by Scott Hunter
Bola was being careful to adhere to the speed limit, not for any legal or dutiful reasons, but because there was a pistol pointing at his head. Oldest trick in the book, and he’d fallen for it. ‘Glove compartment’s stuck, Bola, would you mind?’
Caitlin had stepped back, given him space to reach into the car, but as he had done so she’d grabbed the pistol from the front seat storage box and jammed it into his temple. ‘Get in. Drive.’
She’d sounded serious, so Bola had thought it best to comply. Out onto the IDR, past the Oracle shopping centre on the flyover, and towards the RBH.
‘Nice and steady, DC Odunsi, please,’ Caitlin Hannigan said. ‘Take the next right, then left into Eldon Square. There’s usually a space.’
Bola risked a sideways glance. Caitlin was fiddling with what looked like a cheap mobile – not a smart phone, a burner maybe. She had the back off and was making some deft single-handed adjustments to the phone’s internal components, the gun steady in her left hand.
‘Eyes front, Bola.’
‘You’re the one, right? You’re the trigger.’
‘Keep driving.’
‘You’re not serious. You can’t blow up a duchess. The Duchess… It’s just–’ Bola shook his head, searching for the right word, couldn’t find it, gave up and fell back on cliché. ‘It’s mad. Crazy. They’ll lock you up for years.’
‘I think not.’ She snapped the phone together, switched it on and gave a murmur of satisfaction as the LED lit up.
‘Left here?’
Caitlin checked right, checked left, looked ahead to where they could see the police cordon at the junction of Erleigh and Craven Roads, glanced at her watch. She took something from her bag, placed it in her ear, went quiet, frowned as if she were listening hard for something.
Bola felt sweat trickle down his forehead. Should he jump her, drive the car into a wall? But that might detonate the bomb. He glanced at his abductor again, remembering the fate of the gunman in the basement flat. ‘So what am I doing? Left or what? We’re about to miss the turn.’
‘Roger that,’ Caitlin said. ‘This is DUSTER, repeat, DUSTER, almost in position. Give me an update on QUEEN OF HEARTS, please. Twenty seconds? Roger that. Ah, I see her.’
‘What the hell…?’ Bola glanced sideways again, his eyes widening in surprise.
‘Eyes on the road.’
Bola returned his gaze to the junction, saw a black BMW glide up to the cordon, slip though soundlessly, waved on by a smile and a nod from the attending police officers.
‘Change of plan,’ Caitlin said. ‘Drive straight on, towards the cordon, please.’
‘Lights are red.’
‘Drive. Fast as you can, please.’
‘Oh shiiiiiit–’ Bola floored the accelerator and shot over the junction. Tyres squealed as cars tried to get out of his way. He clipped one, sent another spinning. The two uniforms at the cordon stepped forward in alarm. The tail lights of the BMW were half-way up the road, heading for the reception committee.
Half-way across.
Bola prayed, bracing for impact.
A guy on a racing bike banged the roof in passing, shook his fist, carried on riding.
They made it. Bola brought the car to a halt half-on, half-off the pavement by the cordon.
The uniforms were at the window, motioning for him to open up. Caitlin had the mobile in her hand, was punching numbers.
Now or never.
Bola lunged for the mobile, Caitlin shouted, pulled away. Her left hand came up.
She fired the pistol.
The uniforms fell back, white-faced, shocked.
Bola’s ears were ringing, but the shot had missed, torn through the roof, not him.
Caitlin’s attention was back on the phone, fingers moving rapidly across the keypad.
Bola lunged for it.
‘Let go, you idiot … you don’t understand…’
She bent forward and bit his hand. The pain was sudden, shocking and intense. He let go. Caitlin opened the door, got out. Bola followed, using his momentum to attempt a clumsy rugby-tackle which Caitlin nimbly sidestepped. Bola hit the tarmac hard, looked up … Caitlin’s eyes were focused on the BMW, concentrating, calculating… Her fingers resumed their dance on the keypad…
Bola had been a fair basketball player in his teens. This target was smaller, if a little closer than usual. A big ask though, under the circumstances. Nevertheless … Bola slipped off his shoe, took aim, threw.
