Suddenly there was a disturbance of some kind downstairs as policemen shouted, “You can’t come in here! It’s a crime scene.”
Chapter 77
Tottenham Press, Commercial Road, London. Sunday, 2pm.
When we heard the words “all clear, hostages have been secured,” Don and I forgot about the promise we’d made to Inspector Boniface and leapt out of the van. We ran towards the building, ignoring the howled protests behind us.
For a man of his age, Don Fisher could cover a hundred yards surprisingly quickly. He was close behind me all the way. We ran into the unit, and two armed policemen blocked the way. I wasn’t about to let them stop me, and I body swerved between a Lexus and a black 4x4 before coming to a halt at the bottom of a set of steel stairs.
Lavender Fisher, barefoot and wearing a stereotypical little black dress, came down the stairs. She looked drawn and dusty but she still looked beautiful to me, and probably more so to her father.
Don Fisher swept her up in his arms. “You, young lady, will not leave my sight until you are at least thirty.” He hugged her as tightly as a man could without physically damaging her.
I looked to the top of the stairs, searching anxiously for any sign of Dee. When I eventually caught sight of her I was shocked. Dee was still wearing the leather catsuit she’d been wearing the last time I’d seen her, but the left sleeve and right leg were missing. Around both limbs were copious amounts of bandages. A Paramedic was half carrying her down the stairs, whilst another walked carefully down backwards in front of her, in case she stumbled. They reached the bottom safely, and headed towards the door.
At that moment another two intruders broke through police lines. This time it was Geordie and Tom Vastrick. Geordie handed the paramedic a card and said, “Take her to the Highbury Clinic, please. They’re expecting her.”
Tom turned to Dee, and placed his palm on her cheek.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Dee. Don’t expect any time off, by the way. You got kidnapped in your free time, after all,” he said.
I took her in my arms, taking her weight and hugging her tightly.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
“If I don’t die,” she quipped, managing a weak smile. There was a round of applause from the same policemen who had objected to my presence in their crime scene.
“I have been shot, you know. Twice!” she giggled.
The paramedic winked at me, and explained in a single word.
“Morphine”.
Chapter 78
Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Sunday, 2:40pm.
The journey to the hospital had taken only a few minutes, and I sat with Dee in the ambulance, holding her hand whilst the paramedic attached her to a drip and a variety of machines.
The hospital was a modern brick building of two storeys, sporting a colourful blue sign depicting the name of a well-known provider of private medicine. The sign below read ‘No A&E facilities’. I wondered why we had come here, until Dee was wheeled in and was in the operating theatre within two minutes.
I waited in the lobby with Don Fisher and Lavender, who had followed the ambulance in the paramedics’ sitting ambulance, basically a Volvo Estate car. A Doctor approached us and explained that Dee would be treated and back in her room within the hour.
“Now, if you will come with me, young lady, I need to examine you,” the doctor said. Lavender stood up to accompany the doctor, as did Don Fisher. Lavender frowned and said “Dad!” and Don Fisher sat back down.
As they disappeared into a room, a police car drew up outside. A young policewoman came into the lobby and addressed us both.
“Mr Hammond, Mr Fisher, my name is Andrea Farrell and I am the police constable assigned to guard your two rooms for the night. The hospital has kindly assigned Ms Conrad and Ms Fisher companion rooms next to each other on the first floor. We can go on up and wait for them there, if you’d like.”
It didn’t sound like a question, and so we both followed her to the lift. Once we emerged from the lift we entered a corridor that was more like a hotel than a hospital. It didn’t have that hospital smell which is prevalent in all NHS premises, but smelled like a newly built hotel. WPC Farrell checked the piece of paper in her hand and led us to rooms 35 and 33. The doors were close together.
