TAKEAWAY TERROR: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series. Case No.8
Page 8
They watched as the van drove away down the road, followed at a distance by Russell and Patel’s car.
‘Well, what was all that about then?’ Palmer asked as Knight returned to the car and slipped inside, handing a half empty cone of chips to Palmer and another to Gheeta with a smile.
‘I thought you might be peckish too, Sergeant.’
She took the cone.
‘Thank you.’
Palmer was still worried about Robards.
‘He didn’t do anything suspicious, did he? Didn’t bend down to tie a shoe lace and stick a magnetic bomb under the table, nothing like that?’
Knight shrugged.
‘Not that I saw. He bought his tray of curried chips, opened the paper and ate half of them. Then the van pulled up outside, so he wrapped the paper back round the rest of the chips and dumped it in one of the waste bins.’
‘Oh Christ, that’s it!’
Palmer dropped his cone and knocking Gheeta’s out of her hand in his haste was out of the car as fast as his sciatica would allow.
‘Come on, the bastard’s dumped something in that bin with his meal! Clear that shop, get the people out!’
He turned and shouted at Gheeta.
‘Show your uniform and get them out!’
They raced across the road. Harvard and Trent followed from their car, realising something bad was happening.
Palmer and Knight ran into the takeaway, yelling as loudly as they could as they entered.
‘Police! Get out! Get away from the building, now!’.
The initial stunned reaction of those inside quickly gave way to a realisation they had to do what they were told as Gheeta in uniform shouted at them as well and waved them out and away. The staff behind the counter stood transfixed until Palmer shouted: ‘Bomb!’ and then they took the hint and fled out the back.
Within seconds the place was empty, and Harvard and Trent were ushering bemused people further away up the street. Knight looked at Palmer across the empty floor and then at the three large waste bins.
‘I don’t know which bin he chucked his stuff into.’
‘Too late to search. Get out.’
And they both ran from the building across to the other side of the road and took cover behind a car.
‘Get Claire to get the Bomb Squad here.’
Gheeta clicked on her radio.
The blast from inside the takeaway blew out the plate glass front and turned the counter and stools into matchwood which it sprayed through the air across the street and all over the parked vehicles.
As the last scorched bits of the now non-existent takeaway floated down around them, Claire’s worried voice came over the radio.
‘Base to DS Singh, come in? Gheeta, come in. What’s happening?’
‘We are okay,’ Gheeta answered shakily. ‘The takeaway has been blown to pieces, but don’t think there are any casualties. I think we got everyone out, but get fire and ambulance asap.’
‘Will do.’
They stood up and looked across the road to the blackened hole that five minutes earlier had been the takeaway. Palmer walked across the road, crunching on glass with every step. Knight and Gheeta followed, then Harvard and Trent joined them.
‘Well, that’s one way of sending a message to the Arifs.’
‘They won’t like this, Sir,’ said Knight. ‘They won’t just sit and take it, not the Arifs – they’ll come back hard. I hope the Wellbecks know what they are taking on. They’ve just declared war.’
A cacophony of sirens could be heard approaching. Palmer turned to the team.
‘Right. Harvard and Trent, you two seal this area, it’s a crime scene – don’t let any firemen or uniforms get into it until Forensics get here unless it’s absolutely necessary. Sergeant Singh, get Claire to put a call out to Reg Frome and ask him and his team to attend, and then call Firearms and get an SCO19 unit to meet us at the scrap yard. I think we’d better get over there and get those bastards into custody.’
CHAPTER 19
The scrap yard gates were closed, but the yard floodlights were on as Knight pulled the squad car over to the side of the road fifty metres away behind Patel and Russell who joined them.
‘I think we will wait for the SCO19 Firearms Squad before we do anything. I don’t think Wellbeck and his lot will come out with their hands up somehow.’
Claire came on the radio.
‘Base to Palmer.’
‘Go ahead Base,’ Gheeta acknowledged.
