.
“Rubbish,” she said, grinning back. “You don’t even notice the cold once you get going.”
Mel followed the boy – she didn’t even know his name – up the steps. As he keyed them through the communal front door, Mel immediately became aware of raised voices coming from inside his flat.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder at her. “Sorry about the racket,” he said, seeming genuinely embarrassed. “I’ve had some friends staying with me for a couple of days, and I think they’re starting to go a bit stir crazy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mel said, dismissively. Thankfully, living on the top floor, she couldn’t hear what went on down here, but she felt a twinge of sympathy for the man who was sandwiched in the middle flat.
“I’m Mel, by the way,” she said, figuring that she ought to introduce herself as they did live in the same house. “I live in the top flat.”
“Rodney,” he said. “I live in the bottom flat.”
Mel laughed, thinking he was making a joke, but then she realised he was being serious, and the penny dropped that he was a bit simple.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
The voices inside were becoming more heated, with a deep-voiced man shouting aggressively at a woman. “Is everything alright in there?” Mel asked, concerned. Some of the language was quite strong, and the woman had started crying.
“Sorry,” Rodney said, slipping the key into his door and opening it inwards. “I’ll ask them to keep it down.”
Mel was still standing on the stairs as he slipped into the flat, and from her elevated position, she was afforded a brief glimpse inside. What she saw nearly caused her legs to buckle, and she had to grab hold of the bannister to steady herself.
A gigantic black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks had been looming over a woman who was cowering on the floor. One hand was raised above his head, as though he was about to strike her, the other was clutching his stomach protectively. Layers of thick white bandages were wrapped around his shirtless torso.
Mel had instantly recognised the brutish face. She had seen it a number of times during the past week or so, while its owner had been a patient in one of the private rooms outside her ward at the Royal London Hospital. It belonged to Claude Winston, the cop killer.
◆◆◆
“Please! Mr Winston,” Rodent pleaded as soon as he’d closed the door. “You need to keep the noise down. The lady in the top flat was just asking if something was wrong and I’m worried that she might call the police.” He turned to Garston for support, but none was forthcoming.
Winston bounded across the room and tore open the door into the hall. There was no sign of anyone so he slammed the door shut and stormed back into the lounge. “If she does, I’ll hold you personally responsible,” he snarled.
Garston checked his watch. Rodent was late – again. He had been nearly an hour late coming back from his errands this morning, and when he’d finally turned up, the stupid boy had forgotten the medical supplies and had had to be sent back out for them.
“Claude, put your sweater on,” Garston said. “Rodent’s right, we can’t take chances.” They hadn’t planned to leave for another couple of hours, but there was no point in waiting any longer, especially not with Winston being in such a volatile mood. He had just threatened to beat Angela to a pulp simply because she’d forgotten to put sugar in his coffee.
All of their planning and hard work – all of the money he had forked out – would be for nothing if they ended up getting arrested because a nosey neighbour had called in a suspected domestic disturbance.
“Since when have you been the one giving the orders, nephew?” Winston demanded, turning on him in an instant.
“Since you put me in charge,” Garston said, keeping his voice level even though his temper was in danger of bubbling over. “Rodent, get Claude’s things. They’re in a rucksack on the bed. Angela, help him put his top on, and be careful not to disturb his bandages.”
Garston watched as Rodent scuttled off to load up the car and Angela fussed over Winston. His uncle seemed to have calmed down now and he was talking to her as if nothing had happened. The man was clearly psychotic, and he had to be treated with kid gloves, especially as he still had the Brocock revolver and access to forty rounds of ammunition.
Five minutes later, they were climbing into the red Rover, with Claude and Angela cramped in the back and Rodent and Garston sitting in the front. With a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure that nothing was coming, Rodent indicated and pulled out, pushing and pulling the steering wheel through his hands the way he had read you were supposed to do in the Highway Code. When he finally got around to taking his test, he thought he would make a very good driver.
