“Ironic really as he can’t swim,” Cam laughed.
“Shut up, OFD,” the Colonel said, and looked at Jane. “In case you’re wondering, OFD means ‘only the fucking driver,’ and he’s only a temporary DC.”
“I like to think of myself as a shit-hot taxi driver without whom they’d get nowhere,” Cam replied, as he went the wrong way around a roundabout to turn right.
Kingston smiled. “As much as we all hate to admit it, Constable Cameron Murray is the best Class 1 driver in the Met. He even souped up this car’s engine himself so it outperforms every other Flying Squad vehicle.”
Jane could sense the mutual bond of respect and camaraderie among the officers and felt a bit of an outsider. She instinctively knew that she would have to prove herself a capable detective if she wanted to become part of the team.
“What should I do when we get there?” she asked, wanting to show her enthusiasm.
“Stay in the car with Cam,” Kingston and the Colonel said in unison.
“Central 888 from MP, receiving, over?” the same male voice from the Met’s control room asked over the radio.
“888 receiving,” Kingston replied.
“A Securicor van has pulled up at the bank and three men dressed in blue coveralls, donkey jackets and masks have just left the vehicle.”
“They’re going to rob the van, not the bank,” Kingston said calmly. “We’re about two minutes away and approaching silent,” he replied.
Cam switched off the car’s siren.
The man with the sawn-off shotgun tapped the Securicor driver’s window with the barrel and rotated his finger, indicating to him to wind it down, which the driver quickly did. The man leaned into the van and pulled the key from the ignition, then spoke in a deep tone to disguise his natural voice.
“Keep your hands on the steering wheel. You so much as twitch towards the horn or alarm and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
The Securicor driver shook with fear as he nodded, and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
The man with the Luger was at the back of the van, pushing the barrel of the gun into the neck of the other Securicor guard, who was frozen to the spot. The unarmed robber grabbed the metal case with the money in it from the guard’s hand and pushed him down onto his knees. He leaned forward and whispered, so as not to alert the security guard in the back of the van.
“Tell him to put the other case in the chute.”
The guard’s voice trembled as he said, “There’s only the one.”
The robber shook his head. “Don’t lie, son. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t do exactly what I tell you.”
“Frank, George . . . What’s happening out there? Is everything all right?” the third guard shouted from inside the van.
The man with the Luger moved around and put the gun to the forehead of the kneeling guard.
“Last chance, son. Tell him to put the fucking case in the chute.”
The guard was unable to stop shaking and the fear in his voice was evident.
“Everything’s fine. You can send out the other case.”
Suddenly the van’s alarm went off, closely followed by the sound of a shotgun being fired once. The two robbers at the back of the van ran to the front and saw their colleague standing over a young man lying on the ground, clutching his stomach and crying out in pain. The robber with the shotgun was breathing heavily, causing a white foam of spittle to build up around the mouth hole of his balaclava.
“The fucking idiot tried to get the shotgun off me.”
The unarmed man raised his hand to shut his colleague up. The man with the Luger turned and headed back to the rear of the van, intent on getting the second cash box. The unarmed robber grabbed him by the arm, shook his head and pulled him toward the Cortina, which skidded to a halt beside the Securicor van.
“Central 888 from MP, receiving, over?”
“Go ahead 888, over,” Kingston replied.
“Sounds of gunshots heard outside the bank. Local uniform units requesting permission to move in.”
“ETA, Cam?” a concerned-looking Kingston asked.
Cam hit the accelerator. “A minute, tops, Guv.”
“MP from 888, local units can move in. Is India 99 in the air?” Kingston asked, referring to the police helicopter’s call sign.
“No, at present 99 is refueling, but should be airborne shortly.”
Kingston threw the radio mike against the dashboard.
“Fuck it. They’ll be well on their way before we get there!”
“Central 888, update from MP. Call received for an ambulance to Barclays Bank, Leytonstone . . . One man shot in stomach by an armed suspect.”