Bola’s size eleven struck Caitlin’s wrist, heel first. The phone flew from her hand, went spinning. Bola watched it hit the tarmac, bounce once, break open…
Tess felt a little light-headed. Everything had taken on a surreal quality; the air was buzzing with the excited chatter of the reception committee. She pushed through. ‘Excuse me, please… thanks…’. Now she was outside, the glass doors behind her. Down the steps to the pavement, slowly, purposefully, keeping her movements steady, unthreatening. Three senior hospital staff on the pavement, the vanguard. A middle-aged lady, a grey-haired man in a charcoal city suit, and a younger guy, nervous, shuffling his feet, fiddling with his cufflinks. Hospital admin. He glanced at her as she took the last step and joined them by the road.
Tess looked to the right. Clear. Not a uniform in sight. Wait, there, right at the top. By the junction, arms folded as if nothing special was happening. One uniform. Were there others? Charlie had said not. SECTU had ranked this a low-profile visit. Tess looked the other way, towards the London Road. A car, a BMW, half-way along the road and closing. Tess estimated the speed at not more than fifteen to twenty.
She tracked up from the moving vehicle. Eight to nine metres away the fresh tarmac of the recently completed road works was a raised rampart, maybe four metres across and just a couple of inches proud of the original road surface. You wouldn’t know it was there. Probably wouldn’t even feel the bump in a car like that.
Tess moistened her lips and began to walk along the pavement. She winced as the dressing beneath her blouse shifted slightly, catching on the wound. She still felt light-headed. The medication, perhaps; they’d warned her she might feel a little drowsy. She could see the driver now, a good-looking bloke in a tweed jacket. Someone in the back seat. A woman. Long hair, elegant. The car would cross the roadworks in about twenty seconds.
Tess walked a little faster. It would be all right. Step in front of the car. Hold your hand up. Show your warrant card. She fumbled in her handbag but her hand was shaking so much she gave up. The priority was to stop the car. They could worry about ID later.
Would she make it? Yes, just, if she hurried. She broke into a trot. She would pass the roadworks before the BMW reached them. Easily. The road repairs looked like…well, nothing. Just tarmac. Impossible to think of it as dangerous in any way. Just a few metres to go. Come on, Tess. Be professional. God, her stomach hurt. Ignore it, girl. Everything would be all right, of course it would.
Her breath was harsh in her throat, her heart pounding. No one else around. No pedestrians. All clear. Here we go, Tess. Slow down a little, don’t alarm them. Your ID, come on. Think. Dip into the bag again. Hands a bit better now. Got it. OK – step out in front, nice and easy…
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
From the ground floor bay window of a Victorian semi-detached house directly opposite the maternity unit entrance, JC slipped an automatic from his inside pocket. Precautionary, Gilmore had told him at the hurried briefing. Just turn up. Hang around. Be available and unobtrusive. No problem, that’s what he did; that’s what he was trained for. Just a low priority gig. Watch the lady arrive, make sure she gets inside safely. Pop in after a few minutes, keep a discreet distance. See she gets back to the car, off to wherever privileged young women go after official visits. Bucklebury, no doubt, to see the parents. Just a few miles west of Reading; near the Blue Pool, he recalled, where that MP had topped himself after some call-girl scandal last February. The name escaped him, but it was a rich, middle-class area, anyw
ay, packed with cosy country pubs where stockbrokers and lawyers rubbed shoulders at the bar and put the world to rights over Sunday G&Ts or pints of real ale.
It was a world he resented. The privileged set – public school, captains of rugby, cricket, football. Head of House. Oxford or Cambridge. What the hell did they know about what he did, about the crap he had to go through to protect the likes of them? The endless hours of surveillance, the fear, the sheer discomfort of undercover ops.
