Unlawfully At Large, page 6
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
The revolver was a Brocock ME38. It bore a strong resemblance to the .357 Colt Python Magnums that were used by the motorcycle cops in the second Dirty Harry film, Magnum Force, although it didn’t pack anywhere near the same level of stopping power.
Nonetheless, the Brocock had become extremely popular amongst London’s criminal fraternity of late, mainly because it could be converted from a harmless replica airgun into a real firearm that discharged a .22 cartridge in less than ten minutes simply by using a household drill to bore it out. Winston might have a point about it not being the most powerful firearm on the black market, but Garston knew it would do the job it had been purchased for, and the dealer had even thrown in a free box of factory-made .22 ammunition as a bonus, which meant that they had fifty rounds to share between the two guns.
The manner in which his uncle was now staring down at the prone form on the bed started to made Garston feel uncomfortable. After all, Winston had previous for shooting coppers.
His fears were confirmed when Winston thumbed the hammer back and watched the cylinder rotate with a satisfied smile. Picking up a pillow, he placed it on top of the officer’s head.
“What are you doing?” Garston asked, alarmed at the obvious implication.
Winston gave his nephew a look of distaste before burying the muzzle deep into the pillow and pushing down until it pressed against the back of the policeman’s head.
Garston felt physically sick as he listened to the terrified officer hyperventilating. He obviously knew – or at least suspected – what was coming next.
“No, Claude, please wait…” Garston said, his voice filled with dread.
“We can’t let him live,” Winston responded matter-of-factly. “He knows Errol’s name.”
Garston raised his hands to stay his uncle. “Claude, please, no…”
Winston sneered, and then he squeezed the trigger. Although the pillow acted as a noise suppressor, the sound of the shot was still alarmingly loud within the confines of the room. Blowing smoke from the end of the barrel, he turned to address an ashen-faced Garston. “When you do a job, you do it properly. Let that be a lesson well learned, nephew.”
Chapter 5
It was approaching midday as the battered green Omega pulled up outside the front of the hospital, blocking in a large, shiny black Ford that was parked in a chevroned off area clearly marked ‘Drop Off Only – No Waiting.’ The scrawny driver was tucked right down in his seat as if asleep, and it didn’t look like he’d be moving off any time soon.
Parking spaces were clearly at a premium and there were none currently free. “Doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to park in here, so do you want me to stay with the motor while you pop inside?” Steve asked, hoping that Dillon would say yes.
“Um, no, wait here for the moment,” Dillon said, opening his door. “I’ll have a word with that bloke sitting in his car, see how long he’s going to be.”
As he sauntered over to the car, a Scorpio, he noticed that the engine was still running. With a bit of luck that meant that the driver would be moving off soon and wouldn’t mind swapping positions with them, seeing as the cheeky sod shouldn’t be waiting there anyway. He couldn’t help noticing that the driver didn’t fit the car. He was far too young, for one thing. And he was a scruffy bugger, too.
The Scorpio’s lone occupant sat up as Dillon approached, and there was an aura of uneasiness about him that made the detective wonder if something might actually be wrong here. As he reached the driver’s door it was immediately apparent that the lock had been forced. A screwdriver, or something similar, had been used. The damage was recent; he could see that the scratch marks around the lock were fresh.
Dillon’s heart sank. Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is, he prayed.
Putting on a mask of indifference, he tapped on the window, smiling in at the driver and hoping that his casual manner would put the man at ease.
“Yeah?” the young black man demanded cautiously, having lowered the electric window a couple of inches. It was enough. The car reeked of cannabis and there was a half-smoked joint in the driver’s hand.
More importantly, Dillon could see that the ignition had been ripped out and the wiring spliced, confirming his suspicion that it was a stolen car.
Great!
Just what he didn’t need – not today.
If he believed in that sort of thing, he might be tempted to think that this was fate’s way of preventing him from making a nuisance of himself with the drug squad wallahs.
“Sorry to bother you, mate. I was just wondering how long you’re going to be here, only there’s nowhere else to park and I don’t want to block you in.”
“Oh,” the man said, visibly relaxing. He looked around in a dilemma, trying to decide what to do for the best. “I’m waiting for some people, bruv,” he eventually said. “I’m not sure how much longer they’ll be.”
Dillon smiled at him disarmingly while wishing that he could punch the little twerp’s lights out for spoiling his plans. “Tell you what, I’ll have a quick gander to see if there are any other spaces while you wait here. Back in a minute.” With that, he straightened up and began walking towards the Omega. As soon as he turned away from the Ford his smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of consternation.
Steve Bull had been watching Dillon’s interaction with the Ford’s driver with mounting interest, and now he turned to Copeland.
“Shit!” he said, stretching the word out miserably.
“What’s up?” George asked, frowning at the sudden trepidation in his friend’s voice.
“I dunno,” Bull said, glumly, “but we’re about to find out.” He powered down the electric window as Dillon reached them.
“We have a slight problem,” the big man said, leaning in to address his colleagues.
Bull let out a disheartened sigh. “I figured as much. Go on then, what’s wrong?”
