‘They’re on their way,’ he told Cheek.
‘Good. You need to get down with Merriweather. We’ll watch the back and front doors.’
Malik nodded and headed down the hallway in the gloom to the office where he’d spent the last three hours, Cheek following.
Merriweather was in the chair where he’d been sitting all afternoon. He’d lit a cigarette and was still swigging from the can. He didn’t appear too concerned. Harold stood next to him, his gun also drawn.
‘What’s happening then, Asif?’ Merriweather asked, trying to sound casually cheery, but not quite achieving it. ‘We got trouble or something?’
‘You could say that,’ said Malik.
‘All right, Merriweather,’ said Cheek, ‘put the fag out. Now. And get on the floor. Dan, you watch the back door, I’ll watch the front. Everyone turn their mobiles off. I want it to sound like we’re not here. All right?’
Merriweather reluctantly put out his smoke and sat down heavily on the floor. Malik crouched down next to him, and the other two left the room. Now it was simply a matter of waiting.
‘How the fuck did they find out where we were?’ demanded Merriweather. ‘Can’t you lot do anything right? I thought it was meant to be a fucking secret.’
‘Keep your voice down, Jack. Please.’
The two of them fell silent. Malik reached down and switched off his mobile, wondering what his wife was doing even as he crouched there on the floor of a darkened, silent house, his mouth as dry as a bone as he silently prayed for help to arrive. Probably preparing the dinner or putting the children to bed. Perhaps even reading them a story. The thought comforted him somehow. He looked at his watch. And waited.
A minute became two, then three. Time passed slowly. He could hear Merriweather’s heavy breathing.
‘I can’t believe you’ve fucked up again,’ hissed the other man eventually.
‘Shut up, Jack.’
He looked at his watch again, wondering how long it was going to take the ARVs to get up from Crawley. Fifteen minutes probably, even going at breakneck pace. However, their sirens would startle any would-be assassins before then, so time was probably on their side. But it still felt like a long wait.
There was a noise outside the window. A shuffling. Muffled voices. He tensed in the darkness. So did Merriweather, his eyes widening. They were here.
Then the noise was gone, and the dead silence returned, broken only by the faint hiss of traffic in the distance.
‘They’ll jimmy the door,’ said Merriweather quietly, an ominous tone in his voice.
48
I saw him standing in the middle of the playing fields, in the shadow of an impressive beech tree, about fifty yards away, his back to me. He was staring straight ahead, facing the school. Several lights burned in the clutch of two- and three-storey buildings in the distance. Beside me by the gate at the playing fields entrance stood DCI Woodham and two uniformed coppers.
‘Let me go and speak to him first,’ I said. ‘I think we might startle him if he hears us all coming, and I don’t much fancy a chase round here.’
Woodham nodded. ‘All right,’ he answered, probably feeling charitable towards me on the basis that my partner (work, to him) had been so recently injured, ‘but I don’t want to lose him, John. Make sure you bring him back here, and if he starts running, you’re in shit.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, and started walking.
Stegs heard me when I was about ten yards behind him, and turned round curiously, but without fear. He was smoking a cigarette, and was about halfway down to the butt. ‘Hello, John,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you lot’d turn up.’
I stopped beside him and he turned back towards the school. We stood there watching it together for a few moments.
‘We’ve got to bring you in, Stegs. We’ve got a warrant for your arrest.’
Stegs didn’t seem to hear me. ‘Five years I spent in this place,’ he said, dragging hard on his cigarette. ‘And the whole time I couldn’t wait to leave. But do you know what? They were the best years of my life. No worries, no fears, no people you trusted fucking you up behind your back. No broken marriages. Just having a laugh with your mates, bunking off, trying to get laid.’ He managed a weak smile. ‘They were the best years of my life, and I never fucking knew it.’