‘Reg Frome has arrived at the bomb scene. London Ambulance say no casualties other than minor cuts from flying glass. The whole place isempty, Mr Frome says it looks like whoever was working there has just abandoned it. He’s sealed it as a crime scene, working with the local uniform branch. Do you want Harvard and Trent to join you?’
Gheeta looked at Palmer who shook his head.
‘No, they can go off shift unless Frome needs them.’
‘Okay, SCO19 unit is on its way. Base out.’
‘Vehicle lights coming down the road, Sir,’ said Knight, looking in the rear view mirror. ‘Two vehicles.’
‘Good, that will be our Firearms Unit.’
Palmer opened his door and got out. The two vehicles sped by, forcing Palmer to jump out of the way. The first was a flat-bed lorry, followed by a white Mercedes.
‘Oh Jesus, now the shit will hit the fan,’ said Knight as he jumped out and joined Palmer, watching as the vehicles neared the gates.
‘That white Mercedes can only be the Arifs’. It’s their trademark car.’
The flat-bed stopped twenty metres from the gates, did a three-point turn and accelerated in reverse straight into them. The metal buckled and shrieked as the chains snapped and the gates flew open, waving like damaged butterfly wings. The lorry went on into the yard and slewed round across it, forming a barrier; the Mercedes roared in and pulled up behind it sliding on the yard’s dirt, its front ramming into the side of the lorry and wedging underneath it. Shots rang out from the warehouse, where O’Keefe stood protected behind the long counter and let fly with an automatic rifle. From the blacked-out windows of the office more lead rained down towards the lorry. Behind it, four men jumped out from the Mercedes and joined the driver and his mate from the lorry as they took protection behind it and returned fire.
‘Where the hell is SCO19?’ Palmer shouted above the din to Gheeta.
She pointed up the road where more headlights – this time with a blue flashing one above them – were bearing down on them.
The Tactical Firearms Squad people carrier pulled up beside Palmer and the lead ARV officer got out of the passenger door as his team followed quickly from the side door. All were in full riot gear, from their Kevlar helmets to hard boots, and all carried the usual automatic MP5AP carbines. They could hear the gunshots coming from the yard.
‘Sergeant Holt Sir, lead ARV,’ he introduced himself to Palmer.
‘DCS Palmer, Serial Murder Squad,’ Palmer replied. He waved towards Singh and Knight. ‘DS Singh and DS Knight.’
They nodded acknowledgements to Holt. Then Palmer explained the situation to Holt, ending with:
‘What would you suggest we do?’
Holt shrugged.
‘Well, by the sound of it we could just let it all peter out and then go in and collect the bodies.’
Palmer smiled.
‘Trouble is, I need a live one to stand trial for serial murder.’
Holt nodded.
‘I was joking, Sir. I think we’ll get to the gates and block any exit for a start; then I’ll get a small team to go in and see what we can do. How many are inside?’
‘Well,’ said Palmer, doing a quick recap in his head. ‘Two Wellbecks – including a woman – O’Keefe, Chaplin and Robards on one side; and the three Arif brothers, their driver and the driver and mate from the lorry on the other. E
leven in all. Mind you, I don’t know how many are still alive. Been a lot of shooting going on.’
‘Okay, I’ll leave a protection officer with you and we’ll go and take a look.’
‘I’m coming in with you.’
‘Are you armed, Sir?’
‘No, I do have a firearms certificate and have kept up my training but I’ve never felt the need to carry.’
‘Too dangerous in there, Sir. Best you stay here.’
‘No way. Come on, son.’
Palmer made his way towards the gates. Holt looked at Gheeta for support, but Gheeta just shrugged. She knew from past experience that if Palmer wanted to do something, then Palmer did it.
‘Just bring him back in one piece.’
Holt nodded.
‘I’ll try.’
CHAPTER 20
‘Are they all still behind the lorry?’
Chrissie Wellbeck peeped out of the corner of the broken window in the office. Wellbeck loosed off a few rounds from his automatic carbine towards the lorry from the other window.
