Unlawfully At Large, page 46
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
“Right,” Bull was saying, and Jarvis could tell that he was walking quickly as he spoke from the change in his breathing pattern, “me and Paul are hot-footing it over to Meade’s boat now. I’ll let the boss know what’s happened. See if you can get the car out of the bush. If you can, meet us at Rye Harbour.”
“Will do, “Jarvis said, sounding relieved that Bull hadn’t apportioned blame on him for losing the target.
“And Dick?”
“Yes, Steve?”
“Drive carefully.”
Chapter 35
At precisely 11:07 p.m. the SFOs set off towards the property. Dressed all in black like Ninjas, they were carrying an assortment of carbines, ballistic shields, and a red battering ram.
Tyler and Susie had arrived just as they were getting kitted up to move in, and they now waited with Dillon and the rest of the team a safe distance back from the property where there was no danger of them collecting a stray round if the situation deteriorated into a firefight.
PC Jim Collier, the officer who had conducted the initial recce, had gone back for a final check just before the team deployed, and he had reported back that, as before, the cottage was in complete darkness apart from the living room.
Ideally, armed dig outs like this were carried out at about four o’clock in the morning, when the human body was at its lowest ebb and everyone inside the premises was likely to be fast asleep and, therefore, at their most vulnerable to being caught off-guard. Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule, when speed was of the essence, and everyone agreed that this was one such occasion.
The SFO team leader was a former paratrooper called Tim Newman. In his mid-thirties, Newman stood five foot ten inches tall, had cropped blonde hair, hard grey eyes, and the wiry build of a marathon runner. His every movement was controlled, economical, and he had a well-deserved reputation for being a strong leader who remained focused under pressure and calm under fire.
Like all SFOs, Newman and the men and women under his command were volunteers who had been approved for specialist training following a rigorous assessment procedure. They had then undergone an extremely intensive training programme that lasted nineteen gruelling weeks.
Newman had led many operations like the one he was about to embark on, and to him, this was just another day at the office.
There were no street lights, and as Newman led his team in single file along the country lane that led to the property, he moved slowly, constantly assessing and reassessing the terrain in front of him.
Each member of the team was equipped with a standard-issue Glock 17 SLP as a sidearm. In addition, most carried a Heckler and Koch G36C carbine.
They were all dressed in black, fire-retardant Nomex overalls, boots, and gloves, and wore MICH/ACH (a tongue-twisting acronym that stands for Modular Integrated Communications Helmet / Advanced Ballistic Combat Helmet) Kevlar helmets over Nomex balaclavas. Their ear defenders were linked to the secure radio system they were using, and the bulging black goggles that gave them such a sinister appearance provided all-important eye protection. To give them the best possible protection against incoming fire, they all wore ballistic resistant Kevlar body armour.
In addition to carrying a heavy metal battering ram called an ‘Enforcer,’ one of Newman’s team was also in possession of a Hatton Gun, a short-stock shotgun that fired ‘solid rounds’ and was used to blow out tyres on vehicles or blast locks off doors.
During the preceding briefing, they had been reminded of their responsibilities in regard to the use of force and the justification required. The ACPO manual of guidance on the police use of firearms was the SFO’s Bible, and it gave step-by-step instructions on how to ‘identify, locate, contain and neutralise’ any threat posed. It stipulated that firearms officers must identify themselves and warn their target that they intended to shoot, and then give the suspect sufficient time for the warnings to be observed.
Dillon had read from the firearms briefing prompt card when he’d addressed them over the use of force prior to their deployment. “According to ACPO,” he’d told them solemnly, “the ultimate responsibility for firing a weapon rests with the individual officer, who is answerable to the law in the courts.” They had taken the ominous warning in their stride, having heard it a thousand times before.
