by Mark Romain
The BMW bounced madly across the uneven road surface, losing the rear bumper in the process. He was vaguely aware of cars around him locking up and skidding. He ignored the cacophony of horns blaring at him in anger and fear.
After clearing the junction, Winston let out a loud whoop. His heart was beating like a jack-hammer as he ran a large forearm across his brow and blinked the sweat away from his eyes. Somehow, he had survived, and there was no sign of his pursuers in the mirror.
The badly cracked windscreen was severely affecting his view, and he suddenly realised that the right-hand bend he was entering was much tighter than anticipated. He slammed on the brakes to reduce the car’s frightening momentum, and the tyres screamed as they fought a losing battle to maintain traction. Turning broadside, the BMW eventually skidded to a halt, its engine stalling. Hands shaking, Winston was frantically turning the key in the ignition, trying to get the car running again when he became aware of the damned siren. His eyes immediately darted in the direction of the dreaded sound. “What the hell…!”
◆◆◆
Brian Johnson turned off the fluorescent lights in the divisional BIU at Whitechapel police station. He closed the door and trudged along the deserted corridor towards the lift. Everyone else was long gone. It had been a stressful day, and his head was throbbing. The two extra strong painkillers he’d taken an hour ago hadn’t helped in the slightest.
He waited impatiently by the elevators, massaging his neck to ease the dull pain that had formed there.
“Hello, Johnson.”
Johnson spun around, startled. He recognised the speaker at once and relaxed. “Oh, it’s you, sir. I didn’t realise you were still in the building.”
If Chief Superintendent Porter registered Johnson’s edginess he chose to ignore it. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture and smiled benignly.
Charles Porter was the Divisional Commander for Whitechapel. He was a short man, overweight but not badly so, with a politician’s charm and the watchful eyes of a hawk. A pair of metal framed spectacles perched precariously on the end of his beak-like nose. “You know, contrary to what most people around here seem to think, even the boss has to work late sometimes,” he said, wearily removing his flat cap to reveal a thick thatch of salt and pepper hair.
“Of course, sir,” Brian said quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Experience had taught him that it always paid to suck up to senior management, even when you didn’t really give a fuck.
“So, how’s it going?” Porter asked.
Johnson frowned. What was the old fool on about now? “Sir?”
“Your first murder enquiry: how’s it going?”
Johnson shrugged. “It’s early days, yet,” he said.
At that moment the elevator arrived and both men stepped in.
◆◆◆
Station Reception Officer Henry Boyden had just finished his tour of duty and was donning his coat when Johnson came into the front office. “Brian? What are you doing here?” he called. “Hang on a minute. I’ll walk out with you.”
Johnson grunted a surly acknowledgement and waited impatiently for the other man to join him.
“You only transferred out of here a few days ago, and you’re back already. Are you here on official AMIP business?”
“Yep, I’m working on that prostitute murder that happened yesterday.”
“Sounds nasty, have you got much to go on?”
“Nope, not yet.”
“Poor girl, is it right she was sliced up?”
”Yep, he gutted her like a fish. Serves her right for being a slut.”
”That’s a terrible thing to say,” Boyden admonished.
Johnson shrugged, and then sneered nastily. “I seem to remember that you were a bit partial to the odd hooker back in the old days, though I never understood why a good-looking bloke like you would want to pay for it.”
Boyden cringed. “Every squaddie in our unit occasionally went with prostitutes when we were stationed over in Germany,” he said defensively, “especially you. Anyway, that was years ago, when I was young, free and single. I’ll have you know I’m a happily married man now.”
“Whatever,” Johnson sneered.
They crossed the main road in silence. When they reached the council estate opposite, they stopped. “Need a lift?” Boyden asked. “My car’s only a few streets away.”
“I’m parked in there,” Johnson said, nodding into the estate.
“Are you mad? You know you’ll get it clamped if you leave it there,”
“I know,” Johnson snapped, “but as a civilian analyst I don’t get to drive police cars, so I’ve had to use my own vehicle to come over here just to spend a fruitless afternoon in your rubbish BIU, going through a load of out of date intelligence that has got me absolutely nowhere.”
Boyden seemed disappointed. “Why do you have to behave like such a wanker? You really ought to change your attitude, mate. You used to work in that BIU. A little loyalty wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Oh, I’m a wanker now, am I? You didn’t think I was a wanker when I got you a job, did you?” Johnson said, haughtily.
All Johnson had done was mention to him that the station was recruiting and he should consider speaking to HR if he fancied a change in career. Anyone listening to Johnson telling the story would be forgiven for thinking he had personally gone cap in hand to the Chief Superintendent, begging for a job on Boyden’s behalf.
