Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  “Ah, but the vomit was on the body, inside the plastic sheeting. It hadn’t been unwrapped,” answered Colin.

  “There you go, that is the sort of answer to cross-examination that you need to be thinking about. For the DNA to have been inside the sheeting, he would have had to have been present before the body was wrapped (possibly even at the murder scene), and he had to be involved in hiding it too.”

  “So, in your opinion, have we got enough to arrest and charge him?”

  “Honestly? I’d say you’ve got more than enough suspicion to arrest. As it stands, you might charge in relation to hiding a body, but you’d struggle to prove murder. That being said, it might all change once he talks in interview, and once you start searching his home etc.”

  Colin nodded in agreement. “Just what I was thinking.”

  Steve continued, “I’d suggest your next step should be to swear out warrants for his home address and those other two addresses that you got from the GPS. Get him arrested, search the premises, and see what you dig up.”

  Finally, Colin was hearing positive thoughts and advice. It confirmed what he already knew, but with the CPS backing his decisions, it would make it far easier getting everything agreed by the Superintendent.

  “Thanks for that, Steve,” he said.

  “That’s OK. Look, sorry if I was too negative. We are on your side; we want this cop-killer off the streets too. We just want to ensure that he stays behind bars, you know? Keep me in the loop as the case progresses, alright?”

  With that, Colin collected his paperwork and began the long trek up to the top floor again.

  ...

  Once safely ensconced in his office, DI Peterson reviewed the updates left on his desk.

  Observations on the Havering Estate were ongoing. Intelligence had confirmed that the Jackson House address was still regarded as the suspect’s current home address. However, to date, there had been no sightings of Malachi anywhere.

  Numbers 53 and 55 Maygrove Road had been researched. Both were unoccupied. Both had been former squats, but were currently empty. And both had non-resident owners. Somebody had managed to locate blueprints for both premises, so he could see the layout within each one. Again, discrete observations by plain-clothed officers had revealed no sightings of the suspect.

  With nothing else to distract his attention, Colin could put it off no longer. He picked up the telephone and dialled Superintendent Mitchelson’s extension number. It was picked up on the third ring.

  “Superintendent Mitchelson, go ahead,” he said in a brusque businesslike voice.

  “It’s DI Peterson, sir.”

  “Yes? What is it?” He seemed annoyed at having been disturbed.

  Colin spent the next few minutes updating Mitchelson on developments, primarily the new suspect and his link to the murder.

  “So, what’s your plan, Detective Inspector?”

  “I want to mount an early morning raid, first thing tomorrow, sir.” It was currently late afternoon, so time was short to organise everything. “I want to hit the suspect’s H/A and 53/55 Maygrove Road simultaneously. And I want firearms units on both. I’m gonna need ‘method-of-entry’ teams at all addresses for a quick entrance, along with dogs units and the PSU to search afterwards. And we’ll need local uniformed personnel to contain the area.”

  “You’re asking for a bloody lot, aren’t you, Colin?” Mitchelson replied. “I take it you’ve got evidence to support your decision?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve already run it past CPS, and they concur that this should be our next course of action.”

  “Really? In that case, you’d better get things organised, hadn’t you? You’re gonna have a very busy evening, Inspector. Make sure you get all of the relevant paperwork to my office ASAP for signing. I’ve got a dinner date tonight, so I’ll be leaving in an hour or so.”

  “Will do, sir. It’s partly completed, I’ll pop it up to you in half an hour,” Colin said. He thought to himself, I’d hate to ruin your bloody evening; it’s only the murder of one of your men! It seemed Mitchelson never did anything to curry favour from his minions.

  DS French stepped into the office.

  “Ah, Gary, just the man. We’re gonna hit Maclean’s H/A, and the Maygrove Road addresses, simultaneously first thing tomorrow morning. I’m sorting firearms and other units, but I need you to get warrants sworn out for all locations,” said the DI.

  “Great, I’ll get one of the team onto it.”

  Colin looked at his watch. “It’s gonna be pretty late by the time the paperwork is sorted, so get them to visit the duty magistrate at home, drag them out of bed if they have to, they need to be sworn out tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Gary.

  “Here, give them this.” Colin threw a small bible to him. “They’ll need to take that to swear the oath on.”

  DS French left the room, and Colin began ringing around to organise everything for the following day. I’m not going to be leaving the police station tonight, he thought to himself.

  ...

  Sergei Petrov stood in the doorway to the nightclub. His two minders were attached to his hip as he surveyed the line of hopefuls queuing up behind a rope cordon, awaiting entry to the “Misfits Club.” As part of his services to the management, he promised a visible deterrent in recompense for his extortionate fee (not that they dared to complain about the cost).

  Suddenly, his trouser pocket began vibrating. Due to the thundering noise emanating from the nightclub, he had switched his mobile phone to vibrating alert. He pulled it out and stared at the screen – message from Anon. Only a select few of his contacts were trusted with his number so he knew that the text must be important. Flicking from screen to screen, he located the message.

  “Police have ID’d Maclean – Get him to disappear – Avoid his address.”

