The rest of the newsroom was aware of both her progress and her mood as she stomped back to her desk. Looking up, she caught Jonathan Simmons’s eye, but he wisely dropped his gaze to his monitor. He was nominally her line manager, but after his first attempt to assert himself – which had been firmly, and obscenely, rebuffed – had decided on a softly, softly approach. In truth, he now avoided Emilia, feeding off the scraps of stories handed to him by the police and other agencies, leaving her to please herself. Emilia suspected his strategy was to starve her out – and it was working. Her patience was wearing thin and she was a whisker away from jacking the whole thing in.
Landing on her chair with a thud, she flicked open her laptop. She was tempted to do it there and then – to pen a brief, cutting resignation letter. She had fantasized about this many times and it was only the thought of her family that stopped her. In times gone by they had had a good life, especially when she was commanding decent fees from the nationals, but now she was on a trainee’s wage, life was considerably harder. She had several younger siblings, all of whom had come to rely on her since their father had been incarcerated. For Emilia this had been a price worth paying – she loathed the worthless bastard – but the responsibility occasionally ground her down. She loved her brothers and sisters, but they were feckless, seemingly incapable of holding down a job or contributing to the running of the household.
She closed her laptop, knowing full well that she wouldn’t be writing a resignation letter today. Kicking her bin over peevishly, she slumped in her chair, defeated. She would have to finish her article today, but somehow she couldn’t face it. Perhaps she needed a smoke? Or another coffee? Even these options bored her, so instead she picked up her earphones, which she now realized were still burbling away to themselves. Popping them into her ears, she leant back and closed her eyes, wanting to lose herself in the staccato drama of their despatches.
‘Shots fired at Sansom’s pharmacy. All Armed Response Units to proceed to Folly Lane shopping precinct. Two shots have been reported …’
Emilia sat bolt upright. Across the way, Jonathan Simmons was writing up her piece, but suddenly she didn’t care. Scooping up her laptop, she killed the police feed, then tiptoed away from her desk as quietly as she could.
23
09.49
Helen tugged at the shutters for all she was worth, but still they refused to budge. The owner was clearly a stickler for security – this had presumably provided him with reassurance in the past, but what would it cost him now? Helen tugged again, but the stubborn defences refused to yield.
Helen heard footsteps behind her and she and Charlie were joined by two uniformed officers, breathless and overexcited.
‘Help us get this thing open.’
The officers did as she’d instructed and now the shutters groaned but still resisted, as if determined to fight to the bitter end. Cursing, Helen redoubled her efforts and slowly they started to shift, lurching up a couple of inches. It wasn’t enough and Helen urged them to try harder. A few more inches and one of them might be able to slide underneath.
As they heaved, she listened intently for sounds from within. But she could hear nothing. Was this a good sign or a bad sign? Were they too late? Had the shooters departed? Or were they lying in wait, preparing an ambush for them? Helen clocked a mobile Armed Response Unit pulling up across the way and beckoned them over. She cared little for her own safety, but even she baulked at facing two armed assailants with nothing but her radio and baton for protection. Best to let the professionals take point on this one – Helen had the distinct feeling she would be needed to deal with the aftermath.
Four armed officers raced over, their carbines cradled in their hands. They were ready to go in, but still the shutters refused to rise sufficiently, determined to shield those within from view. Every second counted, so Helen stepped aside, ordering the burly officers to pitch in.
‘Over to you,’ she barked. ‘I need this open NOW.’
24
09.50
‘Please don’t hurt us. Please don’t hurt us …’
Melissa couldn’t stop herself, pleading for her life, for her baby’s life, as the killers loomed over her. As soon as Isla had begun to cry, Melissa had panicked, dropping the dummy and clamping her hand over her baby’s tiny mouth. This had only alarmed her daughter further and after that it was impossible to keep her quiet. She had shrieked and shrieked, growing ever more puce, and in the end Melissa had given up trying to stop her, dissolving into tears herself instead.
She had only stopped when she heard footsteps, fear forcing her to swallow her sobs. Slowly, casually, the man and woman had walked around the display to stand in front of her.
‘What have we here?’
The man – six foot plus, with piercing blue eyes and a mocking expression – seemed to be enjoying himself, despite the blood he had just spilled. He seemed drunk on power, determined to milk the experience for all it was worth. The woman, who was significantly shorter and skinny with it, hung on his shoulder.
‘A stowaway,’ the man continued, smiling. ‘Did we wake baby?’
Melissa stared back at him, tears staining her cheeks. She was too shocked, too terrified to respond.
‘Bang!’
The man roared the word at them, provoking more shrieking from Isla.
‘Shh, baby, everything’s going to be ok,’ Melissa whispered, burying Isla’s face in her neck, furious that this man should taunt her child. What kind of animal was he?
‘Get her purse,’ the man ordered.
The woman obliged, wrenching Melissa’s rucksack from her and rifling through the contents until she found her purse. Grimacing at the paltry contents of the latter, she tossed it into the holdall nevertheless.
‘Well, that’s us done,’ the man resumed, arrowing a glance towards the security shutters.
