by Ian Robinson
Nash nodded her appreciation. If nothing came back from forensics or a witness soon, she realised the prospects of holding Buchanan for longer without charge were falling away. Time would tell and she knew too well the clock was ticking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Turn that off, Jonesy, it’s doing my head in,’ Matthews said as he palmed the steering wheel of the BMW 3 Series to pass a stationary bus. Why he was the only person who could collect Jonesy was beyond him, but he’d agreed to come out to give himself a break from his screen.
Jonesy reached for the car radio and switched to another station.
‘I never got into the Beastie Boys,’ Matthews commented as Fight For Your Right subsided and Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn invaded the vehicle.
‘That’s because you’re a stiff,’ Jonesy retorted with a smirk, as he stared out the window at the passers-by scurrying in and out of shops like lemmings on speed.
‘Whoa, look at that lot,’ Jonesy remarked. He nodded in the direction of a trio of mopeds. All were being ridden two-up and moved as though they were the only ones on the road.
‘They’re gonna do a job, Owen, I can feel it and we’re going to take the fuckers out.’ Jonesy unclicked his seatbelt.
‘Jonesy, put your belt back on,’ Matthews said as Jonesy’s keen eyes followed the riders’ paths. All three mopeds now cruised in a V formation.
‘Over there, they’re scoping that phone shop,’ Jonesy said, his voice rose in pitch as his adrenaline built.
‘I’ve a mate in the Flying Squad who’d give his right arm to be in my seat now,’ he continued.
Matthews decreased the pressure on the accelerator, and they dropped back from the trio of bikes while he connected his phone. They had no radio, and neither of them would know which channel to select if they did for the area of London they were in. What Matthews did know was that Holborn station was close by. Matthews banged in three nines and asked for police.
‘Police operator. What’s the nature of your call?’
‘DS Matthews, Homicide Command. I’m in Holborn and I believe there’s about to be an armed robbery of a phone shop on Theobalds Road.’
‘How do you know this?’ the operator asked.
Matthews paused. Outside, his view had changed from one of flowing traffic to stationary vehicles. Screams from pedestrians erupted as the mopeds mounted the pavement. The rear passengers were off the bikes before they’d stopped, and began to stove in the shop window with a sledgehammer, while one rider remained roadside and threatened anyone who got close with a hammer.
Matthews turned towards Jonesy. The passenger door was open and his seat vacant. He returned to his call.
‘I know because they’re smashing the place up with a hammer and I have a DC who’s bailed out of my car towards them. Urgent assistance.’
Matthews dropped the line and looked over to the shop. Jonesy was closer to the group as he weaved between cars that had come to a standstill in the street. People had congregated, their phones held aloft as though a royal had been spotted. No one attempted to intervene. The only heroic act for them was being the first to get the footage uploaded to social media. Some jostled for the best position in the effort to achieve the status.
Jonesy waited by the rear of a parked car. He was close enough to the robbers to observe and evaluate a tactic of approach. He could either react, or stay and gather as much evidence as he could through observation. He had no radio and hoped backup was on its way. The robbers weren’t paying him any attention as they loaded the stolen goods into backpacks they carried. One of them who’d entered the shop was now back out and screamed for his cohorts to go. His voice loud but muffled through the helmet’s visor that was pulled down over his face. Jonesy heard the sound of distant sirens and hoped they were police and not ambulance.
The mopeds’ engines revved in readiness to abscond. It was now or never. Jonesy lowered his head and took a deep breath. His heart beat a powerful rhythm as the noise around him filtered out. The only noise he was in communication with was the recognition of his own breath. He went into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his ASP, and racked it open in one fluid motion.
Matthews saw Jonesy rise from his position of safety behind a parked car, ASP held aloft. Matthews froze. His mind raced as he considered what to do. He saw a gap in the traffic that had been created by one of the mopeds in order for them to disperse. He reached over and shut the passenger door, selected sport mode on the auto gearbox and floored the accelerator. Matthews watched as Jonesy stealthily approached a rider. Matthews saw that the pillion that’d entered the shop had turned and seen Jonesy. The robber was reaching inside his loose jacket. Palm down, the back of his hand towards Matthews.