The Colonel punched the roof of the car.
“Bastards. If I get my hands on ’em I’ll fuckin’ kill ’em!”
As the two armed robbers jumped into the Cortina, the unarmed man put the Securicor cash box in a travel bag in the back of the vehicle and got in. The driver knew from experience the “Old Bill” would use the main streets, so he decided to take the back roads and drive within the speed limit. As he indicated right, to turn into Grove Road from the High Road, two uniformed officers in a marked Rover 3500 V8 police car came flying past in the opposite direction, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing. The unarmed man looked over his shoulder, out of the rear window, and saw the brake lights of the police car come on as it skidded to a sudden halt and started to do a U-turn.
“They’ve seen us—put your foot down and get us out of here,” he said calmly.
The driver pressed the accelerator hard and turned right across the path of an oncoming car, which swerved across the road and hit another vehicle head-on in the inside lane.
“This car’s not as powerful as theirs. Maybe we should take a side street down here and bail out while they can’t see us,” the man with the shotgun suggested.
As the driver approached the junction with Mornington Road, he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw the police car in the distance.
“That ain’t an option, they’re closing on us.”
He drove straight across the junction into Woodville Road without stopping. An oncoming car clipped the rear of the Cortina, knocking the bumper off and causing the car to judder and swerve erratically. The driver gripped the steering wheel hard to maintain control, but the Cortina sideswiped a parked car and careered across the road. Left with no alternative, the driver hit the brakes hard and skidded across the road, toward another parked car. The four men lurched forward as the car came to an abrupt halt inches from another vehicle. The man with the Luger smashed his head on the front windscreen, causing a deep cut to his forehead, which began to bleed heavily through his stocking mask.
“Fuck dis for a game of soldiers,” he said in a broad Irish accent, and got out of the car.
“Get back in or I’ll go without you!” the driver shouted.
He was ignored, so he leaned over and pulled the front passenger door closed, then reversed to straighten the car up and drive off.
“Stop!” the unarmed man snarled.
He grabbed the shotgun from his colleague’s lap and opened the car door.
“Central 888 from MP, receiving, over?”
Kingston picked up the radio mike. “We’re a mile away at the Langthorne Park end of the High Road and nearly on scene, MP.”
“Received . . . I’m linking you up with Juliet 1, who are in pursuit of suspect vehicle Sierra Lima Mike 273 Romeo,” the radio operator replied.
“Listen up for their location, Colonel, and find it in the A–Z,” said Cam.
The calm voice of the PC in Juliet 1 came over the radio. “Suspect vehicle has turned right into Grove Road . . . heading towards junction with Mornington Road.”
“Got it. Cam,” the Colonel said, “Grove Road is the next right after Aylmer Road. Your best bet to catch up is a right into Lister Road, which leads into Mornington Road. I’ll tell you when Lister is comi
ng up. Thanks, mate.”
Cam was now swerving in and out of the inside lane to the offside lane to overtake other vehicles. Jane was clutching the back of the driver’s seat with one hand and the door pull with the other, to stop herself from being flung about the back seat. Although the speed and manner of Cam’s driving scared her, the adrenaline rush to her body was strangely stimulating. She felt excited to be involved in the apprehension of four armed robbers on her first day with the Flying Squad.
The radio operator on Juliet 1 came back on the radio, the pitch of his voice becoming slightly higher as the pursuit progressed.
“Suspect vehicle accelerating. Forty . . . forty-five . . . fifty miles per hour. Jesus Christ, he’s gone straight across the junction without stopping.” There was a brief pause before the officer continued, “Suspect vehicle has been hit by another car and now stopped in Woodville Road.”
“We’re gonna get the bastards. Next right, Cam,” the Colonel said, and Cam turned into Lister Road.
“They’re probably about to bail out and do a runner,” Kingston surmised.
“They won’t get far if Teflon’s after them—he’s quicker than Allan Wells,” Cam replied, referring to the British and Commonwealth sprint champion.