Boyden rolled his eyes. “I’m very grateful,” he said patiently, “but that doesn’t mean I approve of you running your former colleagues down.”
“I should hope you are grateful. I went to a lot of trouble to get you in.”
“I said I’m grateful, Brian.”
Johnson nodded. Without saying goodbye, he hurried over to the old Vauxhall that was parked out of sight at the base of the flats. A sign on the wall said: ‘Residents only. Unauthorised vehicles will be clamped or removed. Fine £50’. He doubted anyone would pay attention to the old car. It blended into its surroundings too perfectly. He started the engine and manoeuvred the Cavalier around the little courtyard until it finally faced the exit gates. Checking to make sure no one from the station was around, he pulled into the main road and turned left.
◆◆◆
After flooding the stalled BMW, it had taken Winston so long to get it going again that Steve Bull had made up all the lost ground, and now the pursuit car sat right on the bandit’s tail as it motored towards the City. Armed support was on its way, but typically wouldn’t be with them for several minutes. The helicopter was refuelling and couldn’t get airborne for another ten minutes minimum. The controller at NSY had just ordered them to abandon the pursuit, insisting that it was far too dangerous to continue. Dillon immediately declared that their radio had developed a malfunction and was not receiving properly. They might suspect that he was lying, which of course he was, but they would never be able to prove it. The Chief Inspector at the Yard came on the air, screaming at them to stop playing ‘clever buggers’ and drop back. “End this pursuit right now,” he demanded. In a voice oozing sarcasm, Dillon told him that it was pointless to shout because they couldn’t hear him.
The chase hurtled along Shoreditch High Street towards the Met’s boundary with the City of London Police. Unless Winston changed course soon, he would have to negotiate the chicanes that formed part of the famed ‘Ring of Steel’, the security and surveillance cordon consisting of barriers and manned checkpoints that was erected in 1993 to deter terrorism and other threats following the PIRA bombing campaign of the late 1980s and early 1990s.
The Nat West Tower dominated the skyline ahead of them as they entered London’s financial district. “I think the bastard’s looking to decamp, boys,” Tyler shouted over the wail of the siren.
Brake lights suddenly bloomed, and a thick cloud of smoke mushroomed from the rear of the BMW as its wheels locked up. “Watch out, he’s stopping!” Dillon yelled.
“Thanks, I hadn�
�t noticed,” Bull replied sarcastically.
Winston’s furious braking had been caused by a stationary line of vehicles waiting to go through a City Police checkpoint. Jack wondered if the City cops had been notified of the pursuit and had decided to stop all traffic and use the backlog to block Winston’s path.
Ahead of them Winston’s car suddenly veered sharply across the road, screeching onto the opposite carriageway as it accelerated past the checkpoint. A City officer rushed into the road with his right hand raised, palm outwards, waving for it to pull over and stop. He stood defiantly in front of the speeding car, determined to engage the renegade driver in a battle of wills.
“Get out of the way, you damn fool!” Dillon said quietly, willing the idiot to move before it was too late.
A look of terror appeared on the young officer’s face as he realised the enormity of his mistake and dived for cover.
“Arsehole!” Dillon mouthed the word at the astonished policeman, who lay on the floor looking up at him as they shot by. There was an audible clunk as Bull squashed the City officer’s headgear beneath the wheels of the Omega. “Tosser!” he growled, glancing in the rear-view mirror to see the flattened helmet in the middle of the road.
“That’ll make us popular with the City plod,” Tyler said.
“Who gives a fuck?” Dillon said grimly. All he could think about was Franklin. The image of him tumbling to the floor kept repeating itself in his head, like a tape on a loop.
“Not me,” Bull admitted. He was determined to stay behind the BMW at any cost.
Bull suddenly slammed on the brakes as a large white van turned out of a side street on their right and almost drove straight into them. The two vehicles stopped with their front bumpers inches apart.
“Come on, move it back you idiot!” Dillon screamed at the man through his open window. Rage and frustration welled up inside him as he tried to wave the vehicle aside. Flustered, the driver stalled his van. In desperation, Bull reversed back a short distance, then shifted back into drive and mounted the high pavement of the central reservation, scrapping the underside of the car. He ignored the grinding noise that followed, hoping that no real harm was being done. He had to stay with the BMW, which was scything a path through the traffic ahead.
“Well done, Steve.” Tyler cheered, relieved that they were moving again.
“I hope the traffic skipper sees it that way if I’ve fucked the sump up,” Steve said as they re-joined the road.
“You leave him to me,” Tyler told him.
Dillon pointed to a large sign on the pavement that read: ‘MAJOR ROADWORKS AHEAD – EXPECT LONG DELAYS’.
“That ought to slow the bastard down,” he yelled, slapping the dashboard triumphantly.