DS Owen Matthews formed an honestly held belief that the suspect had a gun, and that his colleague and members of the public were at risk of serious harm. Without hesitation he slammed on the horn and mounted the pavement. Jonesy turned at hearing the increased revs of an engine, and on seeing the BMW hurtle towards him, he instinctively dived out the way of the oncoming car as Matthews smashed the BMW into the side of the moped. He only stopped once the bike was pinned against the shop wall, along with the rider and pillion who were now under it.
Matthews racked the gearbox into reverse and shouted through the open passenger window at Jonesy, ‘Gun!’
Jonesy heard the word, as did the public at the scene. Some screamed as others carried on recording. The two remaining moped riders were away on their rides.
Matthews leaned forward and peered through the windscreen as he looked at the end of the bonnet. He was far enough back but kept the engine running, fully prepared to do the same thing again should either rider move or attempt to get up. The two riders had started shouting abuse at each other as they lay dazed under the moped, visors up.
A high and low pitch bounced off the surrounding buildings in a cacophony of sound. All at different speeds and tones. Matthews sat with his hands at the ten-to-two position on the steering wheel. His legs were shaking. Within minutes, armed officers swarmed all over the street like bees in defence of the hive. There was a tap on Matthews’s window and an armed officer stood, her MP5 levelled at his torso, as she demanded Matthews slowly turn off the engine and not make any sudden movement.
Matthews did as directed, which was easy as he was pinned by the airbag that had inflated on impact with the moped. Once the car was dead, he felt the driver’s door open. His arms were grabbed, the bag dealt with, and he was dragged from the vehicle and forced to lay face down on the tarmac. Matthews knew it was coming, but as it happened he felt as though the world had slowed, like he was watching a film he was the main lead in. None of the armed officers knew he was police. He could have been part of the gang for all they knew. Safety first. Questions later.
Matthews heard Jonesy shout that Matthews was with him and as the words resonated with the officers, Matthews felt the weight upon his back relax. His wrists were dropped from the gooseneck position they’d been placed in and he was lifted to standing. As his brain adjusted to the surroundings, his eyes took in the wave of blue lights. His ears had adjusted to the sirens’ call to arms. They slowly faded to silence as officers switched them off now everyone was contained.
Jonesy was by his side now. His warrant card tucked into the top of his trousers; the metal of the badge winked in the sun that had appeared over the tops of the buildings.
‘Are you OK, Owen? Fuck me, that was awesome what you did there! Those two fuckers didn’t know what hit ’em! Way more effective than my ASP, that’s for sure,’ Jonesy said as he surveyed the front of their BMW and nodded to himself in appreciation of the resulting damage.
‘We’ll need a lift back. Shall I call Moretti?’ Jonesy said.
He didn’t know if Matthews had heard him, or was just ignoring him.
The firearms officer who was with Matthews was astute enough to have Matthews sit back in her car.
‘Did you find a gun?’ Ma
tthews quietly asked.
‘I don’t think so, but I could be wrong. I wasn’t controlling the suspects. They’re both alive though,’ she said.
Matthews remained silent as a member of the London Ambulance Service joined them. She professionally brushed the firearms officer aside and crouched down level with Matthews’s face.
‘Haven’t we been in the wars then?’ she said as she gloved up and pressed lightly on Matthews’s forehead.
‘Ouch!’ he responded.
‘I’m not surprised it hurts. You’ve had quite a knock there. Your head must have hit part of the car before the airbag went off. I’m surprised one of your colleagues hadn’t told you?’
Matthews looked at Jonesy.
‘Sorry, Owen. I was too stoked at the result we’ve had,’ Jonesy replied.