‘I’ve got to take you in, Stegs. We’ll talk down the station.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he continued, still not looking at me. ‘You’re thinking I was involved in the Heathrow robbery, but I wasn’t. I did everything by the book, and that’s a promise. Vokes was the one, John. It was him, I swear it. I loved that bloke, you know. He was like a brother to me. We were joined at the fucking hip. We watched each other’s backs on ops that would have had most men shitting themselves in fear. But all the time the bastard was bent, and I never knew it. He hid behind this Christian front, made out he was one of the good guys, but all the time I knew him, all those years, he was on the make. Did you know he was working for the Holtzes? Had been for years. Did you know that?’
‘If we’d known it, he wouldn’t have still been a serving copper.’
‘There was a bloke I sometimes used to work with in SO10, a bloke called Jeff Benson. He was good, fucking good. He got into the Holtzes, was getting close to pulling in some real evidence against them, particularly Neil Vamen. He told me about it . . . stupid of him really. Because then one night I went out with Vokes and I’d had a few drinks, which has always been my fucking downfall, and I let slip about it. I didn’t even mention him by name, but Vokes had enough info to warn the Holtzes, and they put the frighteners on Benson and scuppered the whole op.’
Stegs sighed and stubbed out the cigarette, immediately lighting another one. I let him do it, making no move to take him back to Woodham and the others. Although none of it was admissible in court, I wanted to hear what he had to say, particularly as he was so talkative. He sounded slightly pissed. Not badly so, but there was definitely an edge to his voice.
‘Benson blamed you, didn’t he?’
Stegs nodded. ‘Yeah. At the time I couldn’t understand it, I thought he was being too paranoid, but I suppose he thought only a couple of people in the world knew about it, and I was the likeliest one to have opened my mouth. It didn’t occur to me that Vokes could have been the source of the leak. I trusted him so I didn’t suspect him. First rule of life, John: trust no-one. It’s not fucking worth it.’ He waved the cigarette in my direction, trying to emphasize his point, and I saw that he was unsteady on his feet.
It occurred to me too that we wouldn’t be able to interview him in this state, and he might be a lot less talkative once he’d sobered up. ‘When did you find out about Vokes?’ I asked him.
‘It was after we did the sting on O’Brien, the one you and Boyd set up. If you remember, he wasn’t involved in the first part when we caught O’Brien redhanded.’ I remembered. Vokes had been unavailable. ‘But he came in for the next stage, the setting up of the sting on Fellano.’
‘That’s right.’
‘When he came in the room and first met O’Brien, I saw straight away that O’Brien recognized him. I don’t think Vokes recognized him back – in fact, I’m sure he didn’t – but O’Brien must have seen him with someone else from the Holtzes before. He didn’t say anything, but that didn’t matter. I saw the look, and I think that’s when I knew finally that the bastard was in with them. I should have known a long time back, but I never looked fucking hard enough, because I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.’ He sighed. ‘And do you know the worst part?’
‘What?’
‘He knew I knew. I’ve always been a good actor, you’ve got to be when you’re SO10, but my behaviour around him must have changed or something, because he knew that I was on to him. And the cunning bastard, that so-called Christian, he was going to set me up to die in that hotel room, just so he could make sure I kept my mouth shut. I’ve been thinking about the whole thing a lo
ng time, and I’ve worked it out. The idea of the robbery was to put Tyndall in the spotlight and fuck things up for him. Vokes used O’Brien to set it up, on behalf of Neil Vamen. O’Brien knew that Strangleman Grant, the one who got shot, would go for it because he was such a greedy, short-sighted prick.’
‘How do you know he was a greedy, short-sighted prick? You said at Heathrow that you’d never seen him before in your life.’
‘I’m theorizing, John. That’s all. Anyway, I was meant to be the one staying in that room while the robbery went down. Vokes knew the Colombians would kill me as soon as it happened down in the car park, but he was going to let it happen. Only thing was, it backfired. They wanted him to stay in the room, not me.’
‘Why was that?’
Stegs shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe they didn’t trust him either.’
‘So, you’re the innocent in all this, are you?’
