by R J Holligan
The chatter died down. “Right, I know some of you are in the loop and some of you have been snatched out of bed, so I'll assume you know nothing,” said the Boss. “At about 3.40 this morning there was a shooting at the Waitrose carpark. Josh Waldron was shot in the legs with a sawn off at point blank range. He's going to make it but walk a bit gimpy in future. The shooter we suspect is Patrick Marber. As far as ROCU can establish he's now heading up the Crayfish operations. They've been pushing out from the city suburbs into our patch and come into W1 territory. It seems that this was some sort of meeting to sort things out which went pear shaped. ROCU have got all their undercover units out and we've got our two-Armed Response Units out after Marber. Uniform's job is too showing the flag make a high visibility presence on the cross-border areas. Midlands Police will be
doing the same and we're co-ordinating. Obviously Marber's considered armed and dangerous. If you get a scoobie at him then call it in, no heroics. It's thought he's
in company with Lee Atkins, his enforcer who usually does the dirty work with a bat or a sawn off. Same guidance applies to him. Okay folks stay safe and keep em ‘peeled.”
The room emptied as they all traipsed to their respectful cars. “A nice ride in the country for us, said Bozza slotting his travel mug into the centre console. It had the legend 'ShitMagnet' emblazoned on it and from Quayle's experience so far it was a talisman of truth. They drove out of the gates and hit the backstreets of the town for a trawl of the residential car parks, garages and cul de sacs that were the favourite spots for dumping cars. These were usually cars that had been stolen in car key burglaries. The thieves stole them and then parked them up somewhere discreet for a day or so to make sure the vehicle was not being tracked by an onboard tracker. Nil points so they headed for a layby where they could discreetly park and observe passing traffic. “Marber and Atkins will be savvy to ANPR so they won't use the A roads or motorway,” said Bozza.
Quayle sat up in the seat trying to lo vigilant and alert. Behind the facade his head was spinning. Only last night he'd been reading up on who might be Court's daughter and her links to the Crayfish gang.
“What a fucking stupid name for a gang,” said Bozza as he surveyed at the passing traffic. “Yeah then again lo at Birmingham with the Johnson Crew and The Burger Bar Boys, not exactly awe inspiring,” said Quayle.
Bozza smirked and carried on tapping the steering wheel. “They're still serious dudes with Uzis and Mach 10s,” said Bozza.
“True, our yokel are still using sawn-offs,” said Quayle. Detecting Bozza was one of his peaks he realised he needed to keep the conversation going, even when he'd rather be ruminating on other things.
“Yes, but you shouldn't knock our Crayfish boys. Those sub-machine guns pump out the rounds, but you need to have a good grip on them, or they ride up and shoot high. Whereas your sawn-off will definitely do the job.”
Quayle nodded in agreement. “Why don't you stick your civvy coat on and get us some coffee?” said Bozza brandishing a tenner. “Consider it done, “said Quayle slipping on an overlarge trench coat that hid the bulk of his body armour and belt kit. It wasn't exactly covert, but it protected him from casual snooping. The village had a Co-op with a coffee machine. Stuffing the tenner in a pocket he walked down the street - he was glad to be out of the car.
Thankfully there was no-one else in the shop apart from the woman behind the counter. The machine slooshed and steamed away. After it had finished working its magic, he tothe two coffees to the counter and realised he had no idea where the tenner was. He made a thorough search of all his various pockets, spilling a handcuff key on the floor in the process. After retrieving the key, he put his hand in the left hand inside pocket of his stab vest and in it was the burner phone that Jay had sold him. He'd not turned it on since the previous day and now seemed as good a time as any. Underneath it was the tenner which he used to pay with and then picking up the coffees made his way to a nearby bin. Putting the coffees down he loooked at the phone. The text icon was flashing, he opened it. “Hi, just to confirm those guys were SB. Also Lomax had no trace on custody systems and the log was clear of his ever being in the Suite. We should meet to discuss. C x Ps you owe me a coffee.
Switching the phone off, he put it back in his stab vest and went back to the car. After shift he'd text her back and arrange a rendezvous. What she'd mostly done, is confirm that Lomax was either up to his neck in something, had protection from on high – or both.
In his excitement to check the other names Quayle hadn't run a search on Palfreyman himself. Another job to add to the list.
His musings were interrupted by a point to point call from Bozza. “Where did you go for the coffee, Ethiopia? Get back here asap, we've got a bloke trapped in his house to deal with.”
Bozza hit the blues and twos as Quayle stowed the coffees. As there was technically a risk to life and the call was graded as an immediate, it meant they could go at full tilt. The car hit 120mph as they screamed down the dual carriageway. Bozza had been itching for some form of action. Quayle too was happy they'd been taken off traffic watch.
Ten minutes later they were pulling up in front of a row of council houses. The ambulance was already pulled up in front of the house and Bozza slotted the car in behind. A couple of people were standing with the ambulance crew. Luckily as it was a midweek morning, most people were at school or work, so they were bereft of the usual rubberneckers. “Off you go chummy,” said Bozza. Quayle got out and established what was going on with the ambulance crew.
