Vengeance

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 11

  It was a little before midday when the CID room at Bricewell received the details of that morning's armed robbery in Swindon. MacAllister's first reaction had been relief that it had not happened on his patch, he would not liked to have to tell his wife Jean that Kirsty's wedding might have to take second place because a copper and an old lady had been shot and killed in a cocked up bank job. He felt that it would be the one time in their marriage when she would not understand about the demands of his work. Then, guilty at the relief he was feeling that it was some one else's problem, he phoned his opposite number in Swindon to commiserate. He was on the phone to Swindon Central for over ten minutes and when he put the phone down again he was a different person and the light of battle could clearly be seen in his eyes. He got up and opened the door into the main CID office where Clive Sayers was talking with DC Frank Lintsey who had just that day returned from two weeks holiday in the Greek Islands and had the tan to prove it. He nodded to Lintsey.

  “Hello, Frank. Good holiday? Don't let the CID in St Paul's see that tan or they will be asking you to do undercover work for them.”

  Naturally dark and swarthy and below average height, Lintsey had only just managed to get into the force at five feet nine inches, and he was often used by the CID to pass as a Greek or other Mediterranean type in various undercover operations. He bore the jokes this invariably brought from the rest of the squad with quiet dignity, as he believed his own bloodline could be traced back to the Ancient Britons. In all male uniformed services a touch of racism was usually endemic whether between the Scots, English, Irish and Welsh of the original British inhabitants of the island or between the later arrivals from more exotic climes. He himself was inclined towards tolerance to all, except when his temper was aroused and his antecedents showed in no uncertain manner. Besides, he had just come back from a rather enjoyable two weeks in the company of a Ward Sister from the Bristol Infirmary, and he was feeling happy relaxed and rather pleased with the world. That is until he caught the urgency in MacAllister's body language and knew the holiday really was over. MacAllister glanced around.

  “Where are Lomax and Jackie?”

  Sayers caught the use of Lomax's surname and wondered if that gentleman knew that the Guvnor hadn't entirely accepted him yet.

  “They were both on late last night looking for the mugger that's been operating in the National car park across the road, so they won't be in for a while yet.”

  “Did they get anyone?” This was asked eagerly.

  “No Guv. Not a bloody thing.”

  The car park muggings were a cause of some embarrassment to the CID office on account that the car park was so close to the Bricewell police station that from the window of their office you could have thrown a tennis ball straight into its third floor. MacAllister didn't like villains who took the piss and had allocated more man-hours to the catching of this one than the case called for. He scowled at the fact that they had again missed their man. Then he shrugged.

  “Never mind that then. Come into the office.”

  They followed him in aware of the air of suppressed eagerness about him. When they were all seated he sat back in his own chair and lifted his feet onto the desk.

  “You heard about the job in Swindon this morning. An old lady blown away by a shotgun and a copper in hospital with two bullets in his chest?”

  They both nodded, wondering how it was going to affect them.

  “Well the copper has died so we now have a double murder. Triple really, because the thug that killed the old lady was himself shot dead by the man who seemed to be leading the raid.”

  Sayers and Lintsey exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. How was this going to affect them? They had not long to wait for the answer. MacAllister continued.

  “From what the Swindon CID have pieced together from their enquiries to date, it went like this. There were at least four raiders, three to carry out the actual robbery and one waiting outside in the getaway vehicle. They were waiting outside first thing for the bank doors to open and went straight in when they did. This meant they caught most of the staff cold and no one had time to press any alarm buttons.”

  He massaged his nose with a finger and thumb, his blue eyes bright as he looked at them.

  “Two customers were involved because they just happened to be standing outside waiting for the bank to open. One of them, a sixty odd year old woman, is now dead. They think one of the raiders panicked and shot her when she passed out, taking a leaflet stand with her as she went. Christ knows what he thought she was going to do. The other customer was a university student named,” he studied what he had scribbled on his note pad, “Winston Archibald Cumberbatch. He is West Indian even if he sounds like he is from Yorkshire.”