Something about my question – probably the scepticism in it – made him look my way.
‘I’m not the best man in the world, John, as my missus’ll no doubt tell you. I can be an arsehole, and I can bend the rules, but I promise you this: I had nothing to do with the leak on the Heathrow op.’
I eyed him carefully. ‘I hope not, Stegs. I sincerely hope not. For your sake.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you? But you know Vokes was the one who was working for Vamen. And there are others, too. Try Detective Chief Superintendent Flanagan, for one.’
I put my hand up. ‘All right, Stegs, slow down. I know you’ve had problems with Flanagan in the past, but he is definitely not corrupt. He’s the head of SO7, for Christ’s sake.’
Stegs opened his mouth to say something but then he stopped and turned. So did I. Hurrying across the field in our direction were Woodham and the two uniforms. Even in the darkness I could see the grave expression on the DCI’s face. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt an ominous dread. Something serious had happened.
‘Stay where you are,’ I told Stegs, stepping forward and putting a hand on his arm.
49
DS Bill Cheek was forty-three years old. He’d been a copper all his working life, and as times had changed – more for the worse than the better – he, like many of the other older officers in the Met, was thinking about retirement and the hallowed pension. A life away from the stress of dealing with people who in any other walk of life you’d cross the street to avoid. He and the wife had talked about him quitting next year when his twenty-five years’ service came up. She wanted them to retire to France, somewhere in Brittany, where they’d spent so many of their holidays down the years. They’d never had kids so there was nothing to hold them back, and he had to admit, there was something about the idea. They could sell their three-bed semi in Norwood, buy a big place near the sea with land, and still have plenty of money left over.
And now, suddenly, her dream – his too, since effectively she’d won him over to it – was fading as the reality of his situation sunk in. He was crouched back against the hall wall, facing the door twelve feet away, both hands holding the standard-issue Browning in front of him, listening to the scraping of their feet as they came to the front door.
The door was made of wood and looked reasonably sturdy, but Cheek realized now that he’d made a mistake. In the mêlée and confusion, he hadn’t been able to find the key to double-lock it, and the chain was too flimsy to act as much of a substitute. If only he’d kept the bloody thing in the door. It was too late now, far too late, and he wondered if it was a mistake that was going to cost him his life. He’d never fired a gun in anger before, even though he’d been a trained firearms officer for close to fifteen years, and had no desire to change that state of affairs now. British police guidelines for opening fire were some of the strictest in the world. If he pulled the trigger, he would face literally hundreds of questions. If he hit anyone, he’d be the subject of a major, and possibly hostile, investigation. There could even be murder or attempted murder charges if he made the wrong decision. It was a bastard of a position to put a man in.
There was a crack as the wood on the door was forced. Cheek’s grip on the gun tightened. He tried to force all doubts and fears out of his head, and focus on the few feet of empty space in front of him. But it was hard. Harder than anything he’d ever had to do before. This was it: life or death.
A second, louder crack split the silence, and he heard the door give. His teeth clenched, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. But they shook anyway, as the fear dragged him deeper into the darkness. The moment of truth, the moment he wished to God he’d never have to face, and it was coming to him as swiftly and unexpectedly as a heart attack. And still he couldn’t fire, because he couldn’t see his targets, and could not tell for sure whether they were armed or not, even though they had to be, since why else would they be here?
Hold your fire. Pray you can pull the trigger. Pray you’ve got the strength. Pray they don’t fire first.
The door came open slowly, then stopped as the chain went taut. Silence. He thought he heard breathing.
Come on, if you’re coming. Come on.
Bang! It flew open like a shot, and then the shadowy figures were there, facing him down from the porch. His chest constricted painfully as he saw they had guns.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapons now!’
A stunningly loud burst of automatic gunfire erupted in the hallway as one of the figures opened fire. Cheek pulled the trigger, twice in rapid succession, but then his whole body seemed to burn up, and he felt himself being slammed against the wall as the bullets struck him.