When Newman reached the side of the cottage, he paused and listened. When he was satisfied that it was safe to do so, he ducked down and crabbed past the living room window, keeping his head below the level of the sill. One by one, all the others in the team followed suit. As he reached the front door, he held up a clenched fist, indicating for those behind to stop. Newman waved the officer with the Enforcer and the two officers carrying the heavy ballistic shields forward. A small section of the team had peeled off and made their way around to the rear of the premises, quietly slipping over the garden fence and taking up a covering position in case anyone tried to flee out of the back. When he received word from them that they were in place, he indicated for the frontal assault team to take their positions.
When Newman was satisfied that everyone was good to go, he held up his right hand and then raised three fingers, one after the other, giving the team a three-second countdown to entry.
As soon as he reached three, he pointed at the door, giving the signal for the breach to occur.
The Enforcer-wielding officer stepped forward and drove the battering ram into the wooden door with tremendous force. It was old and offered little resistance. As the door flew inwards, he stepped aside to make way for the two officers with ballistic shields who raised and interlocked them. Using them as cover, the team advanced into the hallway. There were shouts of “ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, SHOW ME YOUR HANDS.”
The hall was completely empty, and apart from the noise coming from the television in the living room, the premises were silent. The hallway was narrow. There was a steep flight of stairs against the right-hand wall leading up into the darkness. The living room door, to their immediate left, was ajar. Beyond this, there was another door, presumably leading into the kitchen.
The mantra of “ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE. SHOW ME YOUR HANDS,” was being repeated non-stop from behind the raised shields.
On Newman’s instruction, the first officer carrying a ballistic shield moved forward and took up station in the doorway of the living room, accompanied by another officer who was aiming his carbine over the top, ready to engage any armed suspects who appeared. The second shield-carrying officer quickly moved past them, going all the way to the end of the hallway and stopping by the kitchen door, he was also supported by an officer pointing a GS36 carbine over his shoulder. Two more officers stopped at the bannister and aimed their weapons up the stairs, ready to return fire on anyone who might start shooting at them from above.
One by one, the team moved into the downstairs rooms and, after checking them out, gave the ’all clear’. Thankfully, someone switched the TV off, bringing blessed silence and making it easier for them to communicate with each other.
With the ground floor now secured, the firearms team advanced to the first floor, where there were three doors, presumably leading into two bedrooms and a bathroom. Using the ballistic shields, these rooms were cleared in the same efficient fashion as the ground floor ones had been.
Lastly, the loft hatch was pulled down, and a very brave officer offered to pop his gun, and then his Kevlar helmeted head, over the top to check if it was empty.
To everyone’s relief, it was.
As soon as the cottage was fully under SO19’s control, and Newman was satisfied that it was empty, Jack and his team were allowed in.
“I’m getting sick of this,” Tyler growled as he walked into the living room and looked around. “Every time we think we’ve caught a lucky break, it either turns out to be a false lead or the bird has flown the nest minutes before we’ve arrived.”
“Are we sure that this is definitely the right location?” Tim Newman asked, his weapon cradled across his chest and his beetroot red face covered in sweat from having been ensconced in the Nomex balaclava for the last fifteen minutes.
“We are,” Jack said. “This address was in the van’s Sat Nav.”
George Copeland walked over carrying a wastebasket he had found in the bathroom. “Full of blood-stained bandages,” he said, holding it up for them to see. “Pound to a penny they belong to Winston.”
“So, where have the slippery fuckers disappeared to this time?” Dillon asked, scratching his head.
Tyler sighed despondently. “God knows,” he said. “All we can do now is wait for Meade to move, and pray that when Steve follows him to his boat, Winston is there waiting for him.”
◆◆◆
Jack and Susie were following Dillon and Charlie White back to their previous RVP at The Bell public house in Iden when his phone rang, shattering the heavy silence that had prevailed throughout the short journey. They had swapped drivers, so he was able to answer it himself. It was Reg Parker, and he sounded excited. “Boss, Reggie here. There are developments you need to know about.”
“What have you got?” Tyler asked, feeling pensive. He hoped it was going to be good news for a change; he could really do with some.