  If Sayers and Lintsey were wondering where all this was going and what it had to do with them, they were not about to start asking. MacAllister was fired up.

  “The raider that died was West Indian and Mr Cumberbatch says that the leader was also black. Mind you, we and he can't prove that as they were all dressed from head to toe in black trousers and sweaters and wore gloves, ski masks and dark glasses, but the kid says he was definitely black. He says a white man walks totally differently.”

  Frank Lintsey risked it.

  “That's not something I would want to base a wanted description on, Guvnor.”

  MacAllister grinned at him and Sayers knew from experience that they were getting to the root of the matter.

  “I know, Frank and nor would I, but I also asked DI David Blaise over at Swindon why he thought the copper was shot. By all accounts he just happened to be on foot patrol in the area when he heard the two shots. He radioed in that he thought a bank raid was taking place and that was the last they heard from him. Witnesses say he grabbed one of the raiders as he was climbing into the getaway car and the two of them went down on to the pavement. The raider then hit him across the head with his pistol hard enough to cause a fractured skull, according to the X-rays taken at the hospital, so why put two bullets into him? He wasn't a threat any more.”

  Without waiting he answered his own question.

  “Because in the struggle the raiders sun-glasses were knocked off and the lad must have seen something that would positively identify him.”

  “You think the bloke was local and the copper knew him then, Guv?”

  “No, Frank, I do not mean that.”

  MacAllister fixed the Kestrel look on Clive Sayers. Sayers looked puzzled for a few seconds and then his face cleared.

  “Mitael Khorta!”

  MacAllister's Kestrel look was replaced by a happy smile. Lintsey just sat there looking from one to the other without a clue as to what was going on, the black eyebrows drawn together in a frown over the brown eyes. He shook his head in puzzlement.

  “How can you be so sure of who it is on evidence as thin as that.”

  MacAllister sat up and leaning his elbows on the desk looked squarely at him.

  “Because, Frank laddie, I been at this job a bloody long time and now I can practically smell them.”

  He sat back again with his hands folded across his stomach and explained.

  “Mitael Khorta is a Somalian and he is not only one of the blackest men I have ever seen, but is probably one of the most graceful. He moves like he was on oiled castors. We have managed to arrest him just once for armed robbery, but that was nearly fifteen years ago and only then because some one grassed on him to get their own sentence reduced. He did five years for that before being released early for good behaviour. We are sure he has been involved in at least ten other jobs since then, but we were never been able to prove it. Not even come close. Then about six years ago he went respectable.”

  He carried on reeling off the facts that he needed no file to remind him of.

  “He ran an import/export agency for a bit and also had a streak of luck on the horses according to him and a rather dubious bookmaker by the name of Stanley Pike. He moved into the top floor apart
ment of one of those big houses up on the edge of the downs near John Morton's place. You know the ones. They have all been converted into apartments and the smallest would cost more than we could afford between us. And they say crime doesn't pay.”

  He shook his head and peered out of the window as if he thought he might catch the car park mugger at it in full daylight. Lintsey still looked lost.

  “Well I can see that it should concern you that we have never managed to nail the bugger again, but how does all this tie him in with the Swindon job? That looks as if it was pulled by a bunch of no brain hooligans.”

  MacAllister grinned at him infuriatingly.

  “Or some one who has lost all his contacts and needed the money badly. Tell him, Clive, what makes Mr Khorta worth a look at.”

  Clive Sayers was grinning at Lintsey as well now and just before he lost his temper with them both Sayers told him why.

  “Mitael Khorta has got deep blue eyes.”

  “You mean he's got European blood.”

  “No I don't. He is pure Somalian and as black as ebony, but he has blue eyes. Its just one of those things with that particular race of people, it doesn't happen often, but about one in every one hundred thousand people born to them are born with blue or grey eyes and it makes him very distinctive.”