“All units from Juliet 1 . . . a suspect is decamping from the front passenger seat toward the rear of the vehicle.”
“Lima 1 under attack: suspect armed and firing at us!”
The distress in his voice was obvious to everyone listening in. The sound of gunfire could be heard over the radio, as well as the impact thud of the bullet.
“I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!” the radio operator cried out.
Next there was the sound of a loud bang, followed by screeching tires, then a sickening crunch of metal and breaking glass before the radio went dead. It was clear the police vehicle had come to an abrupt halt after a serious crash.
“That sounded like a shotgun going off,” Cam remarked, and the Colonel nodded.
“Let’s hope they’re both alive.” Kingston replied, but he feared the worst.
Chapter Two
Jane and her colleagues sat in silence as they waited anxiously to hear from the crew of Juliet 1.
“MP to Juliet 1, receiving, over?” the operator asked repeatedly, but there was no reply.
“Central 888 from 887, receiving—?”
Stanley’s voice came over the radio from the squad car behind them.
“Go ahead, Stanley,” Kingston replied.
“We’re going to head off to Bushwood Road, which runs along Wanstead Flats. All the back streets around Woodville Road lead to Bushwood so we might pick them up if they’re on foot or still in the Cortina.”
“Good thinking, Stanley. We’ll go to Woodville to see what’s happened to Juliet 1 and let you know if the suspect car’s been abandoned.”
“Central 888 and 887 from MP . . . Uniform patrol vehicles are also searching the area. Foot patrol officers are holding the scene at Barclays Bank and identifying witnesses. Two ambulances have been called there—one for an off-duty officer who was shot in the stomach and the other for three members of the public involved in a two-vehicle RTA during the incident.”
“How bad is the officer’s injury?” a concerned Kingston asked MP.
“We don’t have any current information on his condition. An ambulance has also been called to Woodville Road for the Juliet 1 officers as they’re not responding.”
“We’re nearly on scene, MP, and will give you a situation update on arrival,” Kingston said as Cam stopped the car just short of Woodville Road.
“Lie flat on the back seat, Tennison,” Kingston said as he and the Colonel withdrew their revolvers and got out of the vehicle.
“Are you going with them, Cam?” she asked, wondering if she was going to be left on her own.
“Like they said, I’m only the fucking driver—and apart from that I’m not firearms trained, so I’m happy to let them do the cops and robbers stuff.”
Jane couldn’t resist sitting up a bit to look out of the front windscreen. The rain had stopped, and she watched as the two officers crouched down behind a parked car at the corner of Woodville Road. The Colonel stood up, his gun raised, and, using the parked cars as cover, started to move down the road in a crouched position. Jane lost sight of them but was relieved there was no sound of gunfire. Cam picked up the radio and informed MP that two armed officers from Central 888 were now on foot in Woodville Road.
Within a few seconds the Colonel reappeared, took off his cap and waved it to signal the area was safe. As Cam drove into Woodville Road Jane noticed that the Colonel was totally bald, which surprised her for his age.
Cam pointed down the left side of the street.
“Bloody hell, Juliet 1 has crashed into the front of that house.”
Jane could see a plume of steam rising from the badly damaged police vehicle. Its sirens had stopped, but the blue light on top was still flashing and the front half of the vehicle was covered in brick and rubble from the bay window of the Victorian terraced house it had crashed into. A small elderly man was attempting to lift the unconscious driver out of the car but having difficulty. Kingston was by the front passenger door, trying to pull it open and get to the injured officer.
“Bring the crowbar from the motor, Cam!” he shouted.
Cam jumped out of the car. “I’m on it, Guv!” he shouted back, and ran to the boot of the car.
It was the first time Jane had got a proper look at Cam, who had a badly pockmarked face and receding dark brown hair. As he ran across the road to Kingston with the crowbar and a first aid box, the Colonel opened the passenger door and picked up the radio mike.