Andrea opened number 35 and said, “This room has been assigned to Miss Conrad.” We followed the WPC inside, and looked around. The room was spacious and beautifully decorated, and could easily have passed as an upmarket hotel. The cream painted walls were adorned with tasteful, bright watercolours. The bed looked as though it contained enough technology for space travel, and against the wall stood a sofa and a matching armchair with a high back. On the wall opposite the bed hung a flat screen TV which was operated from the bed via a remote control.
“The sofa folds out into a bed, should you wish to stay the night,” WPC Farrell informed us.
I saw the brightly lit en suite bathroom, with its sandy coloured marble effect tiles and full sized bath, and I suddenly felt grubby. I realised that we had all been wearing the same clothes since Friday.
“I’ll be next door, Josh,” Don Fisher said, his hand resting on my shoulder.
“OK,” I answered, noticing that his face was pale and drawn. All the worries of fatherhood seemed to be resting on his shoulders. Seeing him vulnerable and exposed as he was made me realise that, no matter how rich you may be, you can’t keep your kids entirely safe.
I decided I should have a bath, and rang downstairs for extra towels. A nurse arrived in the room a few minutes later. She laid the towels and some other linen on the bed.
“I thought you might need these,” she said, holding up a pair of plain white boxer shorts. “They look the right size.” She grinned at my obvious embarrassment as she held them in front of my groin.
“Also, if you’re staying overnight, you might need these.”
She laid out what looked like a lounge suit consisting of dark blue track suit trousers and a matching zip up top. The colourful hospital logo was embroidered on the left had side of the chest. To my dismay it looked a lot like the Arsenal football club badge.
“If you need anything else, just let me know. Oh, by the way, you can see the Emirates Stadium in the distance from this window.” She left, closing the door behind her. I went to the window and closed the curtains.
Chapter 79
Tottenham Press, Commercial Road, London. Sunday, 5pm.
Inspector Boniface and DCI Coombes left the Tottenham Operations Room as soon as the operation was over, arriving just after the paramedics had left. They had been here for almost three hours and the scene was still buzzing with people.
The last of the bodies had just been taken away in the coroner’s black van, and some of the crime scene investigators had also gone, but the doctor was still in the building.
The armed response team had been quizzed by the Internal Investigations Branch, standard procedure in a fatal shooting, and their recollections matched the findings of the crime scene investigators. Now they were all piling into cars and minibuses to return to base.
The doctor, still wearing his white protective overalls and plastic overshoes, strode over to the two senior detectives.
“What a bloodbath. Six suspects, five of whom are dead, and a hostage shot twice. There is some good news, if you can call it that. We only took one of them down. Preliminary analysis suggests that Sonny Holloway was killed by a machine pistol, almost certainly by the suspect who was killed by the firearms squad. Then, it gets confusing. We know that one of the hostages shot the last man but there were two more bodies upstairs. My best guess is that the one on top killed the one underneath before our last man killed him.
If you’re keeping score, we killed one, three were killed by other suspects and the hostage shot one. With one still alive, that’s all six accounted for, gentlemen.” The doctor removed his latex gloves and unzipped hi
s overalls.
“You’ll have the full report tomorrow,” he volunteered as he walked away.
***
DS Scott and DS Fellowes had joined the two senior detectives and were reporting their findings. DS Scott offered to lead, and Fellowes nodded.
“All firearms used in the shootings today have been recovered and bagged. Additionally we discovered a small armoury in a steel lockbox concealed in the paint store. The contents have been logged and removed. There were two blocks of RDX explosives in there, as well. DS Fellowes also had a memorable find.”
DS Scott looked at Fellowes, who took up the story. “Hidden with the spare wheel was a carefully wrapped painting. It has Churchill’s signature on it and is probably the one De Montagu sold to Hickstead. As we suspected, it had been kept in Hickstead’s safety deposit box.
Also concealed in the body panels were necklaces, bracelets, rings, cash in numerous currencies, and a collection of gold Krugerrands in a coin collector’s album. There were at least a hundred in there, and they usually sell for about five hundred pounds each.