A man in greasy overalls came over. “I'm the neighbour, I phoned it in. He's in his seventies, I heard him calling out, he's fallen in the bath,” Quayle to a few notes down. “Okay thanks for that. Does anyone have spare keys.?” The man looked around. “No, but I've got a mate who's a locksmith on the way. He seems to think we'll be able to get in through the back-patio door,” Quayle liked the sound of this. “Okay well we'll sit tight and wait for him. If he's not in immediate danger there's no need for us to go bashing our way in,” said Quayle.
Trying to lo proactive, Quayle to a walk around the house's side and rear. It was a semi-detached council house from the interwar years. Solidly built and with decent gardens to the rear. Having worked for a social housing group amongst many other roles Quayle knew that most council and social housing tenants were honest and decent people. Lazy stereotypes and tropes made them easy fodder for the tabloid press. The worst places he'd been into were private rentals where slum landlords crushed people together in substandard homes with poor heating and ventilation. This place looked solid enough. The front door was solid, the backdoor would go in with an enforcer or 'Big Red Key' which of course they hadn't got. To the rear were UPVC doors facing onto the garden. The favourite entry point of the modern-day burglar. Their favourite trick was to drill out the locks. Quayle chuckled to himself as he realised, he had assumed the role of a burglar.
He walked back to the man who was now waving to another person who'd pulled up in a van. “Here's the cavalry,” said the man who had put the original call in. A few minutes later a council of war had decided that going in through the patio doors was the best option. Bozza had extracted himself from the car to watch.
“Lo the other way chaps, this is a bit naughty,” said the locksmith. The drill chewed through the lock and he knocked out the cylinder. Quayle beckoned to the ambulance crew. They would make an assessment and go from there. As Quayle had quickly discovered, policing might have dramatic moments, but there was much more standing around waiting for things to happen. Which was why he had spent nearly two hundred quid on Lowa boots with the high ankles. You could literally lean back and let them hold you up like a puppet on strings.
The paramedic came downstairs looking happyish. “He's trapped in the bath, but lucid and no visible injuries. He's a big fellow though and it's a tiny bathroom and the stairs are tight. I think we're going to have to get a tarp under him and manhandle him out.”
Needing n
o prompting, his colleague went to get the appropriate gear. A few minutes later the two ambulancemen, Bozza and Quayle had a corner of the sheet each, and had levered the man out of the bath, struggled around a tight corner and slid him down the stairs onto a waiting trolley. The man was crying and thankful to all of them. He shook their hands as they rolled him into the ambulance. Quayle had to nip back to the house and get the man's glasses.
With that they departed to the hospital. Bozza and Quayle both stood there watching and glad to be in the fresh air. “You know it's something like this that actually makes the job worth doing,” said Quayle. “Amen to that,” said Bozza.
Back at the station there was also good news. Whilst having refs, the Boss came in. “Alright guys, you heard the news?” Bozza was stirring his coffee and looked up, “No boss, heard nothing on the net,” The Boss helped himself to a cake. “Marber and Atkins have been traced to a flat in the city by our SOCU units. The Central armed boys are going to take them down tonight. So Op Falcon is off, and you can stand down.” he said, disappearing off into the corridor. Needing no prompting they de-kitted the car and signed off the radio net.
Chapter 11
Quayle got home and hit the bath. While showers were fine for freshening up or sluicing off the Eua Da police car off, he preferred a good soak. As he wallowed amongst the bubbles, he realised he might have missed the obvious by searching intelligence databases and not the more obvious (suggest ‘usual’ instead of ‘obvious’ sites like the Voter's Register. If these guys had gone undercover, they would have needed a 'legend'. Actually trying to appear on the grid instead of keeping off it.
Moving on his Archimedes type inspiration, he got out of the bath, put on a robe and logged onto the Chimera laptop. Trying his new theory, he opened the Voter's Register which also linked to the Register of Births Marriages and Deaths.
His searches for Jeffrey Palfreyman came up with nothing. He typed in James Sidwell. It was a fairly rare name and there were only a couple of hundred entries. Narrowing the geographical parameters, he got this down to about six. Then he narrowed it to births and deaths. “Bingo,” he said reading an entry Sidwell James, born 13/04.1972, Cromford General Hospital, Died from Rubella, 8/7.1972. Quayle hit the print button. Then started a new search for Robert Tallis.
A few clicks on the same path as for Sidwell, he realised he'd hit pay dirt. Half an hour later he had established that all four names had been in the early seventies and all died before the age of 1. All of rubella. They were all noted as being buried in the Municipal Cemetery. Feeling his back ache from leaning over the laptop, he decided he'd take a walk down to the cemetery and see what he could find. There were no plot numbers. Putting on his coat, he sent Colleen a text to see if she was free to meet at Coffee2Go, the all-night coffee shop at the bus station which was near the graveyard.
Dusk was beginning to fall as he walked into the cemetery from the main roads. Since this whole situation had started off, he had felt insecure and paranoid. Which is why he had s taken a circuitous route on a couple of buses. And which was why his baton was in his coat pocket. It was a spare he'd looted from a locker, its owner who was on long-term sick leave had left their locker open. Carrying it was totally illegal off duty, but Quayle knew he was no street fighter. Anything that evened up the odds was fine by him.