‘Result? Jonesy, it’s a fucking mess – sorry,’ Matthews said to the ambulance officer.
‘No need to apologise. I’ve heard worse and you are in shock. Not that I need to tell you your job, but I’d say nothing until you’ve been seen by a doctor,’ she told him.
‘Really?’ Jonesy asked.
‘Yes. My other half is in the police and he asked me to pass the advice on should I attend an incident such as this that involved police. For at least twenty-four hours, anyway. Your brain is in survival mode at the moment and may mislead your recollection of events. Now, let’s get you checked out at hospital,’ she said, as she got up.
‘Hospital? I’m fine, really, I am. Just need a sweet cup of tea and I’m good to go,’ Matthews said.
Jonesy stepped closer to Matthews, who was still sitting in the car and dropped to his level so he could see his face clearly.
‘Look, Sarge, what you did probably saved my life. I didn’t think about a gun until you raised the question a minute ago. Now, let’s say they didn’t have one, you need some space to think and get your head together because we know who’ll be all over this like a granny at a tabletop sale,’ Jonesy said, placing a hand on Matthews’s shoulder.
Matthews looked up and held a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. As he did a shadow appeared behind Jonesy. It wasn’t the typical outline of a firearms officer.
‘That would be me then,’ a low, Glaswegian voice said.
The shadow stepped into a better position for Matthews and Jonesy to see. He was five-eight, his gut strained against his taut leather belt. He sported a moustache that would’ve looked good on a hipster, but on him appeared like he’d walked into a hedge and collected a long-haired caterpillar on the way back out. He snapped his warrant card open with a rehearsed flick of his wrist.
‘DI Richards, Professional Standards. I’m the first responder for incidents such as these that involve police, collisions and injured members of the public,’ the man said.
‘Members of the public? No one was injured!’ Jonesy said.
‘That’s not the impression I was given when I saw the two males under the moped.’
‘Do me a favour,’ Jonesy said as he stood up and stepped towards Richards.
Richards stood his ground, hands in his pockets.
‘DC Jones, I believe? I would advise you to calm down and see the situation from my point of view and the public’s. An incident such as this where police have rammed into another human being on a pedestrian footway can’t be ignored. It’s already on social media sites and getting a lot of attention. Go and get seen by the LAS, too. You must be in shock yourself after what you witnessed. I’m not an idiot, detectives, and can see the situation. Now help me to help you.’
With that, Richards walked away to join other suited and booted colleagues of his who’d arrived on scene. Matthews stood up and the ambulance officer helped him. Jonesy took Matthews’s arm as his legs began to shake as though he was stuck on a cliff edge with no more hand or foot holds to speak of. Since the arrival of DI Richards neither had noticed the LAS woman had produced an ambulance chair. A chair Matthews was now lowered onto. As Matthews was pirouetted towards the awaiting ambulance, he turned his head towards his right shoulder. ‘Jonesy,’ he beckoned.
‘Yeah.’
‘As you’re the fleet manager, you can call Nash and give her the good news she’s a car down,’ Matthews said as he was pushed towards the back doors of the ambulance.
‘Great, just great. Even in a concussed state, you’re still an arsehole,’ Jonesy replied with a smile that Matthews weakly returned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Nash put down the receiver on her desk phone and looked up at the square ceiling tiles of her office. Jonesy had explained the events he and Matthews had been involved in. She was relieved that they were both alive and relatively unscathed. She got up from behind her desk and shouted across the corridor for Moretti to join her.
‘What’s up with you? Please tell me we haven’t copped another murder, making it three?’ he said.
Moretti took a seat in her office. Nash swept some papers from her desk and perched on the edge.
‘Jonesy and Matthews took out an armed robbery team on their way back. All of the robbers were on mopeds. Two down – them, not us – both in hospital with non-life-threatening injuries. Our BMW’s written off though. Matthews took a bang to the head and Jonesy – well, Jonesy’s Jonesy. He walked away, thankfully,’ she explained.
