by Graham Ison
‘Are you the owner of these premises?’ I asked the man behind the counter, once I’d identified myself.
‘Yes, I am. Is there some trouble?’
‘You could say that,’ said Dave laconically. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Martin. Frederick Martin.’
‘And do you own this entire property, Mr Martin?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I do. Why?’
‘Is one of your tenants a Douglas Forbes?’
‘There’s no one of that name here. There’s only one man living here at the moment and his name’s Derek Ford. He’s got a room on the top floor.’
‘Is that his car outside?’ Dave asked.
‘Yes, I believe it is, but if it’s not licensed or anything like that, it’s not my responsibility.’
Here we go again, I thought. We’re not here about anyone’s bloody car.
‘What’s he look like, this Derek Ford?’ persisted Dave.
‘I only saw him once. That’s when he moved in the day before yesterday. He seems to stay in his room, at least while I’m here.’ Martin furnished a description that could’ve tallied with Forbes. And a hundred others.
‘Top floor, you said.’
‘Yes. The room at the front.’
Dave glanced at me. ‘Give it a go, sir?’
‘How do we get up there?’ I asked the shop’s owner.
‘There’s a door at the side,’ said Martin, ‘but it’s locked.’
‘Very helpful,’ said Dave, ‘but can we reach the upstairs through the shop?’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, this way.’ Martin showed us through a door at the back and indicated a flight of stairs.
Douglas Forbes, who’d told Martin he was Derek Ford, had heard a car door slam. He’d moved quickly to the window and peered down at the street.
Two cars had been parked in the kerb outside the shop. Two men, one white and one black, each wearing a suit, and a woman in jeans and a white shirt, had alighted from one of them. They looked like police officers even though they weren’t wearing uniform. The three of them had a brief discussion before the woman walked away. The two men then entered the shop.
Forbes glanced at the second car and saw that there were some men in it, but they showed no signs of getting out.
How on earth could the police – and he was sure that’s who they were – have found him so quickly? Suddenly it looked as though his plans for an escape to the Continent were to be thwarted before they’d even begun.
Moving rapidly, he shifted the upright chair across the room and opened the door. Taking out his pistol, he checked it one more time to ensure that it was loaded.
He’d already killed three people and if he was caught alive, his sentence would be no greater for adding a few police officers to his score. And doing so might enable him to escape.
He waited. Minutes later he heard people coming up the first flight of stairs. He thumbed off the safety catch. And waited.
Dave and I ascended the first flight of stairs, but as we were about to mount the second flight, we got a surprise. The first of two surprises, that is.
‘Half the bloody staircase is missing, guv,’ said Dave.
I glanced up at the stairs and saw that every other tread had been removed, making it difficult, although not impossible, to reach the top floor.
Dave and I began our slow and careful way upwards, intent on avoiding the gaps. We were about a third of the way up when I stepped on a tread that produced a loud creaking noise. We both froze.
Suddenly a shot rang out and a round hit the wall near Dave’s head, chipping a chunk out of the plaster.
I couldn’t see who’d shot at us, but I was pretty sure it would have been Forbes, alias Derek Ford. We retreated rapidly.
‘I think the bastard’s shooting at us, guv,’ said Dave calmly, as we returned to the comparative safety of the first floor landing.
‘Yes, Dave,’ I said, ‘I rather got that impression myself.’
We descended to the shop a damned sight faster than we’d gone up.
‘There’s no need for discretion any more, Dave. Tell Appleby to get the TSG to close the road and surround the building. Also they are to tell the people in the premises opposite to stay away from the windows. Then get on the air and tell central command control that I need an armed response unit here without delay. And we’d better have additional back-up.’
‘As good as done, sir,’ said Dave, and raced out to the street.
‘How many people have you got working here, Mr Martin?’ I asked the shopkeeper.
‘At the moment there’s just me and my assistant Ryan.’ Martin indicated a spotty-faced youth with his hands in the pockets of an oversized warehouse coat. The spotty-faced one grinned.
