Unlawfully At Large, page 42
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
With a frustrated sigh, Jack turned off the torch and returned it to the ARV skipper. “Slight problem,” he said unhappily. “The three suspects from the hospital are black. All four of these are white.”
Just then his mobile rang. It was Reggie calling him back. “Boss, I’ve worked out the cell coordinates of the 777 phone and the 989 number it called. They’re not in Newham Way, they’re both in Sussex.”
Chapter 31
Thursday 13th January 2000
The eight o’clock meeting was delayed by half an hour so that all the overnight updates could be collated. Most of the detectives were clad in scruffs – jeans and jumpers – today, in accordance with the instructions that had been given to them by Reg Parker when he had started ringing around the team at six-thirty that morning.
Looking like death warmed up, Tyler sat with his back to the tea urn, with Dillon flanking him on one side and Holland on the other. Carol Keating, looking more like Hattie Jacques than ever, and Susie Sergeant, looking tired and drained, sat quietly next to Dillon.
By the time they had got back to Jack’s place, it had been getting on for one a.m., and he and Kelly had collapsed into bed, too tired to even speak.
Dillon had taken the spare room to save himself from having to do any additional driving. Of course, Dillon being Dillon, he’d woken up looking as rested and refreshed as if he’d enjoyed nine hours of uninterrupted slumber instead of five hours of fitful sleep.
“How do you do it?” Jack had asked when they’d sat down together for coffee before setting off. “Even Kelly looks tired and she’s wearing makeup.”
“It’s because I’m pure of mind and soul,” he’d explained piously, “so I drop off into a deep sleep the moment my head touches the pillow. You, on the other hand, are obviously troubled by the sins of your wicked past and they keep you awake at night.”
Kelly had laughed, but Jack had just sat there and stared at him, feeling too exhausted to even attempt a pithy retort.
“Okay,” Jack said, calling the meeting to order. “Apologies for the delay, but we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s crack on.”
He began by telling the assembled officers how they had stumbled across Rodent’s car on their way home, and then described the lengthy chase that had ensued. “So, it turns out that Rodney Dawlish, aka Rodent, drove to his friend’s house after leaving the flat in Star Lane. He then borrowed his mate’s work van to drive Winston down to the coast and promised to bring it back in a day or so, leaving his own car behind so the guy had a set of wheels for the weekend.”
“And why did his mate fail to stop?” Wendy Blake asked. “It seems a bit silly to me.”
“Ah, I managed to speak to Norman Crouch – that’s the bloke who lent them the van – before he was carted off to Newham General with an assortment of lumps and bumps and a suspected concussion. He told me that the man who was with Rodent gave him two hundred quid and a big bag of cocaine in return for borrowing his van until Saturday at the latest. To celebrate, Crouch invited some friends over to have a few beers and join him in getting stoned. After a while, he developed a bad case of the munchies and decided to grab a takeaway. Crouch failed to stop because he knew he’d get nicked for driving whilst under the influence of drink and drugs, and because he wasn’t insured to drive Rodent’s car.”
“What a wanker,” Dean observed, drily.
Dillon nodded approvingly. “Couldn’t have put it better myself, Deano.”
“He was also worried that he’d get done for possession with intent to supply as there was a decent sized bag of cocaine in the car with him,” Jack pointed out. “He didn’t trust the lads he’d left back at his place not to steal it, so he took it with him for safekeeping.”
Wendy turned her nose up in disgust. “What lovely friends he’s got.”
Dean nudged her elbow. “Like I said, the bloke’s a wanker.”
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “the long and the short of it is that I’ve got the van details and registration number, and Dean has already circulated it on the PNC. The red Rover, which is now considerably shorter than a Mini, has been taken to Charlton car pound for a proper examination, but there’s no urgency to do that. While we were fannying around chasing the Rover, it turns out that Rodent had driven Winston and the others to Sussex in his mate’s van. Reggie’s been looking at the data we received from the TIU to try and narrow down their current location. Reggie, over to you.”