“Yes, got ‘em stuck behind it. Harry’s pinned ‘em from the warehouse and Marty’s over by the cranes.’
‘Marty’s not much use.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Take a look.’
Wellbeck crawled across, keeping well out of sight. He edged up alongside Chrissie and looked towards the cranes. Marty Chaplin was sprawled in front of a swivel crane. He wasn’t moving.
‘Bastards, the fucking bastards!’
Wellbeck stood and fired a stream of lead towards the lorry. Chrissie pulled him down out of sight as a torrent of bullets were returned and zinged around the room above them. Behind the counter, Ronny Robards was wishing he’d stayed retired. It was safer.
‘Where’s the bleeding police? Never here when you want them,’ he shouted above the noise.
‘Your bloody fault all this!’ Wellbeck shouted back. ‘I said to frighten them, not demolish their bloody shop!’
‘Well I think that bloody frightened them all right.’
‘You senile old git! Right, Chrissie, keep them pinned to the lorry. I’m going out the back and round the scrap heaps to where Marty is. I can get behind them from there and kill the bastards.’
‘What about me?’
Robards was worried.
‘If he says another word Chrissie, shoot him too. Stupid bastard.’
Keeping low he edged around the counter and out of the back door, managing to give Robards a kick on the way.
Palmer had Holt in front of him and two SFOs behind. They edged through the small Judas door in the right-hand swinging gate into the darkness of the yard and along the inside of the perimeter wall to the rear of the warehouse. Not having night goggles, Palmer was at a disadvantage to the others and made sure he kept close.
At the rear of the warehouse they came to a back door. A padlock held a bolt shut.
‘Stand back Sir, I’ll shoot it off,’ Holt said
‘No, no no!’
Palmer held his arm to stop him and rummaged in his overcoat pocket.
‘Hang on…’
He brought out a pair of lock picks on a key ring.
‘Give me some light.’
Holt used his helmet light to illuminate the padlock. Palmer started to probe it with the picks.
‘Don’t teach you this at Hendon do they, Sergeant. We don’t want to shoot it off and let everybody know we are here. Softly softly catchy monkey, or something like that.’
There was a faint audible click and the padlock sprung open. Palmer stood to the side as Holt eased the door open and checked inside.
‘All clear, Sir.’
Palmer slid silently inside. The warehouse was big, with long aisles of four-level racking with used motor parts stocked on them. Looking along the centre aisle they could see the other moonlit end of the warehouse with a counter strung across it. From behind it Harry O’Keefe was bobbing up and down, taking shots at the lorry.
Holt signalled Palmer to be quiet and nodded to his SFOs, who slipped away sideways into the darkness.
Harry O’Keefe checked the floor next to him. Two magazines left for his semi-automatic rifle – should be enough. With a bit of luck, the Arifs would realise they were in an open position and get back in the Merc and piss off. He used the whole of the long counter to pop up from, always a different place and each time he loosed of a volley.
He’d seen the blue lights reflected off the low cloud earlier and wondered where the law was, probably waiting for reinforcements before coming in. So it took him by complete surprise when a thud to the back of his neck sent him forward onto the dirt that was the warehouse floor. His weapon was seized and thrown away from him, his hands pulled behind him roughly and cuffed. A knee in the back held him to the ground as a tie was looped around his ankles and pulled tight.
He was rolled onto his back and stared up into the balaclava of an SFO officer, who held a finger to his lips. Beside him, another SFO knelt with an automatic pointing at Harry’s head. Any thoughts of resistance evaporated from Harry O’Keefe’s mind. The officer turned and flashed his torch down the warehouse.
Holt saw the three flashes from the front of the warehouse.
‘All clear, Sir. We have control up front. Come on.’
He walked close against the shelving towering above them, close enough to be out of any moonlight that might come through the open front if the clouds above parted. They made their way slowly forward to the counter. Before they got to the end of the shelving they reached the SFOs, who had O’Keefe now gagged and tied to the sturdy base of a shelving strut.