‘Right, I want you both out of the premises as quickly as you can.’
‘But I’ll need to turn off the till and lock up.’ Martin gave me a baleful look, as though I’d taken leave of my senses. ‘What on earth is happening?’
‘Do not lock the shop, Mr Martin,’ I said firmly. ‘My officers will need to gain access to the upstairs and they’re not going to break down any bloody doors in order to get there. Now, get out quickly.’
Dave reappeared. ‘All wrapped up, sir.’
‘What was that bang I heard just now, Chief Inspector?’ asked Martin, as we hastened him from the shop.
‘That, Mr Martin, was your lodger taking a pot shot at me.’
‘By the way,’ said Dave, ‘your Mr Ford has vandalized your staircase.’
‘Vandalized it?’ Martin stared at Dave with a blank expression.
‘Yes, he’s taken half the treads away. Must’ve been short of firewood.’
‘But there aren’t any fireplaces up there. They were taken out years ago,’ said Martin, apparently oblivious to the fact that it was seventy-four degrees in the shade outside, and that his tenant would have no need of a fire anyway. ‘He must’ve done that during night, after I’d locked up and gone home,’ he complained. ‘I’ll have to charge him for the damage.’
‘Good luck,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll let him know you’ll be sending him a bill.’
We moved out into the street, taking Martin and his assistant Ryan with us. By now, the area had been cleared, and the blue and white tapes that these days were part of any form of police action were visible at each end of the street. I told Martin and his assistant to get beyond the tapes as quickly as possible.
Several distant police sirens blasted the air. The cavalry was arriving.
A familiar figure strode towards me. He was in shirtsleeves, but wearing body armour,
‘PS Dan Mason, sir, CO19.’ Mason was a sergeant with the tactical firearms unit. ‘We meet again,’ he said.
‘Indeed we do, Dan. A warehouse near the Walworth Road early one winter’s morning was the last time, I seem to recall.’
‘At least it’s a bit warmer today, sir,’ Mason said.
‘In more ways than one,’ commented Dave drily.
‘I understand that someone’s been shooting at you, sir.’ As was his custom, Mason was talking calmly about an armed confrontation that could lead to one or more of us getting killed. ‘What’s the SP on this one?’
‘I’m as certain as I can be that the guy up there is Douglas Forbes, Dan,’ I said, and outlined what we knew so far in relation to the present situation. I went on to tell Mason about the three murders we strongly suspected Forbes of having committed. ‘Not that it matters a damn who he is; he started shooting at us the moment we started going up the second flight of stairs.’
Mason rested a hand on his holstered Glock pistol. ‘If he’s your murderer, sir,’ he said, ‘he’s got nothing to lose if he tries to take a few of us out, then.’ It was a realistic observation. The likelihood of Forbes receiving a sentence of more than thirty years – even if it were that long – was remote, however many murders he’d committed. The more limp-wristed members of our government had intimated to the Lord Chief Justice that he should
set the guidelines accordingly. ‘Are you thinking of sending for a negotiator, sir?’
‘No, I’m not, Dan. I’ve a feeling that this guy is not in a negotiating mood. But I’d rather like to take him alive.’
Sergeant Mason pursed his lips. ‘Might be difficult, sir,’ he said. ‘If he starts shooting at any of us again, my people will have to return fire. And they shoot to kill.’
‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ I said. ‘By the way, our man has removed part of the staircase leading to his room on the top floor.’
Mason shrugged. ‘These things are sent to try us, sir.’
‘A Uniform Branch chief superintendent’s just turned up, sir,’ said Dave. ‘He’d like a word.’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘No idea, sir. I don’t think he’s the local guv’nor. Could be from Area HQ or even the Yard, I suppose.’
‘That’s all I need,’ I said, turning as an individual approached who looked young enough to have obtained his uniforms from Mothercare. I presumed he was a product of the accelerated promotion course, the Bramshill Police College forcing process that elevated officers to a point beyond their level of competence.