Best of all, there’s a holdall in the office packed with fifty pound notes. The bag weighed just over twenty three kilos. A million pounds in fifties weighs twenty two kilos. What’s the betting that the numbers match those given to us by Fisher’s bank?”
Suddenly the weariness lifted from all four men and they smiled. Tomorrow Lord Hickstead would come looking for a deal, fondly imagining he still had the bargaining chip of hostages. That interview would now be much more enjoyable. The four men all shook hands, and Boniface spoke.
“You three go home and get some rest. I’ll call in at the hospital and see if our victims want to see his Lordship squirm tomorrow. I think they deserve that.”
Chapter 80
Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Sunday, 5:30pm.
I sat on the edge of the bed talking to Dee when she was awake. If we stopped talking, even for a few seconds, her eyelids would flutter and she would be drifting away again. The doctor explained that she would be ‘dopey’ until she had enjoyed a good night’s sleep.
There was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” I shouted, and Dee opened her eyes.
Don Fisher and Lavender came into the room. He was wearing a blue lounge suit like mine, and Lavender was wearing the equivalent in burgundy. Rather inappropriately I thought, if I took a picture of them dressed like that I could blackmail them for a million pounds and get it, no questions asked.
Lavender went to Dee and hugged her, kissing her on the cheek, before running her fingers down the other cheek.
“Oh Dee, your face is all bruised. Is it OK?” Sonny’s fist had indeed left an ever developing bruise that ran from her jaw line to her cheekbone. All hues of yellow, blue and purple were now represented in the swelling.
“It’ll heal quicker than the bullet wounds,” Dee joked weakly.
Lavender came over to me and gave me a hug, too. She hung on for quite a while before Dee reminder her that I was ‘her man’. Lavender kissed me on the lips for devilment.
“Oooh, he’s a good kisser,” she said to Dee, laughing at my blushing face. “I’m Lavender, by the way.”
“I know,” I replied. “I’ve seen your pictures.” The room fell silent. “In the papers,” I added hastily, but too late. “Not the Polaroids. I didn’t look,” I spluttered, digging myself deeper in. “Sorry.”
Lavender, Dee and Fisher laughed out loud.
***
Don Fisher asked if he could speak to Dee privately, and so Lavender and I retired to her room, which was identical to Dee’s but in mirror image. We sat and spoke for a while, and she told me about Dee’s sacrifices on her behalf, which included her pushing Lavender onto the roof of the offices and pretending that she had escaped, even though she knew she would be punished.
The plan had been to make them believe that Lavender had escaped, so they would have been forced to abandon their hideout, leaving Lavender to raise the alarm by calling the police from the phone in the office.
She was in tears as she recounted how Dee had been shot and tortured whilst stubbornly refusing to give Lavender up. After tearfully explaining how Dee had stood in front of her, ready to take a bullet, Lavender said something that touched me. Taking my hands in hers, she began.
“No-one has ever done anything like that for me before. All the time I was thinking to myself, why is she wasting her life for me? She’s so much more valuable than me. I’m just a spoiled child, like people say, and I couldn’t see it until today. I thought we were going to die. Josh, why was she prepared to die for someone she had just met, someone so shallow and selfish like me?”
I had to think for a while, but then I found the words. “I’ve only known Dee for a week and a half, but she entranced me from the beginning. Isn’t there a song called ‘You had me from hello’? Well, that’s how I feel. A person like Dee is rare. If you want my opinion, I don’t think she was protecting the spoiled child in you, I think she was protecting the vulnerable person underneath. She was protecting the person you have become, not the person you were on Friday.”
The tears were flowing freely now, and Lavender squeezed my hand. I hoped that she would find her way in life and be happy. She seemed like a good kid on the whole. She didn’t deserve a shallow celebrity life; she deserved so much more.
Don Fisher came into the room and, for the sake of something to say, he joked.
“I’ve tried to get Dee to see sense, but the drugs are messing with her head and she’s still insistent on marrying you.”