“Garston has recently sent a text to Dawlish’s phone. It reads: ‘No sign of your flat key. Taking Claude to the boat now. Should be setting sail just after midnight so come to Harbour and collect me ASAP. Text back to confirm you are coming. G.’ The TIU has just pinged his phone and they confirm it’s moving towards Rye Harbour.”
“That makes sense,” Jack said. “We’ve not long finished at the cottage. Although it was empty when SO19 went in, there were signs of recent occupation.”
“Is there anything more I can do at this end?” Reg asked.
Tyler considered this. “Actually, Reg, there is. On my desk, you’ll find a contact telephone number for the Coastguard. Can you speak to Carol Keating and get her to ring them regarding Meade’s intended sailing time? I think his boat’s called The Edna May but check with Dean. He’s got all the details of the vessel on his desk. I need Carol to ask the Coastguard if there’s any chance of them readying a boat to intercept The Edna May, just in case we don’t get there in time to prevent her from sailing? Tell her to make sure that whoever she speaks to is made fully aware that Winston’s armed and extremely dangerous, and that we can provide SFOs if they want.”
“Do they even do that sort of thing – board vessels, I mean?” Reggie asked.
“I don’t know, “Jack admitted. “But if they don’t, they’re bound to know how to scramble a naval vessel, or at least notify the French authorities that the boat’s heading their way.”
“Good point,” Reg said excitedly. “Maybe it can be tracked on radar and intercepted at sea.”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “Get Carol onto this straight away for me. In the meantime, we’re almost at the RVP at Iden. As soon as we get there, I’ll brief the team and get them redeployed to Rye.” As he spoke, his phone beeped, letting him know there was another incoming call.
“Reg, I think Steve’s ringing me. It might mean the Meade’s on the move, so I’ll have to go.” He quickly killed the call and then tried to answer the incoming one, but only succeeded in cutting Bull off.
“Bollocks,” he cursed, redialling Steve’s number. “Sorry, Steve, I accidentally pressed the wrong button,” he said as soon as they were connected. “What have you got?”
Tyler listened to Bull’s latest update in silence.
“Is Dick okay?” he asked when Bull had finished speaking.
Susie glanced sideways at that.
“He’s fine,” Bull reassured him. “I’ve told him to head for Rye and meet us there. Me and Paul are just leaving our B&B and heading down to the harbour to plot up on Meade’s boat. From what Dick said, the fisherman should be there very shortly.”
“Let me know as soon as you’ve got eyeball on the boat. I want to know the minute there’s any sighting of Winston, Garston or Meade.”
“You got it, boss,” Bull promised and hung up.
“What happened to Dick?” Susie asked.
Before he could explain, his mobile started ringing again. Tyler frowned. Why was Reg calling him back so soon? He pressed the green button and raised the phone to his ear.
“What’s up?”
“Boss, Garston has started ringing Dawlish’s phone. Three calls so far, one after the other.” In the background a ringtone became audible. “Make that four,” Reg said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t do anything,” Jack said. “If we turn it off, he might get suspicious. This way, he’ll probably think Dawlish has just left it in another room or something.”
Reg grunted. “Bloody thing is driving me mad,” he said. “Oh, and according to the TIU the 777 phone is now in the vicinity of Rye Harbour, so they might already be on Meade’s boat.”
Jack swore. Had they boarded the boat before Steve and Paul had arrived at the Harbour? That would be bloody typical, the way this job was going. If they went down below without being spotted, how could he ever be certain they were on it?
“Keep monitoring and let me know if the phone moves or there are any calls.” He hung up and redialled Bull’s number.
“Steve, Reg thinks Winston might already be aboard The Edna May. Do you have it in sight yet?”
“We’ve just arrived,” Steve told him. “No sign of any activity on the boat and Meade’s Land Rover is nowhere to be seen.”