Then Melissa became aware of noises outside. The shop had been deathly quiet since the initial burst of shooting, but now there were voices. And with them the sound of the security shutters straining. The rescue party had arrived.
Turning away from the shutters, Melissa realized that the man was staring straight at her. A thin smile stole over his face as he took her in. He seemed to be feeding off her fear, enjoying her discomfort.
‘Now …’ he said languorously. ‘Which one of you wants to go first?’
Melissa stared at him. Surely he should be fleeing? Why would he linger?
‘Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this …’
But the man seemed not to hear her, raising his shotgun to Melissa’s eye-level. Cowering, Melissa pulled her hands across her chest, determined to shield her baby from the shot. But the barrels of the gun swung lower, pointing directly towards Isla.
‘No, no … she’s just a baby … she can’t tell them anything …’
The barrels swung back up to Melissa’s face. A moment’s relief, then the man turned them back towards the baby once more.
‘Do what you want to me, but let her go.’
Melissa was desperate now, praying for the rescue party to burst in and save her, but still they didn’t come.
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,’ the man said, raising the barrels back to Melissa’s eye-line again and taking a step towards her.
Melissa was whimpering, her whole body shaking. She was desperate to live, but she was backed into a corner. So, shielding her baby, she closed her eyes and braced herself for what was to come.
25
09.58
‘Get back. Will you please just get back!’
Sanderson’s voice was hoarse from shouting, but she renewed her efforts, desperate to keep the gawpers away from the pharmacy. The Armed Response Unit still hadn’t gained entry to the premises and the situation was live, but nevertheless passing shoppers couldn’t help getting involved. Some of them already had their phones out, ready to start filming, despite having no idea what was actually going on.
Things were
still chaotic outside, officers descending on the precinct from various parts of the city, and with Helen and Charlie on the front line it fell to Sanderson to marshal the reinforcements as best she could. She had sent some of them to support the armed officers but had deployed the rest as a human cordon, ringing the area outside the pharmacy to keep the public at a safe distance. Their numbers were few and the line stretched, but to her relief Sanderson saw another handful of uniformed officers hurrying towards her.
‘Form up along here and get these people back,’ she ordered.
They obliged and now, finally, they started to get a bit of traction, pushing the steadily growing crowd away from danger.
‘Here, watch it!’
‘Easy now!’
‘What you doing? It’s a free country …’
The usual complaints, accompanied by the customary insults. It infuriated Sanderson that these people didn’t get it – she was trying to protect them – but all they were worried about was missing out. Did they really have so little in their lives that they would willingly put themselves in danger to get themselves on the news? It was a feature of modern life that Sanderson hated – everybody thought they were an eyewitness now, everybody a journalist. Nowadays when people should be intervening to stop a crime, or in this instance getting the hell out of the way, instead they wanted to record it, as if the whole thing were entertainment laid on for their benefit.
One of the officers had located some police tape and was passing it down the line. Sanderson grabbed it gratefully and passed it on. A couple of minutes later and the job was done – the scene was effectively sealed off. Just in time too, for, with a shower of sparks and a groan of metal, the security shutters finally gave up the fight. The team had decided to cut their way through using specialist equipment and, turning, Sanderson saw the Armed Response officers ready themselves for entry.
‘What’s going on in there?’
Sanderson turned back to find an elderly shopper had grabbed her by the arm.
‘Are those guns they are carrying?’
‘I can’t tell you anything at this sta—’
‘Has anyone been hurt?’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Is it Mr Sansom?’
The questions rained down on Sanderson. She deflected them as best she could, telling them nothing, because she knew nothing. She had been trying – and failing – to source some CCTV of the fugitives when Helen had suddenly radioed through, ordering all CID officers back to the pharmacy. Sanderson had immediately been assigned crowd control duty, a job for a DC really, and had remained on the periphery ever since. She was aware that shots had been fired – though how many and with what impact she wasn’t sure.
Each question seemed to underline her sense of impotence and ignorance, reminding her how far she’d fallen in the pecking order. Once she’d possessed Helen’s confidence, but through her rash actions she had destroyed all her good work and nothing she did – nothing – seemed to make the situation any better.
She would remain in exile for good.
26
10.00
Inspector Sean O’Neill ducked through the gaping hole and ran to the nearest display case. Crouching down behind it, he paused, counting silently to ten, before moving around the display case and slowly forwards. Reaching the end, he held out a mirror to peer round the corner, then, satisfied that there was no movement, darted a look around.
Everything was still, the atmosphere hushed and heavy. Turning, he beckoned to his second-in-command to follow. Sergeant Ed McGarvey darted inside and made his way quickly over to his colleague, before signalling to the other two members of Red Team to join him. O’Neill watched with satisfaction as they made their way over to him swiftly but carefully, taking advantage of the cover provided. They had been working together as a unit for over a year now and during that time had seen their fair share of action. None of them had had to discharge their weapon – thankfully, given the paperwork that generated – but they had been in plenty of tense situations. Disarming a man with a machete, seizing a shipment of firearms, bringing in an entire gang at one point. These experiences had bonded them together, making them a slick and effective unit.
