Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  Where was he? His watch told him it was past two in the morning. He could have reached London. What had made the noise? He looked towards the doors. The salmon pall of sodium lights leaked around them. He must have reached the truck’s depot—

  A second scraping bang. The other locking bar being released. Someone was opening the trailer.

  Reeve ducked again. Stowaways were not welcome in the haulage trade. He wanted to avoid a confrontation with the driver, and especially the police.

  The doors swung open, sickly light flooding in. ‘Let’s ’ave a look,’ someone said. Essex accent, coarse and harsh. ‘Where’s the paperwork?’

  ‘Here.’ The driver. ‘You need a hand?’

  ‘Nah, I got the trolley. You goin’ straight ’ome?’

  ‘Fucking right I am.’ A laugh, then both men walked away.

  Reeve raised his head. The truck had reversed to a loading dock. A warehouse, pallets of goods stacked high. The retreating men had their backs to him. He climbed over the boxes, stiff from the long journey. Hunger clenched at his stomach, and he felt clear symptoms of dehydration. His priority was finding water and food.

  After he got clear. He crept to the doors. Rain drummed on a corrugated awning above. The two men were still heading away. He slipped out and jumped down to the tarmac—

  ‘Oi!’

  A bald, burly man was having a smoke between the loading docks. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ He flicked away his cigarette and advanced, calling out: ‘We’ve got a thief here!’

  Reeve lifted his empty hands. ‘I didn’t steal anything,’ he said. ‘I just needed a ride.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what you all say. Fuckin’ gippos.’ Behind, Reeve heard the two other men running back towards him.

  ‘I don’t want trouble.’ He tried to walk on, but the man blocked him. ‘Just let me past, and you won’t see me again.’

  The bald man glowered. ‘You’re not going anywhere, you thieving bastard.’ The other pair reached the loading dock, one jumping down beside the trailer. ‘Come here—’

  He grabbed Reeve’s injured arm.

  It felt like a branding iron searing his flesh. Reeve lurched back – then trained instinct took over.

  He twisted free of his opponent’s grip – and whirled. His right elbow smashed into the man’s meaty face like a hammer. A sickening snap as he felt a tooth break. The man’s head jerked backwards. Before he could even spit out a bloodied scream, Reeve completed his spin. His foot slammed into the bald man’s paunchy stomach. He crashed against the neighbouring truck.

  Reeve faced the man who had jumped down. His eyes were wide in fear. ‘Whoa, fuck,’ he gasped, hurriedly retreating.

  The other man above him looked to be considering avenging his workmate. Reeve stared at him. He backed away. His companion scrambled up on to the loading dock. ‘Call the fuckin’ cops!’ he yelled.

  Other voices rose inside the warehouse. Reeve turned, vaulting the moaning man to run out from between the trailers.

  He was in a transport company’s yard, the open gate thirty metres away. He raced past parked trucks towards it. More shouts from behind. Someone was calling the police. He charged out on to a street.

  An industrial estate lay beyond, anonymous buildings behind tall, barbed-wire-topped fences. A few cars and white vans were parked on the potholed road. No landmarks; he could be anywhere. Which way – left or right?

  The nearest corner was left. He ran around it. The new street was as nondescript as the other. Most of the businesses were closed and dark, gates chained shut. He hurried past them. With someone attacked and injured, the police would be quick to the scene.

  He had to get away before they arrived. If he was arrested, his wound would be recorded in the system. SC9 would be alerted. They would come for him.

  They would kill him.

  Reeve reached a junction. The road to the left led only to a darkened building. He continued right. A street sign. The name meant nothing – but after it was written SW19. Southwest London; at least he now had a vague idea of his location.

  He ran on, past a cement works, a scrapyard, more industrial units. The road angled left—

  Shit.

  Dead end. An electricity substation was backed by a railway line. All the walls and fences were topped by spikes or barbs.

  No way out.

  An elderly Seat Ibiza hatchback was parked nearby. He hurried to it. From the plate, over twenty years old. Not fast, not powerful – but it didn’t have an immobiliser or alarm. He could break the steering lock and hotwire it in minutes—

  He didn’t have minutes.

  A siren warbled. The police were coming.

  He wouldn’t be able to start the car before they arrived. If they saw him trying to steal it, they would know he was their suspect. They would be ready for a fight.

  But if they weren’t certain . . .

  Reeve left the car, walking – strolling – back the way he had come. In the truck’s shadow, the workers wouldn’t have got a good look at him. The description they gave to the cops would be vague. White, six foot. Maybe they had noticed he was wearing a hoodie. The police would be suspicious if they saw him – but not sure. Their approach would be cautious rather than aggressive.