Snapping on his mini Maglite he walked to the 'poor' side of the graveyard. While civic luminaries and the well shared death in ostentatious mausoleums festooned with columns and stone angels, the less well-off were crammed into the outer corners. Finally the serried rows of headstones gave way to an area of scrubby, unkempt grass. A few headstones were laid flat on their backs. The wet grass had now soaked through his trainers and he was just about to give up when a noise caught his ears. It was the breeze blowing through a child’s windmill. Swinging his torch he saw the source of the noise. A couple of square metres had been trimmed away and a low white memorial stone stood surrounded by small teddy bears and a milk bottle which had held a candle.
Quayle squatted down and pushed the grass to one side to reveal a brass plaque Dedicated to all the forgotten orphan infants who died at Cromford Hospital of disease and were buried in this vicinity with no marked graves. Among the name on the plaque were the four names on his list. A rustle caused Quayle to swivel around. A trainer kicked him in the face and his torch went spinning into the grass.
“Give us your fucking wallet now,” said a teen voice trying to sound threatening. Grabbing the attacker's leg he pulled him to the floor. Quayle got to his feet and grabbed for the torch, but his attacker was back up fast, “Motherfucker, I'm gonna slash ya,” said the man.
Torchlight glinted off a blade and he came forward slashing. Putting up his right arm Quayle deflected the blow with his right arm and stepped back. He needed to create distance. Quayle had found his baton and snicked it, the ball bearings extending it as he held it concealed down the back of his leg. His attacker came back towards him with the knife high, ready to strike. Which suited Quayle simply fine.
The swing came in and the attacker had his balance on the front foot with his knife hand fully extended as Quayle stepped back and smashed the 21-inch steel bar of his baton across the knifeman's wrist. It snapped like a twig and the hand fell into an unnatural bend while the knife disappeared into the grass. Following up, Quayle swept the baton into the back of the now screaming guy's knees. Lying immobile in the grass the knifeman's fight was over. But Quayle wasn’t booting the man in the stomach and face like a footballer taking a penalty. Out of breath he leant down and picked up the knife.
“Kids like you shouldn’t play with knives,” he said grabbing the prone man and twisting his head sticking his thumb on a pressure point, making the teenager scream “You might get hurt,” he said slicing the bottom lobe off his left ear.
Pushing the baton across the knifeman’s throat with one hand, he took out his phone with the other and snapped a picture of the bleeding man’s face.
“I'll know who you are if I ever see you again, I'll finish the job,” he said dropping the man and pocketing the knife. With that he jogged out of the graveyard across the road and into the men's toilets at the bus station. Locking himself into a cubicle he sat shaking as the adrenaline seeped away. He hadn't known he was capable of such violence. As his heart rate receded, he pulled out the burner phone and dialled 999 to get an ambulance for the man he'd taken apart. Leaving the cubicle he to a lo in the mirror. He was a mess. There were leaves and twigs in his hair and the right sleeve of his coat had been slashed. Luckily the blade hadn't bren the skin. Washing his face and hands he tidied himself up as best he could.
He was glad he had chosen Coffee2Go, he fitted in looking like this. The all-night joint was the hangout for bus drivers coming and going off shift, but also a favourite for the homeless to get out of the cold and damp. Tony who ran it was happy to tolerate them making a coffee last two hours. In return they repaid his favour by not stealing or doing drugs in the toilets. In fact when some chancer had tried to rob the place a homeless man had knocked him out with a well thrown salt cruet. The décor might be 70s but the coffee was pretty good.
Coleen was already there looking like a rose amongst the thorns.
“Hello, have you been out dogging again?” she said with a smile long him up and down. His reply was drowned out by the wail of an ambulance as it arrived across the road. The cafe emptied as the customers went for a rubberneck.
“Something to do with you?” she said.
“You should see the other guy,” he said without a trace of irony.
“So you pick this dump and come dressed like that to our first date,” said Colleen with an ironic smile.
More blue lights lit up the night as the first uniform units arrived. Within a few minutes a cordon would be up and they would fan out looking for witnesses.
“We need to make ourselves scarce,” said Quayle. Colleen’s face dropped into a silent ‘Oh’
“You, were in
volved?” Quayle looked around to make sure no-one overheard but all eyes were on the drama unfolding on the street outside.
“Some kid jumped me, so I filled him in,” he said brusquely. Lo, let’s get on the X10 and I’ll tell you more.”
Still in shock she let him take her hand and lead her outside and onto a waiting bus. Quayle had donned a beanie and put his coat collar up as they got onboard, and he paid cash for two Rider tickets. The X10 made a circuitous lap of the town, giving them time. town. The bus was empty save for one teenager listening to rap on his phone, the aggressive lyrics blasting down the bus.
“So what’s all with the cloak and dagger stuff,” asked Colleen. “Lo Colleen, I’m deep into some serious shit, if I tell you what’s up, I’m putting not just your career at risk, I might be putting your life at risk. So if you’re concerned get off at the next stop and you can pretend this never happened. I’ll take you somewhere with candles and great food and we can start over again,” he said earnestly.