O’Neill turned back to the shop and considered his next move. Normally, he would announce the presence of armed police officers and ask anyone present to step forward with their arms in the air. But the threat of ambush was too great here, the evidence of the shooters’ disdain for human life too evident, to do that. There was little to be gained by giving away their position.
He scrutinized the back of the shop once more, then gestured for his colleagues to fan out. He would take point as usual, but they would assume defensive positions either side of him, returning fire if necessary. They had spent years training for this and O’Neill knew that they wouldn’t panic if the sound of shotgun fire suddenly rang out.
Easing the safety catch off his weapon, he took a step forward. Then another, then another. He was abreast now of another display and, crouching down, swung round the end of it. His weapon was raised and ready … but there was no one there. Now he moved forward more quickly, shadowed all the while by his team. There was a storeroom at the rear of the shop that he wanted to check out, but to get to it he would have to pass the final display cases, which might also provide good cover.
He moved forward cautiously, then suddenly stopped dead. He hadn’t seen anything but had sensed movement, towards the rear of the shop, on the left. Someone raising a weapon? Readying themselves to strike? He inched forward, his eyes darting this way and that, calculating where and when the shooters might pop up. His gun was raised to eye-level, he was looking right down the sight, ready to pull the trigger, confident he could drop them if need be. He had been lucky so far in his career.
Without a word being spoken, the quartet moved forward in sync, padding closer, closer, closer to the final display case. Now a tiny noise ahead – something being nudged or dislodged perhaps – and Inspector O’Neill didn’t hesitate. With lightning speed, he moved forward, rounding the end of the display.
‘Armed poli—’
He was cut off by a high-pitched scream. In front of him was a trembling woman, with a finger jammed in a baby’s mouth, rocking back and forth on the floor.
‘Don’t shoot,’ she yelled. ‘Please don’t shoot …’
Peering intently towards the back of the shop to confirm that the coast was clear, O’Neill moved forward, scooping the woman up. Still cradling her baby, she collapsed into his arms.
‘Are you ok? Are you or your baby injured?’
The woman didn’t say anything.
‘Can you tell me where the shooters are?’ he continued.
But the woman just snuggled in closer to him and when she did speak, it was just to whisper:
‘Please don’t shoot …’
27
10.07
‘Watch it! What do you think you’re doing?’
Emilia turned to the lumbering oaf next to her and gave him her most withering stare, flashing her press pass at him. Reluctantly he backed down, moving an inch sideways in order to allow her to push towards the front of the cordon.
She had sped over to Portswood as fast as she could and was distressed to find a large crowd had already gathered outside the pharmacy. Putting her head down and her elbows out, she had managed to bully her way past the prams and pensioners, but on reaching the front realized that it had been a pointless endeavour. The cordon was a fair distance from the pharmacy, a strategically placed line of uniformed coppers shielding the shop front from view. Strain as she might, there was nothing she could see from this position.
Hugging her camera to her chest, she moved away from the cordon. She was now pushing past the very same people she had barged aside seconds earlier, with predictable results. She was accompanied by complaints and abuse all the way, but she ignored their vitriol. She had abandoned the newsroom, left her article unfinished and knew she had to return w
ith more than third-hand testimony if she was to placate Gardener.
Breaking free from the crowd, she gazed at the scene. The line of officers near the shop was tightening up, linking arms and pulling their ‘screen’ even closer together. Behind them she could make out movement, though what was happening and who was involved she couldn’t say. Nevertheless, she sensed that it was something significant, given the officers’ reactions, so she scouted around for some way to gain a better view of proceedings. But there were no obvious solutions, the line of officers, plus the parked police vehicles, providing a natural barrier …
Now Emilia was on the move, having noticed that the nearest vehicle, a high-sided police van, was unattended and, better still, unlocked. Presumably in the rush to apprehend the perpetrators, the driver had forgotten to lock up. Emilia marched towards it, yanking open the driver’s door. Hopping up into the cab, she put one hand on the top of the open door then, placing both feet on the driver’s seat, eased herself upwards. Rising, she planted both hands on top of the roof, then lifted her foot on to the dashboard and pushed hard.
Within moments, she was on the roof. She would be clearly visible now to those below, should they chance to look this way, so she dropped on to her belly and wriggled forward. Reaching the edge of the roof, she peered over and was pleased to see that she had an unobstructed view of the shop entrance. Helen Grace was there, hovering by a hole that had been cut in the metal shutters, but she moved back quickly, as armed officers started to emerge. Grabbing her camera from her bag, Emilia teased off the lens cap and readied herself to shoot. She was expecting the culprits to be led out in cuffs, but to her surprise a young woman now emerged, supported by one of the armed officers.
Click, click, click.
Emilia fired off shots and was delighted to see as she did so that the woman had a baby strapped to her chest. The woman was saying nothing, just cradling her baby, but the image said it all and Emilia snapped away contentedly. The woman was ashen, her face startlingly white, and she looked very, very scared.
Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 5