  “And you think that's why the uniform was shot. Because he saw a pair of blue eyes in a black face and the man knew it would identify him as clearly as if he had left a signed picture behind?”

  MacAllister nodded. Frank Lintsey's face said the reasoning of his superiors not at all completely convinced him.

  “Got it in one, Frank. We might make a detective out of you yet.”

  “How are we going to play it, Guv?”

  This came from Sayers.

  “If it is him he probably won't be home yet, got to share out the loot and get rid of any incriminating evidence etc. So as of now we are going to watch his luxurious little pad day and night and when he does come home we are going to arrest him and test his clothes and skin for forensic evidence that he has recently fired a gun. If that proves positive then we will proceed from there. I want some one staking out his house as of now, Clive, until he is seen. When he is spotted whoever is there must call for back up. I want no bloody heroics. Three people have already died today and that's enough for now. I am going to clear it with Bill Reid and see if we can get a couple of uniforms to help out on this one.”

  He turned to Frank Lintsey.

  “Frank. Go and get some rest. You will be doing the evening shift. I told you that tan would come in useful didn't I? Clive, find out what motor he is flashing around in this week so we know what to look for and then let Marcus Lomax know he is on duty tonight.” And he was on his feet and gone.

  When he returned some twenty minutes later he was an angry man. Bill Reid, the Station Commander, had refused point blank to let MacAllister have any uniformed officers and had advised MacAllister that he would not look kindly upon it if he was just running a crusade against some one he suspected of criminal activities, but was without any hard evidence. As he usually did MacAllister had listened to his Station Commander in silence and then excused himself without actually admitting his intentions in the matter. That Khorta was as guilty as hell was clearly obvious to him and he was buggered if he was going to let a book bashing career officer like Bill Reid prevent him from proving it, so he briefed his staff without letting them know the whole content of Reid's little speech to him. He just told them that they would have to operate with any uniformed backup because of the shortage of manpower. A thing they had no difficulty in believing. Then he went home to help his wife with the last minute arrangements for his daughters’ wedding that was to take place tomorrow afternoon.

  When he got home the small living room was full of people his wife Jean had invited in for a few drinks and their daughter was enjoying her moments in the sun. Kirsty MacAllister was a pretty if not beautiful young lady, with green eyes and red hair. Not the bright carrot red hair sometimes seen in people of Celtic descent, but an altogether gentler and lighter shade, that with the light behind it became a reddish gold. At this moment she had a glint and sparkle that only a woman who is to be married the next day or has just found out she is pregnant seems to possess, as she held an animated conversation with the daughter of a neighbour. She was dressed in one of her prettiest outfits and MacAllister felt a rush of parental pride and a feeling of wonderment that she had made the transition from teenager to womanhood without him being really aware of it. As the two girls began to make preparations to leave and join other friends and colleagues for what Kirsty unconvincingly described as her last night of freedom, MacAllister approached her.

  “Where are you off to tonight, Kirsty?”

  She turned the full glow of her happiness on him.

  “Just dinner with the girls and then a couple of drinks at the Nitelite, Dad.”

  The Nitelite was a nightclub that attracted most of the younger set and it was well run so her going there gave him no qualms. Fetching his hand from his trouser pocket he stuffed a wad of ten-pound notes into her hand with an air of embarrassment and she looked up at him in surprise.

  “What's this for, Dad?”

  Not used to displays of affection to his family he actually shuffled his feet.

  “Buy yourselves a couple of bottles of champagne.”

  Kirsty MacAllister lifted her five feet three inches onto her toes and kissed her father's cheek, tears threatening to spill and ruin her careful make up.

  “Thanks Dad.”

  Then she was gone and MacAllister was left with the neighbours.