“Can I be a bridesmaid?” Lavender trilled, her eyes widening in expectation.
“You can be the chief bridesmaid,” I replied.
The phone rang and Fisher answered it. He listened for a moment and then explained that we needed to go next door. Inspector Boniface was on his way up.
***
Once he had explained what they had discovered in The Tottenham Press building, Inspector Boniface asked the girls to confirm the sequence of events leading to their eventual rescue. Other than the fact that “Dave the soldier” had given his life to save them, things had unfolded pretty much as the police had surmised.
Having expressed admiration for their courage and resourcefulness, the Inspector explained that Dee and Lavender would each be required to give a formal statement later.
“Now,” he said brightly. “I need to explain what happens next.”
He paused to ensure that we were all paying attention. I could see that he was relishing this next part.
“Lord Hickstead has been kept in sterile conditions all weekend. That is to say, he’s heard nothing of the day’s events, and nor will he. There is a press embargo on the Europol action until a press conference is held tomorrow afternoon, aimed at the evening news programmes.
At ten o’clock in the morning he will be back at Scotland Yard. As far as he’s concerned, the only evidence we have consists of the fingerprints on the photographs and a lot of circumstantial evidence. He will also believe that Josh and Don are pressuring the police to allow him to plead to a lesser charge and walk away with a non-custodial sentence. I think we can expect him to be unbearably smug, at least for a while.
My question is this. Do the two of you want to watch that interview from the conference room?”
“I suppose it’s too much to ask for me to be left in the same room alone with him for five minutes?” Don Fisher asked, without any hope of a positive answer.
“The offer is restricted to watching on a video screen, I’m afraid, but if you do want to see him face to face, I have an idea.”
I was torn between staying with Dee and watching Lord Hickstead’s world collapse around him. In the end, both Don and I agreed we would be there.
“Will you be wearing those attractive matching tracksuits?” Boniface asked, barely holding back a guffaw.
We both scowled at him, and bid him farewell.
&nbs
p;
Chapter 81
No.2 Parliament St. Westminster, London. Sunday, 8pm.
Alan Parsons, Lord Hickstead’s solicitor, sat on the Chesterfield sofa facing the peer, who looked comfortable as he sat in the wing chair sipping brandy.
“Arthur, we have a difficult meeting tomorrow morning, and based on what I have heard, the police are close to arresting you. I appreciate that the safety deposit box is now empty and that your papers have gone. I also understand that whatever the police hoped to find in there is not there, either. But - and this is a big but, Arthur - they still have witnesses who can connect you to the blackmail plot, and blackmail in this country carries a sentence of up to fourteen years.”
“Relax, Alan. They’ll do a deal. They won’t want the publicity, and by the time the politicians put the pressure on...”
“Yes, Arthur. Actually I was coming to that.”
Hickstead thought that this sounded rather ominous, and he was right.
“I did a ring around Friday and yesterday. No success, I’m afraid. The Commissioner wouldn’t speak to me, but had his assistant tell me that he couldn’t interfere in an ongoing investigation. The Home Secretary and Shadow Home Secretary wished you well in establishing your innocence, but they will not take your calls. The two Labour Leadership contenders you asked me to call said that the charges were so serious that they were unwilling to intervene, although one of them did say that if there was any hint of a political element in the prosecution he would try to help.”
“So, basically, they’re all running for the hills, are they?” Hickstead spat bitterly. “I’m on my own after all that I’ve done for them individually and for the Party.”
The lawyer looked down, in order to avoid the look of self-pity in his client’s eyes. For goodness’ sake, he was at least a blackmailer and probably a murderer, and he was behaving like some kind of martyr. ‘Everyone deserves a good defence’, he reminded himself, before imparting the last bit of bad news.
***
The lawyer had gone and Hickstead was pacing around the room. He was livid. Tomorrow he would strike some sort of deal with the police, the hostages would be released, and then he would get his payback.
48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 26