Parker stood up and circulated amongst the detectives, handing out an A4 Intel bundle he and Dean had put together before the others had arrived.
“Okay,” he said, returning to his seat at the front. “Pages one to three are bios for Winston, Garston, and Marley. They contain custody imaging photographs, a detailed physical description and a synopsis of their offending histories. Page four is a photocopy of a photograph of Rodney Dawlish standing next to his mum – she’s the one on the left. This was found in his flat. Mel Smails, the ward sister who lives in the flat above him, has confirmed it’s an accurate current likeness of Dawlish.”
“You know, I still can’t get over the serendipity of her living there,” Dillon said, only to be met with a sea of blank stares. “It’s a happy coincidence, you bunch of ignoramuses,” he explained with a disappointed sigh. He turned to Tyler. “We really must try and recruit some more intellectuals on this team.”
“Yeah, right,” Reg said. “Anyway, moving on, page five is a photo of a white Ford Transit van of the type being used by Dawlish. The registration is there too, for those of you who can actually read.” His eyes shot sideways towards Dillon as he said this, but if the big man noticed the jibe he didn’t respond. “The van has the legend, ‘Patterson’s Plumbing’ written along the side. That’s who Crouch works for, by the way. Apparently, he was going to phone in and pretend to be sick today.”
“At least he won’t have to pretend anymore,” Tyler informed them with an impish grin. “He had a lump on his forehead the size of a golf ball, and he needed fifteen stitches to sew up the wound in his scalp.”
Dean raised a hand. “Just out of interest, did he blow over when they breath-tested him?”
“He wasn’t fit enough to provide a sample, so they took blood,” Tyler said. “He’ll get a four-week bail date in relation to that, but I don’t think there’s any doubt he was well over the limit.”
“Can you all turn to page six in the bundle you’ve been given,” Reggie said. He waited patiently while everyone did this.
Page six was actually an A3 sheet of paper folded in half.
“This is a map of a place called Peasmarsh, a remote area in East Sussex near the Kent border,” he said. “As you can see, the mast that’s currently serving the 777 number is marked A and has the grid reference underneath.” He tapped the copy he held in his hand at the relevant point, which resembled a small Eiffel Tower.
“The circle surrounding this is the cell radius,” he explained, “and you will see it has been divided into three slightly differently shaded areas, which are marked AA, AB, and AC. These are the cell’s azimuths. Turn to page seven now, please.”
There was a loud rustling of papers as another A3 sheet was unfolded.
“This is a blow-up of the relevant azimuth, AC. The 777 mobile is currently at an address within this area. This is both bad and good news for us. Bad because it’s a bloody huge area, but good because according to the ordnance survey maps, there aren’t that many properties within it. I’ve marked out the three most likely locations, which are two little hamlets and a cluster of farm properties dotted along a long and winding country lane called Mackerel Hill, as M1, M2, and M3.”
“That place sounds a little fishy to me,” Murray said, and then sniggered.
Dillon shot him a warning look, and Murray quickly averted his eyes.
“Sussex had their force helicopter fly over the area for us this morning and they found two very remote clearings that we didn’t know about from the map. These also contained a scattering of cottages, and they can only be reached from unnamed roads that are basically dirt tracks,” Reg said, ignoring the interruption. “These are marked as C1 and C2. Guv?”
“Thanks, Reggie,” Tyler said. “Okay, so in case you’re wondering why I had Reggie phone you all up at the crack of dawn and tell you to come in dressed in scruffs, and to bring an overnight bag with you, it’s because we’re going to check out all of these potential addresses today to see if we can identify which one our suspects are holed up in. To assist, we’ve scrambled together a host of specialist support personnel, who Mr Dillon will brief you about shortly. The more eagle eyed amongst you will have noticed that Steve Bull, Dick Jarvis and Paul Evans are conspicuous by their absence. That’s because I shipped them off to East Sussex late last night to start watching a bloke called Kenneth Meade, a low-level criminal who runs a small fishing boat out of Rye Harbour, a couple of miles down the road from Peasmarsh. Sussex Constabulary and Her Majesties’ Customs and Revenue both have files on him, and they suspect him of being involved in small-time smuggling, although they’ve never been able to prove anything. His mobile is the one that Garston has been in contact with over the last few days via the 777 number. Is that right, Reggie?”