‘Chief Inspector Brock, is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s happening exactly, Mr Brock?’
I explained that a man believed to be Douglas Forbes was holding siege on the top floor, and had already discharged a firearm.
‘I see,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘How are you proposing to deal with the situation, Mr Brock?’
‘Let’s purge this choler without letting blood,’ quoted Dave quietly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The chief superintendent turned to Dave. ‘What are you talking about?’ He cast a critical gaze at Dave.
‘Richard the Second, Act One, Scene Two, sir,’ said Dave. ‘It’s Shakespeare,’ he added, just to complete the reference.
‘Yes, of course. I thought I recognized it,’ said the chief superintendent unconvincingly, as he rapidly reappraised his view of black detective sergeants. ‘What are you proposing to do, Mr Brock?’ he asked again, redirecting his gaze to me.
‘I shall talk to him in kindly tones, sir, and attempt to point out the error of his ways and the hopelessness of his situation. And if that doesn’t work Sergeant Mason will probably kill him.’
‘I see.’ The chief superintendent didn’t seem at all happy with that solution. ‘Well, be careful.’
‘Oh, I shall, sir. It’s always uppermost in my thoughts,’ I said, restraining myself from making a really sarcastic retort.
Taking Dan Mason, his PC partner and Dave with me, we re-entered the shop and ascended the first flight of stairs.
‘Douglas Forbes, we’re police officers,’ I shouted, keeping well out of range on the first floor landing. ‘You may as well give yourself up. The only alternative will be that my officers will storm your room and take you dead or alive.’
‘Just like a shoot-out at the OK Corral,’ added Dave, loud enough for the gunman to hear.
My entreaty was greeted with another shot that hit a wall somewhere. Followed by yet another. Our assailant was obviously firing blindly.
Mason switched the Heckler-Koch carbine from his shoulder and made it ready. Slowly he moved to the bottom of the second flight of stairs and looked upwards. Mason’s partner, his own H-K at the ready, moved to a position to the rear and right of Mason.
A further shot rang out, but once again, it hit the wall behind Mason harmlessly.
‘Come on, you bastards, come and get me,’ said a cultured voice from above. Standing at the top was a man in a defiant pose holding a pistol.
Moving out of the line of fire, Mason rested his carbine and took his Glock pistol from its holster. ‘Make your way down slowly,’ he ordered, ‘and keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘The hell with you, copper,’ shouted the man and raised his pistol.
Switching his Glock to a double-handed grip, Mason discharged two rounds in quick succession.
It is the teaching of SO19, the firearms department, that shots should be kill shots, but the man’s quick movement resulted in his being hit in the upper thigh.
With a cry of pain, the man dropped his pistol and tumbled down the stairs, landing in an ungainly heap at Mason’s feet.
Dave and I dragged the man into an upright position, and Mason patted him down to ensure he had no other weapons on him.
‘He’s clean, sir,’ said Mason.
‘Are you Douglas Forbes?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Douglas Forbes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the unlawful possession of a firearm, and discharging that firearm with intent to kill.’ I deliberately didn’t mention the murders of which I strongly suspected him. If I’d done so I’d’ve been precluded from questioning him about them later.
‘You do not have to say anything,’ began Dave, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘I need a doctor,’ said Forbes.
‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Dave. ‘Needs a doctor,’ he repeated, as he scrawled a few words in his pocketbook.
Someone had had the foresight to call an ambulance, and we escorted the limping Forbes into it. I deputed DS Challis and DC Appleby to accompany our prisoner to the hospital.
‘Where are you taking him?’ I asked the paramedic.
‘Lewisham A and E, guv.’
‘A satisfactory conclusion, Mr Brock.’ The chief superintendent approached me from the end of the street.
‘Conclusion, sir? It’s only the beginning not the end,’ I said, and went in search of the inspector in charge of the territorial support group.