  Sergei thought it was a bit of a cryptic text. What did it mean by, get him to disappear? Did it mean that he should hide him, get him to lie low? Or was it meant literally? That he should be made to disappear, permanently? Sergei was unsure. “Anon” was not the sort of person that you questioned. He was not going to text back asking for an explanation. Instead, he sent a message to Malachi.

  “Police on to you – Do NOT go home – Hide somewhere – Will speak L8er.”

  The last part of his message could be read as a threat or a promise. At that particular moment, not even Sergei, himself, was sure which he meant.

  ...

  Malachi was walking through the estate on his way to doss-down on a mate’s sofa for the night, when the text message arrived. He read it, the blood draining from his face as the words sunk in, their impact instant.

  His head spun with unanswered questions, the voices talking to him again:

  “How did the police identify you?”

  “If they know who you are, they’ll know your mates; you can’t stay with any of them!”

  “Where can you hide?”

  “Who stitched you up?”

  “You need to get away from the city, but The Russian told you to lie low!”

  In a moment of clarity, he remembered somewhere he might go; somewhere from his past, somewhere nobody would think to look for him. He set off at a fast pace, not quite running, but not a jog either, just a quick walk.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached the dark imposing metal gates of Alexandria Park. It was locked up, the undulating parkland beyond the cast iron barrier lost in the darkness. Barely breaking stride, he leapt at the structure, clambering over its spear-like bars, dropping safely to the ground on the far side.

  He picked up the pace, jogging along the footpath that circumnavigated the shallow boating lake to his right. To his left were eerie shadows, creepy dark spaces that sent fear through his heart. Even as a truant child, many years before, he had always had a bad feeling about those haunting groups of trees. It was almost as if he was being watched, the darkness alive with staring eyes.

  At the furthest point away from
the main gate, the footpath followed the lake round to the right, but Malachi chose another route, straight on, and slightly uphill. Silhouetted against the glow hovering above the city, he saw his target in the distance - the disused, abandoned Cricket Pavilion. Someone had once told him that it was haunted. It certainly looked it at the moment, bathed in shadows, its Victorian architecture angular and austere.

  Malachi skirted the main boarded-up entrance, heading to the rear where a door had had its lower wooden panel kicked in. He bent double and crawled through the gap, his trainers crunching on fragments of broken glass. Inside, everything was dark. He could smell burnt wood, an indication that an unknown homeless person had lit a fire at some point. But the overpowering aroma was one of urine (cat’s or human, he could not tell). It stank! Malachi moved through to the inner rooms searching for somewhere to call home, at least for the foreseeable future. He settled on a room overlooking the front of the pavilion. It had metal-framed windows, most of which were smashed, and he could look out over the parkland and lake below, watching in case the police should come for him.

  He dropped to his haunches, leaned against the internal wall, and shook with fear, and the cold. He listened intently - every noise, every rattle, a warning that the police might be searching for him. He was living on his nerve endings. He heard the sound of the wind blowing through the rafters. He heard the drip-drip-drip of water leaking through the roof. And he heard the sound of an owl screeching in the night. The place smelt of damp, mouldy and rotten. Cobwebs smothered every surface.

  He waited, too scared to sleep, hoping that Sergei would contact him soon. And he sobbed silently to himself. How had things come to this? he wondered.

  Chapter 21

  The first glimmers of light illuminated the underside of a blanket of cloud, as dawn slowly broke on the distant horizon. DI Peterson watched from the parapet of the first-floor balcony at Jackson House - birds chirping, the only sound to be heard - his breath condensing in the chilly air.

  Wearing ballistic body armour over his street clothes, he felt weighed down, his chest constricted by the snugly fitting protective layer. He waited, pensively, on the stairwell landing at the end of the balcony. Before him, he could see Malachi’s address – the blue door, five along from his end.

  In an avenue just off Maygrove Road, DS French was similarly anxious as he awaited the signal to go.

  Through his covert earpiece, Colin could hear the firearms units signalling that they were in position and waiting for their tactical commander to give them the order to advance. On their dedicated radio channel, uniformed officers confirmed that Jackson House was surrounded and access secured at ground level. In the distance, he could hear the muffled barking of a police dog on standby. Everybody was in position...

  At precisely 06:45 hours, a squad of three shadows silently brushed past DI Peterson. A similar unit of three approached from the far end of the balcony, everyone converging on the blue door. Dressed entirely in black, covered in armour, wearing combat helmets, and carrying their Heckler & Koch MP5SF assault rifles at the ready, they stacked up either side of the doorway, crouching in readiness to enter.

  A black-clad man-mountain crept past the DI, joining his colleagues near the door. Although similarly dressed, he did not carry a firearm. Instead, cradled in his arms, he held a heavy red battering ram (known colloquially as “The Big Red Key”). He was the “method-of-entry” officer, responsible for gaining entry quickly and efficiently, keeping the element of surprise on their side. As Colin watched from a distance, this officer gently laid the door knocker on the ground and carefully inspected the door’s lock and hinges for signs of reinforcement. Once satisfied, he delicately tried the door handle (there was no point in smashing the door to pieces if it was already open). It was locked. Picking up the battering ram, he glanced towards Colin from behind his protective goggles. He nodded.