“Yeah, that’s right, guv. At the moment, it’s in the cell that covers his home address, and the only time it moved during the last day or so was to go to the cell covering the harbour where his boat is moored.”
Jack took a deep breath. “So, here’s the plan,” he told them. “We know they’ve moved to a location near the coast. We know they’re in contact with a suspected smuggler, and we know their plan is to ship Winston over to France. In a minute, Susie’s going to put you all into teams. You will be deployed to recce the addresses we’ve already mentioned. You will be assisted by a TSU signal detector van. Once we get a positive contact, a team of SFOs will be called in to make entry and – hopefully – detain our suspects. In the meantime, Steve’ll keep the fisherman’s address under observation. If he moves, Steve and his team will go with him. If they get a sighting of our suspects, the SFOs will be called in to make the arrest. The Coastguard has been put on notice in case Meade’s boat departs before we’re in a position to move in. If that happens, there will be an interdiction at sea. So, fingers crossed, we’ve got all the bases covered.” Tyler laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Sounds easy in theory, I know, but putting all this into practice is going to be pretty tricky.”
He paused to let the words sink in, taking the time to let his eyes wander around the room and engage as many of his staff as he could. “It stands to reason that if Winston’s moved from London to the coast his departure to France is imminent, and as Meade has a boat moored at Rye Harbour my money is on him leaving from there. Make no mistake, this is going to be a gruelling couple of days for us. I wish it were otherwise, but if we’re going to catch this bastard, I think we’re going to have to go through a little pain. I hope that you all agree with me when I say it’ll be worth it to prevent a nasty, lowlife scumbag like Claude Winston from getting away.”
He was relieved to see they were all nodding determinedly if not enthusiastically. Satisfied that they were suitably motivated, he handed over to his friend. “Dill, can you give an overview of the back up that’s been arranged.”
“I just want to start by saying a quick thank you to Reggie and Dean for all their hard work getting everything ready for this morning,” Dillon began. “While we were all fast asleep in bed last night, Reg was stuck here in the office liaising with the TIU over the live monitoring of the 777 and 321 numbers, and also for Meade’s phone. What does that end with, please, Reg?”
“It ends in 989,” Parker said. “It’s on page eight of the briefing pack everyone was given, along with a Sussex police custody image of Meade, his address and vehicle details, and a snapshot of his form.”
“Thank you, I’ll read that in a minute,” Dillon promised. “In addition to lumbering Reg with all the live monitoring, we also called Dean in at the crack of dawn to help Reg cobble together the intel packs and start liaising with the County Mounties.”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to call our colleagues in the rural Constabularies that anymore,” Holland said with a wry smile.
“What about carrot crunchers? Can I call them that?”
“No.”
“In that case,” acknowledged with a humble bow of his huge head, “what I meant to say was Dean came in mega early to liaise with our splendid colleagues in Sussex Constabulary to let them know we’ve got an operation running that’s likely to stray onto their patch.”
“Very helpful they were, too,” Dean said.
“After a little encouragement from Mr Holland, the TSU reluctantly agreed to let us take a signal detection van on a jolly to East Sussex for the day,” Dillon continued. “We’ve also got a team of SFOs coming down with us. The PS in charge is called Tim Newman. I’ve worked with him before and he’s a good lad. While the detector does the rounds, Tim’s team will be on standby at the local nick in readiness for a rapid deployment. If we do identify an address, I’ll hotfoot it straight over to the local Magistrate’s court to get a warrant for the entry.”
“Do we have a surveillance team available, boss?” DC Stone asked. “Just in case they leave the venue before the SFOs get there.” It was a decent question.