“Terrific,” Jack said, despondently. Surely, if they were on the boat, there ought to be lights showing and movement on board, maybe even signs of the engines warming up? And where was the bloody Land Rover?
He couldn’t put his finger on it but things just weren’t adding up.
◆◆◆
Rye Harbour was located one and a half miles downstream of the main town, and about three quarters of a mile inland from where the River Rother joined the English Channel. It was a fully functional commercial harbour that was home to a large fishing and commercial fleet.
Within minutes of setting off from the last hamlet, the two passengers had arrived at the harbour and boarded the vessel that would take them to France.
Meade loved this boat. It was a 1978 Lochin 33 with a ten metre long fibreglass hull, equipped with a Raymarine Hybrid Touch Chart and Radar Plotter, a VHF DSC radio and an Autopilot. Powered by an Iveco 280 hp turbo-diesel engine, it wasn’t exactly the fastest vessel afloat, but then, for what he had planned tonight, it didn’t need to be.
There were berths for five people down below, with a separate head compartment and a hanging locker. There was also a stove and a hob in case anyone wanted coffee or soup, and Meade dropped the supplies off in there while the passengers made themselves comfortable.
The wheelhouse was relatively spacious, and it afforded good all-round visibility from the helm. As Meade stood in it, looking down into the River Rother that would take them out into the English Channel in a few minutes time, he felt more at home than he ever did on land.
The Lochin 33 was a practical, sturdy vessel, capable of crossing the channel equally well in smooth or rough seas. Mainly used as a fishing charter, this particular boat was licenced to carry up to twelve passengers, so his two travellers tonight would have plenty of space to stretch out and make themselves comfortable in.
Meade’s son-in-law, a shaven-headed thug with the broken nose of a street brawler called Peter Gregory, had been waiting for them on the boat when they arrived, and while Meade entertained his guests, Gregory lugged their bags aboard and started the engines.
“Everything’s going according to schedule,” Meade told the two passengers, “and we should be ready to set off in a few minutes.”
The black man grunted at him. He was already starting to look queasy.
“You alright, mate?” Kenny Meade asked.
Winston shook his head. “I don’t travel well,” he said.
Meade sneered. The swell of the sea had never affected him. “Here,” he said, pulling a box of Dramamine from a cupboard and tossing them to Winston. “Take a couple of those and you’ll be right as rain.”
The second passenger was a stocky white man in his late thirties with a tanned complexion, teeth so white that they could only have been veneers, perfectly manicured hands and the sort of fancy layered haircut that TV celebrities often sported. Then again, bearing in mind that he had starred in one of the most popular new soaps on the box until he’d made the mistake of murdering his girlfriend on New Year’s Day, that was hardly surprising.
“Do you need anything for the crossing?” Meade asked Craig Masters.
The surly actor shook his head. “I just want to get going,” he said, his voice low and tense. It sounded like a line from a script, Meade thought.
“Me too,” Winston echoed, looking greener than ever.
“Won’t be long now,” Meade said, studying a chart. As he took a swig of the rum-laced coffee his son-in-law had just handed him, he made a mental note to ask the tosspot actor for his autograph before he got off the boat; his wife liked that stupid show, and if he bought her the star’s signature it might make her go a little easier on him for churning the gravel up when he’d left home earlier.
Access to the English Channel from the River Rother was very straightforward, but navigation was limited by a bar that fronted the entrance and dried to a metre at low tide. There was ample room to clear it at high tide, though, which was due at eleven fifty three. The harbour entrance was forty two metres wide and marked by a red-painted tripod beacon located thirty-metres seaward of the West Groyne.
In strong offshore winds like the ones they were going to experience tonight, the seas in Rye Bay could get very rough, which meant they were in for a lumpy journey when they cleared the harbour. With that in mind, Meade opened a locker and cheeked that he had sufficient sick bags. He didn’t want the black bastard spewing his guts up all over the floor if he got caught short and couldn’t make it to the toilet in time.