The shooter with the automatic rifle had been hit by Cheek’s rounds and he stumbled backwards, still discharging his own weapon in a hail of fire and noise, the bullets tearing into the ceiling. He hit the ground, his magazine empty, and a second figure appeared in his place, opening up in Cheek’s direction with a pump-action shotgun.
Cheek lifted his gun arm and tried to squeeze the trigger again, experiencing a tangible and immediate feeling of pride that his training had come through, and that he’d responded appropriately to the armed criminal in front of him, but then the first deafening shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in his chest, and the second took off most of his face. He died within seconds, knowing that he was in the right, and that the PCA had nothing on him.
The assassin with the shotgun now came cautiously over the threshold, reloading as he did so, followed by another man armed with a .38 revolver.
From where they crouched at the other end of the L-shaped hallway, Malik and Merriweather could see the body of Cheek lying motionless amid the rising smoke. They’d both been deafened by the initial bursts of gunfire, and now realized their complete helplessness in the face of armed opposition.
‘Fuck,’ hissed Merriweather, crawling into a corner out of sight of the door. ‘Never trust a copper.’
Malik moved away to the other side of the door but he knew it was a futile exercise. From his hopelessly exposed position he watched, terrified, as a shotgun appeared round the corner, preceding the powerfully built man holding it. The gunman was dressed in a dark boiler suit and balaclava, giving him the appearance of a medieval executioner of the sort you see in history books. A study in menace.
He started down the corridor in their direction, not having seen them yet, and Malik offered up a silent prayer for salvation, trying desperately to think of a way out of this.
Then, from over the other side of the house, he heard a noise. The gunman turned round towards the lounge, and there was a shout of ‘Armed police!’, then the sound of shots being fired from a police gun. The shotgun barked angrily in return and the glass in the lounge door shattered. Several other shots also came from somewhere else.
Which was when Malik made a decision. The one with the shotgun had his back to him and was facing the lounge. He took a step forward and fired again, the blast ringing round the bungalow and completely muffling Malik’s footsteps as he got to his fe
et and ran straight at the gunman’s back.
He hit him full on, jumping up and wrapping his arms round the other man’s neck as he used all his momentum to send them both crashing through the lounge door. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the shadow of another gunman, but didn’t have time to react.
As they came into the lounge, with Malik still on the shotgun-wielding assassin’s back, he saw the figure of Dan Harold, gun in hand, behind the sofa. Harold fired another two shots towards the door, and the third gunman dived out of sight; then he pointed his weapon in the direction of Malik and the other gunman, who were struggling wildly in the middle of the floor, the shooter desperately trying to dislodge his limpet-like assailant.
The shotgun discharged into the fireplace and Malik let go of his opponent’s neck and dropped to the floor. The gunman then straightened up and swung round to shoot at Harold, which was when Harold pulled the trigger again, hitting him in the shoulder and chest and sending him crashing into one of the chairs. A lamp toppled over, followed by the gunman.
A second later, the third gunman reappeared in the lounge doorway. Harold hesitated for a moment, no doubt shocked by the fact that he’d just killed a man, then, realizing that it wasn’t over yet, swung round to fire again. But the gunman opened up first, cracking off three shots in quick succession. Harold yelped in pain as one of the bullets grazed his gun-shoulder, at the same time pulling the trigger himself. But he was off balance and the two shots he managed careered aimlessly into the ceiling. The Browning dropped from his hand and he fell back behind the sofa, clutching at his wounded shoulder.
The gunman swung round so he was facing Malik, weapon outstretched in both hands. Malik, still lying on the floor, could do nothing but look up at his would-be executioner, his eyes silently pleading for mercy.
The balaclava-clad gunman simply stared back at him through the near darkness, unmoved and unmoving, and Malik knew that this was it. The end. In the distance, he could make out the sound of sirens. Help was arriving, but it was going to be too late.
The Crime Trade Page 31