Moretti took out his phone and brought up YouTube. He searched for police + mopeds – London.
‘Here it is,’ he said.
He got up and joined Nash at her desk. They watched the scene unravel, courtesy of a person known as Dubz. It was a short clip but captured all they needed to see. Nash stood and placed her hands in her pockets. She thought through what could have happened to both her officers had the scene played out differently.
‘Jonesy told me Matthews reacted in the way he did because he thought one of the suspects had a gun. I just hope that’s the case. If it isn’t, he still did the right thing in my mind. They both deserve a commendation for the actions they took. Anyway, we now have quite a gathering at St Thomas’s Hospital,’ Nash declared. ‘I’ll go to the hospital and see them. I need you here co-ordinating the murder investigations while I ensure Matthews and Jonesy are being looked after. I’ll let Matthews’s wife know too and arrange a car should she wish to go and see him at the hospital.’ She grabbed her coat from a hook on the back of her door.
Moretti sat at Nash’s desk.
‘Don’t mind if I use your office for a while do you? I want to run through what Matthews came up with on the social media side. I think we came across as dismissive of his work,’ he said.
* * *
Nash found her car, pressed the fob and the indicators winked yellow. She got in and fired up the engine. While the engine warmed, she took out her work phone and scrolled through the numbers. She found Harris and dialled. It was answered after three tones.
‘Pip, always a pleasure,’ Harris said.
‘Not today it isn’t. I have two of mine in hospital as a result of those shits on mopeds who rob phone shops. Two were nicked and four fled the scene on two mopeds and are now at large.’ She paused to afford Harris time to digest the information.
She could hear him scrabbling around as though he was looking for something. She surmised it must be a pen and some paper he sought. His attention was back with her.
‘Sorry to hear that, Pip. It goes without saying, if anything comes across our work then you will be the first to know. You know me, I’m old school where our own are concerned. Rest assured, I’ll be focussed on anything discussed in the sting shop, or property presented that links to the robbery,’ Harris said.
‘That’s what I needed to hear. Now, here’s what I know so far…’ Nash said and explained what she’d ascertained.
Moretti laid out the phone data along with the Instagram images. He was a stickler for privacy and although he used social media, he was under a pseudonym with the highest privacy settings that he kept refreshed as often as his mind reminded him. He also kne
w it wouldn’t take a determined person long to work out who he was through his friends who weren’t as security conscious as him. Detection by association.
Melissa and Jade had a similar number of friends listed and were clearly focussed on people they knew rather than those they didn’t. Between them they had four hundred friends. The accounts were clearly a way of sharing their lives with people they trusted and felt comfortable with seeing their images. Both victims were iPhone users, which helped Moretti concentrate on the one operating system. He clicked on Melissa’s profile page and then the location symbol. A map sprang up that showed a large concentration of photos in one area. As he clicked over the area, it identified Melissa’s block.
As each image was clicked, it showed her cat. He right-clicked on one of the photos, and up came the EXIF data. Data that showed everything about the photo, from picture size and camera settings to the time it was taken and where.
He expanded the size of the font and what he saw made him sit back as he stared at the phone. Initially he thought it was a fluke but on every picture over her block it showed a time. Each image had been taken on a weekday at about 6:45 p.m. Moretti knew he didn’t have the time to go through each image. He gathered up the paperwork and went through to the Intelligence Section. There was a solemn air about cosy corner. The section was usually active and upbeat. Matthews enjoyed having background music playing and this was absent.
Sally Clarke was a member of police staff – a demure girl in her twenties who kept herself to herself and was more than happy to be occupied with a computer-based task, as long as she could wear her headphones and listen to her choice of music. She wasn’t a fan of eye contact, and when Moretti had first arrived on the unit, he’d queried with Nash why she had recruited such a rude member of staff who barely spoke and couldn’t possibly answer a phone if she wore headphones.