“That Scorpio’s a nicked motor.”
Copeland naively craned his neck forward to get a better look.
“Don’t be so bleedin’ obvious, George,” Dillon growled, placing a shovel sized palm on Copeland’s forehead and pushing him back down into his seat.
“Ouch,” Copeland complained, rubbing his head.
“How can you tell it’s nicked?” Bull asked.
“The door lock’s been jemmied and it’s been hotwired. The driver’s just sitting there, smoking cannabis – says he’s waiting for some mates to come out.”
Bull swore under his breath. “What do you want to do about it?” he asked. At this rate, he’d never get any of the tasks Tyler had assigned him started today – let alone finished.
“We don’t wanna lumber ourselves with a crappy TDA, boss,” Copeland piped up from the back. “Why not call it in and have the locals come and nick chummy? We can always wait here till they arrive so that he can’t drive off.”
Dillon shook his head. “We can’t do that, George,” he said, really wishing that they could. “It would look like we think it’s beneath us. We’ll just have to bite the bullet and nick him.”
“Shouldn’t we call for back up anyway?” Copeland persisted. “What if the people he’s waiting for come out? It’ll be a bit embarrassing if they see us and have it on their toes.”
It was a good point.
Dillon expelled his breath in a long sigh of frustration. “Steve, get on the radio to the local nick. Tell ‘em what we’ve got and request a couple of uniform units to back us up in case the driver’s mates appear. Request a silent approach. George, if you cover the passenger’s door, I’ll take the driver’s side. Steve, as soon as we’re in position, drive across his path and block the little shit in.”
Bull gave him a thumbs up. He couldn’t answer because he was already on the radio, requesting back up.
Still rubbing his head, George joined Dillon outside, where his rumbling stomach earned him a look of disdain. “Sorry, but I’m hungry,” he explained sheepishly.
Dillon walked back to the driver, bending down to get a better look inside. Hopefully, the car’s central locking wasn’t on.
“Sorry mate, no other spaces available. How long did you say you’d be?”
Before the man could reply, the Omega lurched forward, completely trapping the Ford in place. Realising that something was very wrong, the driver instinctively reached for the automatic transmission but, by then, Dillon had wrenched the door wide open and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “POLICE!” he yelled, pushing the startled man back into his seat so hard that he almost ended up with whiplash.
◆◆◆
Mel had just come up the stairs after paying a brief visit to the Foyer Café on the ground floor. She was holding a polystyrene takeaway cup containing a large Cappuccino in one hand and a 100g bar of Dairy Milk in the other. She planned to consume them both at the nursing station while she added her shifts for the rest of the month to her diary and then updated the latest batch of patient records.
As she’d recently told Dumpling Dave during a campaign to persuade him to start going jogging with her and lose a few pounds, one of the benefits of training regularly was that she could treat herself to the occasional bar of chocolate without feeling remotely guilty. Dave hadn’t been convinced. He was such a lazy sod that he wouldn’t even run to catch a bus, let alone to keep fit. Needless to say, her attempts to get him out pounding the pavement with her had fallen on deaf ears.
As she emerged onto the third-floor corridor, she heard a loud bang. It had come from one of the rooms up on her left. The noise almost made her jump out of her skin, and if there hadn’t been a secure lid on the coffee, it would have gone everywhere. It sounded like some silly sod had just let a firework off, but surely no one would daft enough to do that inside a hospital? Then again, she had seen plenty of people do far crazier things during her career.
Lips pursed in disapproval, Mel set off briskly in search of the culprit, determined to have them ejected for their irresponsible tomfoolery. The two uniform police officers she had passed on her way down to the café a few minutes ago were nowhere to be seen. Bloody typical! She thought, feeling more than a little miffed. The bloody cops had repeatedly gotten under her feet during the past week. Now – when they might actually have proved useful for once – the buggers had vanished into thin air.
When she reached Winston’s room, she glanced through the door’s glass panel and was surprised to see several medical staff in the room with him. There was a doctor she didn’t recognise, a slim nurse and a bald-headed porter, both of whom were standing with their backs to her. Winston was out of his bed, standing amongst them and looking as surly as ever. There was a hospital issue wheelchair beside him, which suggested that the medical team were in the process of getting him ready for his discharge. Already angry about the firework, this only served to wind her up even more. As ward sister, they should have run this by her first as a courtesy. Then, as it occurred to her that they might have tried to do exactly that while she was off buying refreshments, she felt a twinge of guilt for having jumped to conclusions so hastily.
Pushing open the door, Mel poked her head inside to find out what their plan of action was and how long it would be before the bed became free again. She decided to ask them about the firecracker while she was at it. “I don’t suppose you just heard a loud…”
The words died in her mouth as she spotted what looked like a gun in Winston’s outstretched hand. Every head in the room whipped in her direction, and she saw shock and hostility in their eyes.
“What’s going on?” she asked suspiciously.
“Get her,” Winston snarled at the porter, who was standing with his mouth open, looking as guilty as a pubescent schoolboy who’d just been caught knocking one out.