Anyway, such were his orders. Keep the lady safe. But unofficially, of course, he was here for entirely the opposite reason. At briefing he’d pushed himself forward for prime position and there’d been no objections. Which meant he’d been able to call the shots – no pun intended – for which team member went where today, and in particular where he was going to position himself, which was in just the right place to make sure nothing stopped the car driving over the prepared ground. Come to think of it, he couldn’t think of a time when the team had been quite so willing, so compliant. Funny they’d all fallen into line so easily. Was that something he should worry about? Probably not. It had been a busy few weeks. Nobody fancied being stressed out today, that was the prevailing vibe, so the job was all his. Perfect. His hand went to his pocket, felt the contours of the mobile phone. One code, one call. Boom. And then at the debrief, sharing the disappointment, the outrage. Pointing the finger – well away from himself, naturally. ‘We missed it; how did we not know?’…
He’d been able to keep the primary snippet of intelligence well hidden, the location and nature of the threat, which was pleasing. It was all about distraction, misinformation. And he was damn good at that, though he said so himself. It hadn’t been easy; his team hadn’t been recruited for their gullibility or lack of incisive thinking. They were all bright sparks, which made his counter-operation success even more satisfying. The Irish should be paying him a lot more. Maybe he’d ask for a rise at their next meeting. Shame about the Duchess; she seemed a decent sort, but that wasn’t his problem. Tomorrow’s newspapers would be ablaze, just like her car.
JC glanced at his watch. Right on cue, his headset sprang into life.
‘Charlie One Eleven, update please.’
‘Charlie One Eleven. In position. All quiet.’
‘Base, roger. Stay in position. Keep us updated. ETA two minutes.’
At that precise moment JC caught sight of a woman walking unsteadily along the pavement on the opposite side of the road. Probably nothing, but there was something about her which brought him to full alert. She seemed purposeful, not just some random outpatient walking to the bus stop.
He glanced to his right where he had an unobstructed view down to London Road. There we go. A black BMW was smoothing its way up towards the hospital. There was nothing connecting the woman to the vehicle except his intuition. Not sixth sense, hyper-vigilance. It was probably nothing, but he slipped the safety off anyway and watched.
The woman and the car were equidistant from the slick tarmac stain of the recently completed roadworks. He watched the woman carefully. She was looking in her bag for something. She withdrew her hand and he saw the tremors even from this distance. A nut job? Harmless, probably. Not bad looking… Wait a minute, though… she looked familiar.
The woman broke into a run. He was at the door in seconds. She hadn’t spotted him yet. He paused by the low wall of the semi’s drive, crouched low. The BMW continued its effortless glide along the road. Now it was barely a couple of metres from the woman. He gripped the handgun and prepared to call a warning. That was when she changed tack and ran into the road, straight in front of the Beamer.
Damn. It’s the copper. DC Martin.
DC Martin’s hand went into her handbag a second time. She was going to stop the bloody car.
Stop. Put your bag down. Now!
She turned in surprise, saw him, but her hand stayed in the bag. The BMW had slowed, just a metre away, engine purring. From the corner of his eye, a flash of red hair in a parked car – this side of the police cordon, twenty metres distant, maybe twenty-five. His old friend, RED ROOSTER, the electronics whiz, nicely in position, backing him up like she’d said.
Wait, there was some disturbance, some kerfuffle by the cordon…But he had to get Martin out of the way, she mustn’t stop the car. He curled his finger around the trigger, lined up the shot, kept his eye on the copper. Stupid cow.
She saw him. ‘No! It’s all right,’ she shouted back, wild-eyed. ‘I’m a poli–’
Something in the corner of his eye, something not right. Someone else, watching. Not his team mate. Recognition failure. Too late, anyhow; he was committed. He squeezed and felt the gun buck as the bullet discharged. Martin went down. Was the car close enough? The Beamer was still moving, the driver maybe trying to process what he’d just seen, or thought he’d seen.
Was it close enough?
It would have to do.
He took out the mobile, punched the number. Stepped back …
The road erupted, parted like an earthquake. The tarmac tore open as if some subterranean monster was clawing its way up to the surface. A blinding flash gave way to a warm funnel of air which lifted him off his feet and threw him across the pavement into the front garden of the house he’d just left.