Dillon shook his head. “No, we don’t. There just isn’t sufficient capacity for C11 to write a team off without a clear pick-up point. And don’t forget, bearing in mind that the target is armed, it would have to be an Alpha team.” An Alpha team was a surveillance unit with a firearms capacity, and there were very few of those.
“That’s why Susie has tried to put at least one P9 surveillance trained officer in each car,” Jack explained. “If we can follow them safely, without showing out, that’s what we do. If we can’t, we drop back and hope that they will be heading to the boat that Steve, Dick, and Paul will have visual control of.”
Holland cleared his throat, and every eye in the room turned on him. “We all have to accept that this is going to be a fast-moving and very fluid situation where ongoing dynamic risk assessments will have to be continuously made and reviewed. My priority is the safety of my staff and the public, so I’m telling you now, in no uncertain terms, that you do not take chances and you do not put yourselves, your colleagues or Joe Public in the firing line. Better that Winston gets away and we nab him another time than anyone gets hurt. Is that clear?”
As one, every officer in the room chorused, “Yes, sir.” Holland had that kind of effect on people.
“Good,” he said, seemingly satisfied. He turned to Jack. “I’m going to remain here at Arbour Square all day, and I expect to be updated immediately if anything of substance occurs. I’ll be popping in and out of the office regularly, but come and find me if anything happens or if – God forbid – the shit hits the fan.”
Tyler nodded. “As soon as I know anything worth knowing, you’ll know it too,” he promised.
◆◆◆
Rodney Dawlish stumbled into the cottage’s cramped downstairs toilet, freezing cold and still half asleep. He had hardly slept at all, tormented as he was by the painful memories of yesterday’s distressing encounter with the lovely Jenna. It had ended so horribly, with him storming out of the shop and her screaming after him, and he desperately wished that he knew her telephone number so he could call her and apologise, although he very much doubted that she would want to speak to him ever again after the disgraceful way he’d behaved.
Unable to find the light switch in the dark, and shivering with cold, he shuffled forward on the dirty lino floor and unzipped his fly. Rodney’s bladder was close to bursting, and he sighed with relief as he started to pee. He was so busy trying to avoid splashing the toilet seat that he didn’t notice the large wall-mounted cistern protruding from the wall above the bowl, and he banged his head straight into it. Cursing as a hot trail of urine soaked his bare foot, he rubbed his head and concentrated on not making any more mess.
Garston was sitting in the kitchen clutching a steaming hot cup of coffee to his chest when he entered, a few minutes later. “Morning,” Rodney said, only to be ignored. He wandered over to the kettle and switched it on.
“Nice here, isn’t it?” he said after looking through the window into the darkness beyond. In the daylight, he suspected the views out of the window would be beautiful.
Garston just grunted dismissively. He looked like he still had the raging hump. After putting himself out to get everything organised in time to bring Winston down to the cottage the night before, Garston had received a call from the stroppy fisherman saying the trip was off and they would have to wait until the following evening. Rodney didn’t know the exact details, only that the other cargo hadn’t turned up yet.
With Winston and Garston both in foul moods, Rodney felt like he was treading on eggshells. “So, do you need me to stay on any longer?” he asked. “Otherwise, I’ll take Norman’s van back and return in my own car to collect you later on.” He crossed his fingers behind his back, praying that Garston would release him.
Garston snorted. “Yeah, go back to London,” he said without even looking at Rodney. “Nothing you can do here, and you’ll only get in my way if you stay.”
“Should I take Angela with me?” Rodney asked. He knew she was as keen as he was to escape the horrid atmosphere.
Garston shook his head. “No, leave the whore behind. I need her to nursemaid Claude.”
“Okay. Well, in that case, I’ll be off,” Rodney said backing out of the door. He was starving hungry but he would rather stop off at a café and get some breakfast than eat here. Rodney pulled out the shiny new pay as you go mobile that he’d purchased the day before. “I just want to make sure I’ve got your number, he said, pressing the green button. A couple of seconds later, Garston’s phone started to ring.
“Do you want to call me back to make sure you’ve got my number?” Rodney asked, killing the call.