“Central 888 to MP. We are on scene in Woodville. Suspects have left in the Cortina and Juliet 1 has crashed into a house—the crew are injured and we’re attempting to extract them from the vehicle. Do you have an ETA for the ambulance?”
“About two minutes,” MP replied.
Jane got out of the car and surveyed the scene.
“Juliet 1 must have hit the bay window at high speed to cause that much damage.”
“No shit, Treacle,” the Colonel replied.
“I’d prefer ‘no shit, Sergeant,’ Detective Constable Gorman,” Jane said lightly, to remind him of her rank and knowing “treacle tart” was cockney rhyming slang for “sweetheart.”
“There’s a woman with a baby sitting on a wall over there.” He pointed across the road near the crash site, but Jane couldn’t see her due to a parked car. “She looks pretty distressed and might have seen what happened. It would be helpful if you could have a chat with her . . . Sergeant,” he said pointedly, then ran across the road to assist Kingston and Cam.
Jane was frustrated by the fact that even seven years on from integration, many male officers still thought their female colleagues should only deal with women and children. She didn’t like the Colonel’s attitude but didn’t feel it was the time or place to challenge him about it. She was glad that DS Stanley was an old acquaintance as he would be able to tell her more about the officers on the squad, especially as the few she’d met so far seemed rude and intimidating.
By now uniform assistance had arrived. Jane instructed some officers to tape off both ends of Woodville Road and ask the people, who had come out of their houses and gathered on the street, if they had seen the incident and to obtain their names and addresses if they had. One resident, whose car was hit by the speeding Cortina, was arguing about who was going to pay for the damage and insisting the police should. A uniformed officer told him politely that he’d have to claim on his own insurance, which upset the man even more.
The uniformed driver was out of the crashed vehicle and being given first aid by the small elderly man, who it transpired was the owner of the damaged house. The officer had a bad cut to his head and scratches to his face caused by flying brickwork and glass that had smashed through part of the windscreen when the car crashed. His injury was bleeding
heavily, but he was conscious and reasonably coherent. The Colonel introduced himself to the officer and told him an ambulance was on its way.
The PC looked worried. “My operator Gary was shot—is he OK?”
“I’ll be straight with you, mate, I don’t know yet. My governor and driver are trying to get him out of the car. As soon as I know, I’ll let you know, OK?”
The driver nodded. “Did the bastards get away?”
“Don’t worry about them—they won’t get far.”
The officer looked upset. “I tried to run the gunman down, but I missed.”
“You did a good job. Your motor’s a write-off so the Commissioner might be pissed off with you,” the Colonel joked.
The officer smiled. “You Sweeney lot are full of bullshit.”
The Colonel patted the officer’s shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear—a woodentop who respects us detectives. If you don’t mind, I think your mate needs me more than you do.”
Kingston and Cam tried in vain to jimmy open the front passenger door of the police car, but it was badly buckled from the crash and wouldn’t budge. There was structural damage to the building, and bricks and debris were still falling, so they had to get the officer out quickly rather than call the fire brigade to cut him out. Cam went inside the vehicle and held his jacket up against the passenger door window while Kingston smashed and cleared the glass away with the crowbar. They were then able to lift the officer, who was still unconscious, through the window, away from the car and damaged house.
“How is he?” the Colonel asked Kingston.
“His breathing is shallow and rasping—he might have damaged his ribs when the crash occurred. I can’t see any bullet holes in him, but he’s got a deep narrow wound to the right side of his head, which could be from a bullet.”
“The ambulance should be here soon.”
“Where’s Tennison?”
“Speaking to a woman who might be a witness. She got the right hump when I just called her ‘treacle.’ ”
Kingston laughed. “Well, that’s her nickname sorted then.”
The driver of the Cortina approached the estate within the speed limit and pulled up at the far end of a row of garages, where they couldn’t be seen through any residents’ windows. The man who’d fired the shotgun at the bank was looking over his shoulder out of the rear window.
The Dirty Dozen Page 2