He lay on his back, dazed, for ten, twenty seconds before his training kicked in. He scrambled onto his belly, peered over the wall. A pall of smoke hung over the road. The Beamer was slewed to one side, seemed intact, maybe a broken windscreen, front tyres melted, rear door opening, uninjured passenger by the look of it but the all-clear not yet given…
Running feet, a blur of uniforms, high-vis jackets coming from all directions. Smoke drifted and curled around a single body lying at the roadside by the lip of the yawning crater formed by the explosion. The blast had been directed vertically, as RED ROOSTER had predicted. Max force into the car cab, that was the idea … except that the car hadn’t reached the spot. His gun was lying a few metres away. He couldn’t remember dropping it. Sloppy.
He retrieved the weapon, pocketed it, moved towards the Beamer in a running crouch. At the junction with London Road the parked car he had seen had its doors open. RED ROOSTER was over the bonnet, held down by a black guy – ah, the copper, Odunsi. Others, too – the DI, Pepper, and two uniforms … anyway, that was RED ROOSTER’s problem. He’d played his part. JC joined the paramedics gathered around the fallen woman’s body and saw that she was holding a lanyard on which hung a photo ID – Detective Constable Tess Martin.
A gaggle of uniforms had surrounded the BMW. A tall woman in her thirties, instantly recognisable, was being helped out. She seemed unhurt, just dazed. She wanted to go to the copper’s assistance but an aide was saying no, holding her back. The BMW driver was standing on the pavement, shaking his head, bleeding from facial cuts, arguing with the paramedics, insisting they look to his passenger, leave him be. Shock: it did funny things to the mind. The guy was just doing his job.
Just like he was.
But now it was time to leave.
Worry about the fallout later. As he walked away he threw a backward glance at the medics working on Tess Martin’s prone body. If she kicked it, he’d be OK – no witnesses. He glanced around, nervous now. That other guy he’d caught in his peripheral … no sign of him. Maybe the old hyper-vigilance thing was playing him up – had made it up. The shrink said that was always possible, but it usually happened after the job, not during it. Like what happened with Jane, during the night. His daughter, in the doorway. ‘Why are you hurting Mummy?’
Another glance back, through the drifting smoke. Crowds were gathering. The defib machine had appeared, was being applied. Tess Martin’s body jerked once, twice. He kept going, thumbed his radio button.
‘Charlie One Eleven, aborting. Heavy police presence onsite. Asset safe.’ He felt a stab of frustration hearing himself say the words. ‘Charlie One Eleven, I repeat, asset safe.’
He was halfway along London Road, hood up, trying to igno
re the sirens, the constant flow of emergency vehicles, when the black car pulled up alongside. He made a rapid assessment. Not the Irish, too obtrusive. Not the team – they’d use a van, leastways that’s what they’d always used before for quick pickups and in any case, Control hadn’t been in touch to say they were picking him up.
He kept walking, past the Chinese students’ building, keeping to the inside of the pavement, ready to cut away if need be. But there was a guy waiting, just ahead by Kendrick Road. JC glanced behind. Another guy, walking towards him in a leisurely fashion. OK – other side, by the garage. He made a further, quick mental reconnaissance. Three cars, one filling up, one driving away. One waiting in one of three parking slots away from the pumps. Red hair, shoulder length. Watching him. Watching the pick up. RED ROOSTER. What the hell?
He tried his radio. ‘Charlie One Eleven. I have a slight problem. Please acknowledge.’
No response.
‘Charlie One Eleven. Require assistance urgently. Please respond.’
Nothing. Not even static.
The electric rear window of the black car slid down soundlessly, and a cultured, well-mannered voice spoke. ‘Hop in JC, old chap. No fuss, there’s a good fellow. We’d like to have a word.’
JC moistened his lips. This time, he knew there was nowhere else to go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Moran hauled the dinghy up the beach and secured it alongside a group of jagged, seaweed-encrusted rocks. It would be partially hidden from any casual observer, something which might be desirable in the not-too-distant future. Thankfully, the weather had remained fair and the sea calm; he doubted whether his half-remembered seamanship skills would have risen to the challenge of poor visibility, or even worse, high winds and rain.
Not for the first time he wondered how Charlie was faring, how close they were to exposing Black’s plot. He fished out his mobile. Dead. His home team were on their own. Best just to concentrate on what he could achieve in the here and now. He checked the dinghy’s moorings with a firm tug and, satisfied, set off inland.