  By nine o'clock MacAllister was weary of passing the time making inane conversation with the neighbours he found he hardly knew although he had lived amongst them in this quiet cul-de-sac for over ten years. So he waited until the vicar was the centre of attention, telling a story of a funny thing that had happened at his daughter's wedding the previous year and then picked up an empty tray that had held the salmon sandwiches with the excuse of taking it back to the kitchen. Here he quietly opened the back door, walked around to the front of the house and climbing into his car started the engine and escaped. Jeanie MacAllister watched her husband leave the lounge quietly while he thought everyone was occupied in listening to the vicar who was to perform the ceremony the next day and a few moments later she saw his car leave their drive and head down the street. She sighed inwardly. She was disappointed, but in no way surprised that her husband couldn't even stay in the one evening when they had invited their neighbours around for a drink to celebrate tomorrow's big event.

  Jean MacAllister was a girl from the Isles. They had both been at University when she met her husband at a rugby club dance. Although she had gone there with another man the handsome young man with the slightly crooked nose had fascinated her and she had literally thrown herself at him much to the annoyance of her and MacAllister’s partners for the night. When they left university she went into medical research at Bristol University while MacAllister joined the police force and because of his degree was put on the fast track for promotion. When they had married John MacAllister he had been a uniformed bobby doing his stint at street level and although the shift work meant he wasn't always in her bed at night, she had been blissfully happy. Then he had been transferred to CID and her world had begun to crumble around her. He loved the job to the exclusion of all else and after he had been in CID for a year he was promoted to sergeant. His superiors seemed to think that she should be proud of him, but all she could think of was that this would mean she would see even less of him and so it turned out.

  They were then transferred to Bath and although it was not that far from Bristol it meant that it was too far to drop in on her friends or family, and with her husband totally wrapped up in his job she was a lonely young woman. John MacAllister didn't seem to notice. After another six months she had had enough and finally decided to see a solicitor about a divorce. Then she missed her pe
riod and it was too late. Kirsty was born and then Gavin and she had built her world around her children, living her life through them and not returning to the world of medical research. Then on the strength of a couple of big cases and his growing reputation MacAllister had been made Inspector and they moved to London. Jean had hated London. In Bristol it had been possible to live on the edge of the city where you could still see trees and grass. In London MacAllister was based in Scotland Yard and they had a flat close by. To Jean it really was a concrete jungle and she detested it. MacAllister was aware of her dislike of London, but only really took serious notice when Jean’s illness began.

  At first he refused to believe the Doctor’s diagnosis. Manic Depressive? His Jean? Why should she be depressed? She had a successful husband; two fine kids and a lovely home. What was there to be depressed about? He was never to fully understand and the distractions and excitements of his job and London made sure he never really gave it the thought it deserved. Then disaster struck. The child pornography case was successfully prosecuted, but MacAllister had upset powerful people and was no longer flavour of the month. It took him some time to work out what was happening to him. First of all it showed because there were only the small and uninteresting cases dropped on his desk, the other teams were getting the interesting work that had used to come his way. Then there were his reviews. Suddenly he was no longer the bright and upwardly mobile star and his reviews began to take the flavour of could do better. At the same time Jean’s illness became worse and with bitter frustration MacAllister realised his career was stopped dead and he applied to be transferred back to Bristol. This suited his superiors who wanted him gone from The Yard and his transfer was affected in weeks. There they had been for the last ten years and during this time there were no further promotions.

  Back near her family and friends Jean had been content to let her children fill her life again and her illness had subsided except for moments of stress. Like when Gavin had fallen from his scooter and broken a leg and when Kirsty had thought she was pregnant. This latter they managed to keep from MacAllister until to their relief they found it was a false alarm. However, now Kirsty was about to fly the nest and Gavin had already told her that when he had his law degree he saw his future in America. She watched her husbands taillights vanish round the corner of the road and told herself maybe it was time to take legal advice once more. Make a clean break and give them both a chance to make something of the rest of their lives. Then she gathered herself together and gave her whole attention to her guests.