  He hoped. If they were anything like Stone, they might start with batons drawn and escalate . . .

  Hood up, he maintained his casual walk. The siren had stopped, but he now heard an approaching car. Strobing blue flashes preceded it around a corner. A Metropolitan Police Vauxhall Astra estate with blue-and-yellow Battenberg markings. No yellow dots on the windows. Not Armed Response, then, but a standard patrol car. No guns.

  They would still have weapons, though. Tasers and incapacitant sprays.

  The Astra swung towards him with a quick whoop-whoop of its siren. Reeve slowed, feigning surprise. The driver’s window lowered, a man regarding him warily. ‘Excuse me, sir. Can you stop, please?’

  Reeve did so. If they were certain they had their suspect, they would have ordered, not asked. ‘What’s up?’

  The car halted. Two officers in rainproof hi-vis jackets got out, leaving the engine running. The equipment on their belts was exposed and in easy reach – including incapacitants. The driver stopped in front of Reeve, the other to his right. He shifted to keep his bloodied left arm in shadow. ‘A man was assaulted not far from here,’ said the driver. ‘The suspect ran in this direction. Have you seen anyone?’

  Reeve shrugged. ‘No.’

  The other officer spoke. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Another shrug. ‘On my way home from a mate’s.’

  The two men exchanged looks. They knew the road was a dead end. The driver sidestepped, trying to get a better look at Reeve’s left sleeve. ‘Sir,’ he intoned, ‘I have reasonable suspicion to believe you were involved in the incident.’

  A huff of affronted innocence. ‘What? I haven’t done anything.’

  Both officers stepped closer. ‘We have the authority to search you under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. If you will turn around and show us your clothing—’

  Reeve turned – and kept turning.

  The second cop was already reaching for him as he spun. Reeve scythed his feet out from under him with a leg sweep. The unprepared man fell heavily to the kerb. Before he even hit the ground, Reeve had spun back at his partner. He slammed the heel of his open palm against the driver’s nose. Cartilage crunched. The man staggered back, howling.

  Reeve ducked and tore open a pouch on the officer’s belt. He snatched out a container of CS spray and squirted it at the driver. The cop screamed, clawing at his eyes. Reeve whipped back around and sprayed his partner too. He had been getting up; he dropped again, wailing and swearing.

  Reeve leapt into the car. He reversed at speed, making a fast J-turn and powering away. He
couldn’t drive it for long. All Met vehicles had trackers, and the downed cops would soon raise the alarm. He just needed to get clear of the industrial estate. Once out, he could lose himself in the capital’s streets.

  He shot past the haulage yard, onlookers watching in surprise. A couple of turns, and he reached flats and houses. He kept going, registering a direction sign for a hospital. Several more corners, then he pulled over.

  Nobody about. Unsurprising, at two-thirty on a miserable night. First job: clean the car of fingerprints. He tugged his right sleeve over his hand and wiped down the steering wheel. Same again on the gear lever and door handles. He had kept his hood up and head down while driving. The interior cameras hopefully hadn’t got a clear shot of his face. Hand still covered, he opened the door and got out.

  He had no idea where he was, but at least he was no longer penned in. He started walking. Even though he hadn’t used his left arm in the fight, it was hurting again. Paracetamol wouldn’t cut it. He needed something stronger.

  The hospital. Head lowered, he walked on through the rain.

  CHAPTER 16

  Connie Jones fought to contain a head-splitting yawn as she closed her locker. Don’t go to sleep yet! You still have to drive home.

  She donned her coat over her staff nurse’s uniform, then shouldered her handbag. Three in the morning, indeed. Why had she agreed to work such ridiculous shifts? But if she hadn’t, someone else would have had to. With the staff stretched to the limit, sharing the worst shifts equally was only fair. Besides, patients didn’t stop needing help just because it was dark.

  It had been a tough night. One of her patients had died. A gentle old lady called Sandra finally succumbed to a lung infection. The previous evening, they had shared a joke about politics. Now she was gone. Her smile existed only in memory. A wave of sadness at the idea. Sometimes, Connie wondered if she was in the wrong profession. No matter how much help she gave people, in the end . . .

  She shook off the maudlin thought. The inevitability of death wasn’t what mattered. Helping people live as best they could before it arrived did. She had done all she could to make Sandra comfortable in her last hours. Nobody should die alone and scared and in pain. At least she had been able to smile.

  A sigh, then she turned to leave. Ten hours, and she would be back. Before Brexit, many of the hospital’s nurses had been Spanish or Portuguese. Now most had returned home, those remaining having to cover the gaps. And there were a lot of gaps. But people didn’t stop getting sick, whatever belt-tightening cruelties the politicians and accountants imposed.