Fortunately for Mel, it was only after Winston gave him a forceful shove in the back that the sluggish porter started to move towards her.
As she backed away, Mel caught a glimpse of the two officers who had been outside the room a little while ago. To her horror, they were both face down on the floor and their hands had been restrained behind their backs. As she stared down at them in shock, she felt, rather than saw, the porter extending his arm in her direction, his hand opening and closing in a grotesque parody of the claws on one of those stupid amusement arcade games.
Mel swatted his hand away and hurriedly took another step backwards. “Don’t touch me,” she warned him, her eyes darting back and forth between him and the gun in her patient’s hand. At the same time, a voice in the back of her head screamed at her to turn and run while there was still a slim chance of getting away.
It was only as she retreated into the corridor on her third backward step that she became aware of the officer on the bed, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the big splash of red that occupied the spot where his head ought to be.
Mel felt her heart jump into her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. dropping her coffee cup, which exploded on impact, sending a spray of hot liquid flying into the air.
Finally, survival mode kicked in, and Mel turned and sprinted along the corridor. The porter’s heavy footsteps echoed off the walls behind her, but she had no way of knowing if he was a long way behind or right on her heels, and the uncertainty made the situation seem all the more terrifying. In the end, she risked a fleeting glimpse over her shoulder and saw the blurred shape of her pursuer about ten paces back.
An all-consuming shroud of fear engulfed her and, to combat this, she tried to focus purely on her running technique. All that mattered was getting her breathing right and forcing her arms and legs to pump rhythmically, the way they did at the athletics track when she was practicing for the relay race.
Breathe, pump those arms, breathe…Just keep going, a terrified voice in her head screamed, and whatever you do, don’t look back.
◆◆◆
The shell-shocked driver had been unceremoniously dragged out of the Scorpio and secured against the side of the car. Handcuffs were being applied in the rear stack position just as the first local unit arrived, its roof-mounted blue lights strobing brightly.
Already halfway through a search of the car’s interior, George stood up holding a bag of white powder and a lady’s compact mirror that had been found respectively in the front passenger footwell and on the dashboard.
“Boss, take a look at this,” he said, waving the transparent, self-sealing bag in the air like a trophy. “Cocaine, I’d say. About an ounce of it.” He placed both items on top of the car’s roof and then delved back inside to see what else he could find.
“They’re not mine,” the driver said quickly. “Never seen them before.”
When Copeland re-emerged a few seconds later, he was holding several sheets of folded paper in his hand, and staring at them in consternation. “Boss, I found these under the front passenger seat. I think you’d better take a look at them.”
Frowning, Dillon leaned across the top of the car and took the papers that were flapping around in the wind from his outstretched hand. As he studied them, his face darkened.
“What are these for?” Dillon demanded, shoving the papers under the driver’s nose.
The man squirmed uncomfortably. “They ain’t mine either,” he said. “Never seen –”
“Yeah, I get it,” Dillon snapped, cutting him off. “You’ve never seen them before.”
The driver shrugged. “Never seen anything else you find in there before either.”
Steve appeared by his side and relieved Dillon of the prisoner. He led him over to the two uniformed locals and explained what had happened. To Bull’s delight, one of them was a newbie probationer who was dead keen to have the arrest, which meant that all the AMIP officers would have to do was provide a brief statement of detention.
Bull heard his name being called, and when he looked around, he saw Dillon impatiently beckoning him over. As soon as he got there, Dillon passed him the three crumpled sheets of A4 paper that George had found.
“What do you make of these?” he asked.
Bull’s forehead creased into a deep furrow as he studied the handwritten diagrams. “They look like rough drawings of the hospital, marking out all the entrances and exits, the location of the lifts, staircases and -–” Bull’s eyes widened. “Shit!”
“And the location of Winston’s room on the third floor, the number of officers guarding him, and their shift changeover times,” Dillon said, finishing the sentence for him.
In an instant, Bull’s facial expression transitioned from confusion to shock. “I don’t believe it,” he said, disbelievingly. “Someone’s really gonna try and break him out.”
“Looks like it,” Dillon said, and then turned to Copeland. “Anything else of interest in there?”
Copeland had a quick nose inside and then re-emerged, shaking his head. “Nah, doesn’t look like it, just three coats on the back seat – two men’s and one female from the look and size of them.”
Dillon considered this. The driver was already wearing a winter coat, so unless one of the male coats had been brought along for Winston, there were currently two unidentified men and one woman wandering around the hospital, getting ready to break Winston out.
In his opinion, the optimum time to strike would be just as the drug squad officers were putting Winston into their car for his return journey to prison, but that wasn’t scheduled to happen until one o’clock, which hopefully gave him a little time to prepare. If he could get armed officers in place before then, he should be able to thwart the escape and arrest everyone involved.
“George, get on the radio,” he said, speaking quickly. “I think Winston’s gang are gonna try and spring him from custody when he’s taken back to prison. We need to get armed support in place before then, and we’re gonna need enough officers to sweep the building. I think there’s a little team roaming around the hospital waiting for the drug squad to move him.”
Copeland’s face blanched. “Bloody Nora,” he said.