And he was right. Winston had given himself a hundred-yard lead, but further progress was prevented by a solid line of cars that were waiting at temporary traffic lights to be funnelled through a single lane contraflow around a massive excavation in the road. Traffic could only move in one direction at any given time, and right now a stream of cars was spewing out of the contraflow towards the BMW.
“I never thought I’d be pleased to see a traffic jam,” Bull observed.
“We’ve got you now, you bastard,” Dillon growled.
Unfortunately, Winston wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. Without hesitation, he drove onto the pavement and continued for another fifty yards, scattering pedestrians like tenpins. Steve Bull followed, but much slower. “He’s bailing out,” Bull shouted, automatically unclipping his seatbelt in readiness to follow suit.
Before the BMW came to a complete stop, the driver’s door flew open and Winston clambered out. With a harried glance back in the direction of his pursuers, he abandoned the car, which was still rolling, and began to run up the steps leading into Liverpool Street station’s main concourse. The Omega screeched to a halt beside the abandoned BMW. “If we lose him in there, boys, he’ll be gone for good,” Dillon said, his voice filled with urgency.
The three detectives sprung out of the Omega as one, just in time to catch a last fleeting glimpse of Claude Winston’s giant bulk as he disappeared into the station.
“Don’t take any chances, you two. Remember, he’s got a gun and he likes shooting policemen,” Jack warned them as they sprinted up the steps after him.
CHAPTER 13
All three detectives were acutely aware of how vulnerable they were as they entered the station. Jack paused in the foyer to scan the massive concourse below, his mind in overdrive as he tried to cobble together a cohesive plan of attack.
Below, the concourse’s perimeter was littered with various shops and eateries including WH Smith, Tie Rack, and the Upper Crust bakery. Winston could have ducked into any of them. He could also be hiding in the photo booth that stood next to a small cluster of ATMs. Jack scanned a long line of main platforms spanning virtually the entire length of the concourse. These all had ticket collectors stationed at the entrances, and Jack doubted Winston could have got in there unchallenged. At the other end of the concourse, a wide metal staircase ascended to street level. If Winston could reach that, or the London Underground entrance located at its base, he would have a very good chance of evading capture. There were probably other exits, too, that he couldn’t see from where he was standing.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the concourse was still relatively busy, with plenty of people milling around.
Winston was nowhere to be seen.
“Where the hell has he gone?” Jack demanded.
“Dunno,” Dillon said, his eyes darting in every direction.
“Should we split up?” Bull asked.
“No, we stay together,” Jack replied without hesitation. Under the circumstances, he felt there was greater safety in numbers. As he spoke, Steve tugged sharply at his sleeve and pointed off to their right, towards a small scattering of shops on the upper level. “I think I just caught a glimpse of him over there,” he said, breathlessly.
Jack scanned the area Steve had just indicated, but there was no sign of their quarry. He now had to make a very difficult choice: hold his current position on the high ground, where he had a good all-round view, or check out the possible that Steve had put up? Nodding for his colleagues to follow him, he set off at a brisk pace. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he warned.
A garbled announcement over the public speaker system advised stragglers that the next Stansted Express was about to depart from platform seven. Down below, people started moving in that direction.
“Are you sure you saw him, Stevie?” Dillon asked, studying the people heading for platform seven in case Winston was among them.
“I think so,” Bull replied, but there was an element of doubt in his voice now. Suddenly, no more than ten yards ahead of them, Winston’s great bulk emerged from behind a pillar. He had his back towards them and was heading for the far staircase, which led down to the concourse below. Jack signalled for Dillon and Steve to fan out, so they could take him in a pincer movement.
As he reached Ponti’s restaurant, three males emerged, blocking Jack’s path. All had dirty, braided hair, CND badges, and identical Green Peace T-shirts. One had a stack of protest posters crammed under his arm. They reeked of alcohol. “Excuse me, lads,” he said, as he tried to squeeze past them.
Dillon was less polite. “Move it,” he demanded, manhandling their leader out of the way.
As the detectives continued along the upper landing, one of the Soapy types called out, “Fascist pig! That was police brutality!” His comrades slapped him on the back and cheered his stand against the government bullyboys. Winston must have heard this because he immediately broke into a run.
“Shit!” Jack growled, following suit.
As he reached the staircase, Winston cannoned into a drunk coming the other way. The inebriated man staggered backwards, reeling from the impact. His half-eaten cheeseburger fell to the floor; his milkshake exploded over his chest. With a vicious snarl, Winston shoved hi
m aside and descended the stairs towards the main concourse.
“He’s heading towards the underground system,” Tyler shouted.
The drunk was ineffectually dabbing his shirt with a napkin as they filed past him.
As Tyler descended the steps, he tried not to contemplate the consequences of Winston opening fire inside the station.