  Colin picked up his radio and calmly transmitted, “All units – GO – GO – GO.”

  All hell broke loose!

  The MOE officer battered the lock, and both hinges, in a series of sharp impacts until the door could take no more and it swung inwards against the wall, hanging from its decimated supports. As he stepped back onto the balcony, the firearms officers charged through the doorway. The first officers advanced directly to the rear of the apartment, the others filtering left and right to cover subsequent rooms. Everybody was screaming in loud, commanding voices:

  “ARMED POLICE.”

  “STAND STILL.”

  “POLICE.”

  From outside, it sounded like chaos, but within, it was a slick and professional routine, each officer having practiced similar entries time and again. As doors were kicked open, and every hiding place checked, the noise became deafening. But, no sooner had it started than the calls of, “CLEAR,” “Clear,” “clear,” could be heard, like an echo from inside the flat, as each room was confirmed safe and secured.

  Finally, the tactical commander came onto the radio, saying, “Gold Commander? – all rooms secured – no sign of target – NOK present – it is safe to enter, sir.”

  Colin nodded, relieved that everything had gone like clockwork, but frustrated that Maclean had not been found inside. On an alternate radio frequency, he called DS French at the Maygrove Road site.

  “DS French from DI Peterson?”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Update, please.”

  “Both addresses have been raided, sir, minimal damage and no casualties. Both houses are empty, no persons present. Firearms units have reported that the basement of number 53 has a lot of dried blood inside. Could be the murder scene. I’ll get SOCO moving to check it out and confirm one way or the other. I’m just going in to have a look myself.”

  “All received. Thanks for that, Gary. Keep me informed if you find anything.”

  “Will do, sir. How about your end? Did you get Malachi?”

  “Negative, he wasn’t home. Sounds like his mother is though, so I’m gonna go have a quick word.”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  With that, Colin holstered his radio and walked towards the destroyed front door. He waited as a stream of firearms officers left the premises having been stood down by their commander. As the last one exited, he said, “Over to you, sir.”

  With the inside lighting now illuminated, the flat appeared quite homely, apart from the gaping hole where the front door had once stood. Every room had a wooden crucifix hanging from its dated walls, the patterned carpet was threadbare (not unlike that in my own flat, Colin thought), and the furniture was a hodgepodge of mixed styles thrown together by necessity rather than design.

  Colin found the sole occupant, Mary Maclean, sitting on a wooden chair in the claustrophobic kitchen. In her early fifties, she was a short plump woman of Afro-Caribbean descent. Wearing a full-length nightdress hidden beneath a comfy dressing gown, she sat rocking back and forth, muttering religious phrases and prayers under her breath. She was clearly in shock; unsurprising, considering the explosion of armed officers that had just entered her abode leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. She appeared dithery, almost as if she was suffering with mental health issues (which she may well have been).

  “I’m DI Peterson,” said Colin. “We’re looking for Malachi. Do you know where he is?”

  “M...Malachi? He’s n...not here,” she stammered, staring into the void to the left of Colin’s head.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “N...not sure. Maybe yesterday? Or last night? I don’t remember...” Colin stayed silent. “I think, maybe, he came home last night. I hear noises in here, the kitchen, and movement in his room, then the front door was slammed shut.”

  “Which is his room?” She indicated the first bedroom along the passageway. “We have a warrant to search your apartment for him, or items relating to a crime he’s involved in,” explained the DI.

  Mary suddenly appeared alert. “Crime? What crime? What’s he done now?” She
sounded resigned to the fact that her son was involved in crime, almost as if it was expected of him. “That boy’s always in trouble. Ever since he was a lad, he’s been trouble. It’s them gangs; they’ve turned him. He used to be a good boy, go to school, go to church...” Colin thought to himself, that’s as maybe, but that was a hell of a long time ago.

  “We’re investigating the murder of a police officer,” said Colin.

  Mrs Maclean held her head as she looked at the floor, crying. “No, no, no,” she sobbed, “not my boy, not murder.”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs Maclean. Do you have any idea where he might go if he’s not here?”

  “Hanging around with the gang, I expect,” she answered, shaking her head side to side. “It’s not unusual for him to be away from home for days at a time. He’s always staying with them lot.” She spat these last words out with venom and hatred.

  Colin could tell that he was not going to get any more information out of her. As he turned towards the entrance, the PSU team arrived to commence their search of the premises.

  “Hi, lads. Make sure you bag anything that might be relevant, no matter how obscure, OK?” said Colin.

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  “The warrant covers communal areas too, so check the bins. I think I spotted ‘em at the foot of the stairwell.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “I’ll be outside if you need me.” Colin stepped onto the balcony and looked across the estate, towards the tower blocks, wondering where Malachi Maclean was hiding.

  As he waited, his phone rang.

  “Guv, I’m in the cellar of number 53,” said DS French. “It’s a right mess! Blood everywhere, and some cut cable ties thrown on the floor. I’d say we’ve found our murder scene.”

  “I see,” replied Colin, thoughtfully. “Good.”