‘Is he one of your suspects, Sir?’ asked Holt.
‘He’s a definite suspect, Sergeant. At least I’ll have one live one to put before the judge.’
An increase in the amount of firing in the yard took their attention.
‘Somebody is getting impatient,’ said Palmer.
CHAPTER 21
Sammy Wellbeck had crawled and edged along behind the piles of scrap metal to the shelter of one of his swivel cranes; above him its open grab claw hung silently like a creature ready to seize its prey. Sammy could see Marty face down on the dirt five metres out in the open, but there was no way he could get to him without being seen. Probably no point; he wasn’t moving and the back of his head was a bloody mess from an exit wound. He needed to get a vantage point before the Arifs saw him. Why wasn’t Harry shooting from the warehouse? Don’t say they got him too.
He peeped over the crane’s caterpillar tracks towards the lorry. There was movement; a volley of shots rang out from Chrissie in the office. He could just see the top of one of the Merc’s doors, it opened and he saw a head get in and then the door shut again; the Arifs were going to do a runner! There was nowhere else for them to go. They couldn’t leave the protection of the lorry as it was all open ground around them. Sammy was convinced – they were going to make a dash for it in the Merc.
He edged up onto the crane’s base and reached up to open the cab door. Shots from the lorry pinged on the steel around him, and he felt a sharp stab of pain as one hit his shoulder. He ducked and felt the blood from the wound start to run down inside his jacket sleeve, not much pain as his adrenaline kicked in. There was a screaming of tyres as the Arifs’ driver tried to reverse it out from under the lorry, but it was stuck and clouds of smoke and dust from the tyres spinning in the dirt filled the air. The Arifs couldn’t see through it to know what Sammy was up to, but he knew what he was up to as he hauled himself by one arm into the cab, hit the start button and the diesel engine shook into life.
He took control of the crane levers. The caterpillar tracks rumbled round towards the Merc and the jib extended like an arm straightening at the elbow swinging the grab claw over the back of the lorry. Sammy hit the button and it banged down onto the Merc, crushing the roof; screams came from inside as he pu
lled the lever and the claw clamped onto the Merc. Sammy lifted it, pushing the lorry off it and onto its side, diesel spilling from its ruptured tank and joining the petrol gushing from the car’s crushed tank. The mixture ignited with a whoosh and thick black smoke set a curtain across the yard, preventing Palmer’s team from seeing what was going on behind it.
The Merc was now swinging thirty feet in the air as Sammy reversed the crane and swivelled it round so the car and its screaming occupants, who had realised what was happening and were desperately kicking at the doors, could do nothing. The crane trundled twenty yards and Sammy swung the jib to the side and released the claw, dropping the car with a loud metallic smash into the giant jaws of the scrap crusher. He stumbled and fell out of the crane’s cab, slithering down to the caterpillar tracks and onto the ground. Weak through loss of blood, he hauled himself onto his knees and crawled to the crusher, and with a last great effort stood on wonky legs and hit the big red start button before collapsing back onto the ground. Above him he watched the thick, hardened steel jaws close slowly onto the car, surrounding it, before reducing it and its human contents to a six-foot cube. The oil sump below the crusher turned a deep red as the Arifs left this world in a coffin not of their choosing.
Sammy also left this world not in a way of his choosing, but he had a satisfied smile on his death face as he did.
Palmer and Holt emerged slowly from the warehouse as Knight came in the gates with another SFO covering him. He called to Palmer.
‘Are we clear, Sir?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Palmer shouted back. ‘That smoke is blocking our view so be very careful, I think we are clear in the yard, but there might still be somebody in the office. Wellbeck is somewhere up the yard by the crane, and he’s armed.’
They joined together and Holt had one of his SFOs take O’Keefe out of the yard and up to their van. They moved slowly to the burning lorry and checked the two Arif men lying in the dirt. Both were dead. They edged their way slowly through the smoke, looking down the yard to the crane whose grab claw was swinging slowly over the crusher.