‘Yes, sir?’ The inspector was standing close to one of his tenders.
‘Come with me, Inspector,’ I said, and led him back into the shop and up the first flight of stairs. ‘You’ll see that the prisoner removed every other tread. While he was standing at the top PS Mason shot him in the leg and Forbes dropped his pistol. It’s not on the remaining treads, so I think it must’ve fallen through one of the gaps where a tread was taken away. I need it found and preserved for evidence. And I don’t want to find any of your guys’ fingerprints on it.’
‘No problem, sir.’ The inspector grinned. ‘We’ve recovered evidence before, you know.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, it’s been a busy sort of day.’
Remarkably it took the TSG men only a matter of minutes to find Forbes’s weapon.
‘It appears to have bounced off one of the remaining treads and through the banisters on to the first floor landing, sir,’ said the inspector, handing me the weapon shrouded in a plastic evidence bag. ‘I have taken the precaution of unloading the remaining rounds.’ He handed me a second plastic bag, and gave me his pocketbook. ‘Perhaps you’d sign for it all, sir. Continuity of evidence.’
Now it was my turn to grin. ‘Touché,’ I said, and signed for the pistol that the inspector had correctly described as a point-two-two calibre High Standard Supermatic Trophy pistol, and the spare ammunition.
Dave and I ascended to the room that Forbes had occupied and took a cursory look around.
‘We’ll get Linda Mitchell and her team to give it the once over, Dave,’ I said, ‘but I doubt she’ll find anything useful.’
‘Forbes must’ve used tools to take up the treads on the staircase, sir,’ said Dave, as we reached the ground floor again. ‘There aren’t any in his room, so he must’ve used some from the shop. I noticed that Martin stocks that sort of stuff, like hammers and jemmies and screwdrivers. We might just find Forbes’s fingerprints on them if we can locate them.’
‘Fetch Martin back in here, Dave.’
Accompanied by Dave, the shopkeeper returned to his store, peering round apprehensively as though fearing the gunman might still be there.
‘It’s all right, Mr Martin, we’ve ar
rested him,’ I said. ‘Now then, when you came in this morning, did you notice anything out of place?’
‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. A claw hammer and a jemmy.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Dave.
‘I put them back on the shelf. They were on the counter, but I don’t remember having left them there.’
‘That’s because you didn’t, Mr Martin. Your lodger left them when he was in his do-it-yourself mode and attacking your staircase. Perhaps you’d show me which tools they were.’
Martin moved to take a hammer from a shelf containing a variety of basic tools.
‘Don’t touch them, just point them out,’ said Dave, as he donned a pair of protective gloves.
Martin indicated the hammer and the jemmy and Dave placed them in a plastic evidence bag. ‘Might be able to get some dabs off them, sir, even though Mr Martin’s handled them,’ he said to me.
‘Are you buying those?’ asked Martin.
‘No, Mr Martin, I’m seizing them as evidence,’ said Dave patiently. ‘I’ll give you a receipt and you’ll have them returned in due course.’
‘Will I be able to claim from the police for the damaged staircase?’ Martin was clearly unhappy, not only about the seized tools, but the entire police operation.
‘Unfortunately no,’ said Dave. ‘You see, Mr Martin, the staircase was not damaged by the police or at our request. I suggest you have a word with your insurance company.’
‘But they’ll put my premiums up,’ whined Martin.
‘I know,’ said Dave. ‘It’s a cruel old world.’
NINETEEN
It was the following afternoon that I received the telephone call to say that Douglas Forbes had been discharged from Lewisham hospital. He was now at Charing Cross police station in Agar Street whence he had been escorted by the two officers who had been guarding him in the hospital.
Douglas Forbes, still wearing the bloodstained trousers in which he’d been arrested, limped into the interview room.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard,’ I said, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. I would remind you that you’re still under caution.’
Dave turned on the recording machine and announced the presence of ourselves and that of Douglas Forbes.