  She said goodbye to friends as she headed out. The last was Martin, the night porter. ‘See you tomorrow, Martin.’

  ‘Not if I win the lottery,’ he said, looking up from his sudoku.

  Connie smiled, then took the lift up through the car park. Another ‘perk’ of the job; paying for the privilege of parking at her own workplace. At least she got – woo! – a whopping ten per cent staff discount. But she had little choice. Her flat was beyond walking distance, and public transport added forty minutes’ travel each way.

  Her car was on the top floor, an ageing gold Citroën Saxo. She scurried to it through the rain. Another yawn as she took her seat, then she pulled out.

  Down the concrete spiral to the gate. The machine swallowed her ticket, and the barrier rose. She turned on to the road—

  ‘Oh, shit, shit! Shit shit shit!’ Connie slapped a hand on the wheel at her own stupidity.

  She had forgotten her phone! It was still in her locker; she couldn’t use it while on duty. How could she not have picked it up? Idiot!

  The car passed the hospital’s pedestrian entrance, but there was nowhere to stop. Every street within half a mile was either double-yellow or permit parking only. And it was entirely possible to get a ticket even in the dead of night. She knew that from experience.

  She had to go back. But using the car park again, even for five minutes, meant another few pounds wasted. She objected on principle as much as to the hit to her restricted finances.

  Wait – the delivery area. Parking there was strictly verboten. But nobody would be coming at this time of night, and Martin surely wouldn’t object . . .

  She went around the hospital. The loading bay was down an alley. She swung the Saxo in. Multiple warning signs, and the whole area was hatched with red lines. But it wasn’t an ambulance bay, so she wouldn’t be obstructing anything important. Just to be sure, she backed into a corner out of sight of the road.

  Martin was already at the entrance when she got out. ‘Hey! You can’t park – oh, Connie.’

  ‘Hi, Martin,’ she said with her brightest smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I left my phone. I’ll be two minutes. Please, please let me stop here while I get it.’

  He sucked air through his teeth. ‘I shouldn’t, but . . . okay. Be quick.’

  ‘I always knew there were still good guys around,’ Connie told him, as she hurried inside.

  Reeve looked up at the hospital. It was a mix of shabby Victorian buildings and characterless brick-and-glass blocks. He hoped more money was being spent on patient care than upkeep.

  But he wasn’t planning to check himself in. Rather, he needed medical supplies. The Accident and Emergency department was the place to find them. Examination rooms would have stocks of lidocaine local anaesthetic, Steristrips, antiseptic wash, antibiotics and dressings. Stronger painkillers too.

  How to get them? Normally, he would have properly reconnoitred the place, inside and out. But he had heard more sirens. The police were hunting for him. He had taken down two of their own. That would not be allowed to stand.

  So it would have to be a lightning raid; smash and grab. Risky – maybe too risky. A dangerous cocktail of pain, tiredness, hunger and thirst was affecting his judgement. That he was aware of it was a good sign. It meant his mind still had some focus. But it wouldn’t for much longer. If he didn’t deal with it, he would make mistakes.

  And then he would be dead.

  Reeve made his way around the hospital. That looked promising: an alley between a Victorian wing and one of the newer blocks. A loading bay at the far end. Swing doors, ajar.

  He picked out a camera above the entrance as he walked on. With his head down and hood up, it wouldn’t catch his face.

  Have to chance it. He crossed the road, then doubled back to the alley. A glance around the corner. Still nobody there.

  Go for it.

  Reeve lowered his head, then ran for the doors.

  Connie got back into the Saxo. She still couldn’t believe she had forgotten her phone. Tiredness was scrambling her brain. At least she wasn’t performing neurosurgery. She started the car and moved off—

  Really? Headlights! The phone wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten. She glanced down to find the switch.

  The lights came on as she rounded the corner—

  Someone flashed through them – and tumbled over the bonnet with a bang.

  Reeve raced down the alley – and a car swung around a corner and hit him.

  He bowled over its nose, rolling off the side. He hit the wet ground hard.

  The driver’s door opened. He looked up to assess the threat—

  ‘Oh God, oh my God!’ Connie cried, as she jumped from the car. The man on the ground looked up at her. ‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry!’

  He was hurt, and not just by her car. She saw blood on his dirty clothing, a red-stained bandage around his arm. Cuts and bruises on his face. A homeless man who’d been in a fight?

  No. She was sure of that, without even fully knowing why. He wore running gear, enough bodily contours discernible to reveal he was in excellent shape. The kind of lithe muscularity that came from testing, determined exercise. