by Ellis, Tim
‘Have your lot found him yet?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I could ring Cookie to see if she knows anything, if you want?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you a call back.’
‘Do you want to eat while you’re pacing around the kitchen?’
‘I can’t eat.’
‘That’s not what Jerry says.’
He looked at his phone just in case it had activated and he hadn’t heard it.
‘Maybe later.’
‘Have you checked that her car isn’t at Chigwell station?’
‘No, but I could do that. At least then I’d know that she was in her car. I could put an alert out for it.’
‘I thought the police didn’t do anything until a person had been missing twenty-four hours.’
‘I didn’t realise you knew so much about police procedures.’
‘There’s a lot of things I know that you don’t know I know, Raymond Kowalski.’
His phone activated.
‘She rang Cookie earlier wanting a telephone number for a women’s refuge. Cookie gave her the number of one in Woodford Green. Have you got a pen and paper handy?’
He went to the pen and notebook held on the fridge door with a magnet. ‘Go.’
Charlie told him the number then said, ‘Cookie also hacked into Jerry’s calls for this afternoon . . .’
‘Is that even possible?’
‘You should know. Since 2007, anti-terrorism legislation has required that all calls are recorded by the provider and kept for a year. The police have unlimited access to the information, but I don’t think you’re meant to listen to your wife’s calls.’
‘No, you’re probably right.’
‘Anyway, Cookie simply pops in, eavesdrops for a while and pops back out again – nobody’s any the wiser. A Leanne Pettigrew rang her at twenty-five past four and asked for her help. She gave an address where she was: 157 Bush Road, which overlooks the Luxborough Lane Treatment Works. Jerry said she was still in London and it would take her at least an hour and a half to get there.’
‘Thanks Charlie, I owe you one.’
He ended the call and phoned the number of the women’s refuge.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘So you say, but you could be anybody for all I know.’
‘Yes I could, but I’m not. My wife Jerry rang you this afternoon probably asking for a place for a woman in fear of her life called Leanne Pettigrew.’
‘She might have done.’
‘Well, at the moment she’s missing. I’m trying to find her, so your help in that respect would be greatly appreciated.’
‘She was meant to meet me at The Mall on Seaborne Walk in Walthamstow at seven-thirty – she never appeared.’
‘If she contacts you again could you ring me?’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘We’re both in the business of protecting vulnerable women, only this one happens to be my wife.’
‘Give me your number.’
He gave it to her.
‘I’ll ring if she contacts me again.
‘Thank you for your help.’
He ended the call and phoned the Duty Sergeant at the station.
‘Sergeant Devers?’
‘It’s DCI Kowalski, Devers.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I want you to send a squad car out to 157 Bush Road in Woodford Green and see if a Leanne Pettigrew is all right.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
‘Do you know Tug Muleford?’
‘I’ve heard the name, Sir.’
‘Make sure the officers are wearing vests.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’d also like you to phone me on my mobile and let me know what they find.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
He gave Sergeant Devers his number and ended the call. ‘I’m going to Chigwell station to see if Jerry’s car is still there.’
‘You look worried.’
‘I am. Jerry would have rung me if there was anything wrong. You couldn’t make a couple of ham salad sandwiches to eat on the way, could you?’
Chapter Sixteen
‘My name is DS Rowley Gilbert . . .’
He was in the hospital car park pacing round the pool car with the phone stuck to his ear.
‘I know who you are, Gilbert. What can I do for you?’
‘DI Blake has told me that . . .’
‘Has she now?’
‘I saw the man take my partner on the hospital CCTV security system, and I also saw your two men following them. Where are they now? What’s happened to DC Koll?’
‘Why?’
‘She’s my partner. I said I’d protect her. I can help.’
‘The two men I have following them should be able to manage.’
‘I’m armed.’
‘Are you now?’
‘Yes.’
He waited while DI Dougall thought about his offer.
‘All right, you may be of some use if it turns nasty. Michelangelo has put Koll in the boot of his car . . .’
‘She’s not . . . ?’
‘No. My men are following him. He’s just joined the A12. It appears as though he’s taking her back to Shrub End.’
‘I’m on my way. Will you keep me up to date, Sir?’
‘I’ll pass your number to my men – DS Steve Rogers and DC Tom Meade – one of them will ring you when they have something.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And remember . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘This is an opportunity to get your partner off the hook. We want Michelangelo to name names, so that we can put these dirty coppers out of business for good. That means we want him alive. If you kill him, our one chance goes down the drain, and they’ll silence her another way.’
‘I understand, Sir.’
‘Good. I don’t know you, but DI Blake says you’re one of the good ones.’
‘She does?’
‘You know she likes people to think she has a heart of granite, so you didn’t hear that from me.’
‘Of course.’
The call ended. He climbed in the car, decided not to put the blue light on and screeched out of the car park towards the A12.
***
They looked like hikers setting off for the weekend. Maybe they were mountaineers, hunters or just walkers. Except . . . they were going in the wrong direction. They were heading into town instead of out to the country where the mountains, wildlife and trails were.
He’d estimated a three-hour journey. Sauerkraut took point, followed by Marley and him. Bulldog brought up the rear. There always seemed to be yomping between the burst of killing.
The Breidholtsbraut was mostly deserted, which was just the way he liked it. The odd car or truck now and again was neither here nor there.
What could they say?
“We saw four people walking along the road.”
“Can you describe them?”
“No.”
“What were they wearing?”
Shrugs.
“Can you speak your answer for the tape?”
Of course, this conversation would all take place in Icelandic – a guttural language deriving from German – it was more like hawking and spitting than speaking. Not that he knew anything worthwhile about languages. He could only speak two – American and English – and thank God that they were mostly similar.
Once they reached Breidholt it didn’t take them long to find the Community College, and then the WikiUK building. There were no signs – none that they could read anyway, but the WikiUK building still had a few lights on and people inside.
They hunched down in the undergrowth and waited. Another hour or so, and then they’d go in.
***
Jerry’s car had gone.
He was standing in Chigwell station car park and had checked the cars parked there three times
– Jerry’s car wasn’t there.
The engine of his Volvo was still idling behind him. He’d left the driver’s door open and the lights cast an eerie glow over the deserted car park.
He pictured Jerry reaching the station in his mind’s eye. She would have driven to the address in Woodford Green, and then what? It would have to be something extreme to stop her from phoning him. His mind began filling in the blanks and he didn’t like the way the movie ended.
His phone activated.
‘Kowalski?’
‘We have a problem, Sir,’ Sergeant Devers said.
‘Go on.’
‘When the officers demanded to see Leanne Pettigrew and her baby, Muleford pulled a gun on them. He told them he’d kill them both unless they left him alone.’
‘Get CO19 out there.’
‘Already done, Sir.’
‘And a trained negotiator.’
‘Inspector Lindsay Hillyard is on her way from the Hostage and Crisis Negotiation Unit at New Scotland Yard.’
‘Get the case worker from Chingford Social Services there as well. They’ll be able to give us some background information on who we’re dealing with.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
‘I’m not far away, I’ll be there soon. Any news about my wife?’
‘Sorry, Sir. Nothing.’
‘Okay.’
He ran to his car. The last time he’d been this wound up he’d had another heart attack. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths in an effort to slow his racing heart down – it didn’t help.
Muleford had Jerry in that house, it was the only explanation. He crunched the stick into gear, spun the car round like a first-time joyrider and headed out of the station car park.
A negotiator would try to talk Muleford down. God knows what he was doing to Jerry while he had her in that house. If he’d had his way, he would have told CO19 to get their arses in there – fill up the place with CS gas pellets and smoke grenades – bring the bastard down. He would have gone in there hidden behind a mask and strangled the toe-rag. Sometimes, hanging, lethal injection, the electric chair – he didn’t mind which – was the appropriate response for a crime. If the bastard had laid a hand on Jerry . . . Well, he’d put the noose around Muleford’s neck himself, connect up the intravenous tubes, pull the switch so that half of Woodford had no electricity for a week – either one, or all three – he wasn’t fussy.
He stopped the Volvo half-on the pavement beyond the blue crime scene tape that had been strung up across the road to keep the spectators back.
‘You want to watch where you’re fucking parking mate,’ a man with tattoos spiralling up his neck and over his shaved head shouted at him.
He barged past the man. ‘Piss off before I crush your skull with my bare hands.’
‘Oh yeah?’ The man began swinging a baseball bat towards him.
Kowalski took it off him with ease, nearly wrenching the man’s arm out of its socket at the shoulder. He grabbed the man’s left ear and carried on walking, dragging the man behind him.
He showed one of the constables on the other side of the tape his warrant card. ‘DCI Kowalski.’ He thrust the man and the baseball bat at the constable. ‘Charge him. Assaulting a police officer in the performance of his duties.’
‘I didn’t know you was a pig, pig,’ the man said.
‘I think I made it quite clear before you tried to turn me into a vegetable with your bat.’
The man raised his voice. ‘I’m being fitted up.’
Kowalski grabbed the man’s throat and squeezed. ‘You’re probably going to tell me that I’m not allowed to do this anymore, that you’re protected by the Human Rights Act, that there’s a Police Complaints Commission, that you’ll sue me and have me thrown out of the police force . . .’ He moved his face within an inch of the man’s. ‘I don’t give a shit. If you speak again, I’m going to rip your throat out and have a barbecue – nod if you understand.’
The man nodded.
There were four police cars parked in the road haphazardly. The blue lights were still flashing. It reminded him of the scene from “Gauntlet” where police officers hiding behind their cars fire a million bullets into a house until it collapses and Clint Eastwood escapes out the back – is that how this was going to go down?
CO19 had arrived and taken up position. Every reporter and television news crew in the world was there – how they had arrived before him would probably remain one of the mysteries of the universe.
He guessed there was nothing on the television, because all the people from the estate were in attendance. Why watch make-believe when real life television had been brought to your street?
‘Who’s in charge?’ he called.
‘I am . . . Oh! Hello, Sir.’
He recognised Inspector Karen Frost – Frosty, as he used to call her, but their relationship had changed with his promotion.
‘Do you want to take over, Sir?’
‘No. I’m only here because I think my wife is inside.’
‘Crap! Are you sure you don’t want to take over?’
He squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry, Frosty, you’ll do fine. I’d like to make a couple of suggestions though.’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Move the spectators back another fifty yards, and get more officers here just in case they kick off.’
She called a Sergeant over and gave him instructions.
‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘CO19 have got the front and back covered . . .’ She pointed to an officer dressed all in black and wearing a helmet. He had a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle resting on his chest. ‘That’s Inspector Gary McCann who’s in charge of them.’
‘What’s going on inside?’
‘We have no idea yet, Sir. All we know is that Tug Muleford has a gun, and he’s threatening to kill his girlfriend – Leanne Pettigrew – and their baby.’
‘Have we any idea why?’
She pointed to a woman. ‘That’s Leanne Pettigrew’s social worker - Sue Riley. She said that they were trying to get a restraining order to keep Muleford away from Leanne and the baby.’
‘He’s not made any demands yet?’
‘No.’
‘Where are the officers who knocked on the door?’
She called two officers over.
‘Tell me what you saw,’ he said.
‘We knocked and Muleford opened the door . . .’
‘You knew him?’
‘We’ve had dealings with him before, Sir.’
‘Okay.’
‘We asked if Miss Pettigrew was at home, and could we see that the baby was all right. He pulled a gun from behind the door then, and said that if we didn’t get the fuck away from the house he was going to kill us, them and then himself. That’s when we called it in.’
‘Did you actually see Pettigrew or the baby?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Good work.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
He turned back to Inspector Frost. ‘You do know this is not where Muleford and Pettigrew live, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘My understanding is that Leanne Pettigrew had taken the baby and was leaving him. She phoned my wife asking for help, and my wife arranged a refuge place for her, but neither turned up at the appointed rendezvous place.’
‘That certainly might explain why he’s taken them hostage. I don’t understand how your wife got involved, Sir.’
‘She works at the solicitor’s office who are arranging the restraining order. She went round to see Leanne Pettigrew yesterday . . .’
‘And this is the result?’
‘My wife has a way with people.’
‘So it would seem. Are you sure she’s in there?’
‘I’m not sure of anything at the moment, but if she’s not in there . . .’ He shrugged. ‘This was where she was coming. I’ve checked Chigwell train
station – her car isn’t there. So, she definitely got off the train and this was where she was coming.’
‘Have you seen her car here?’
‘No I haven’t, but then I haven’t looked for it either. Has the negotiator arrived yet?’
‘She’s about fifteen minutes away.’
‘You seem to have it well in hand, Frost. I’ll leave you to get on with it.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
He walked over and spoke to the CO19 officer. ‘What’s your brief?’
‘My men are in position, but we’re not authorised to act on our own initiative.’
‘Even if one of your men has a clear shot?’
‘Not without specific authorisation from the incident commander – Inspector Frost . . . Unless you’re taking over, Sir?’
‘No. I’m asking because I think my wife might be in there.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Sir. You really shouldn’t be here if your wife is in that house.’
‘I do mind you saying, McCann. Do you know how many people are in the house?’
‘No, Sir. Muleford is no idiot. All the curtains have been drawn – we can’t see anything.’
‘Infrared?’
‘Budget cuts, Sir.’
‘Good luck, Inspector.’
‘And you, Sir . . . With your wife, I mean.’
‘Yeah.’
A tall thin woman in her late thirties with long hair, a long face and a long nose approached him. ‘I’m Inspector Lindsey Hillyard.’
‘The negotiator?’
‘Yes. I believe your wife is in there.’
‘I honestly don’t know. This was where she was coming. If she’s not in that house, then . . .’ He shrugged again. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘I’d be a lot more comfortable if you went home and waited with your family until this situation is resolved, Sir.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you would, but that isn’t going to happen.’
‘I must ask you not to interfere then.’
‘I’ll just stand here and watch.’
Her eyes closed to slits. ‘I’m sure.’ She wandered off towards an incident command truck that she must have brought with her. They didn’t have one at Hoddesdon, so it must belong to New Scotland Yard. Budget cuts obviously didn’t apply to the Met.
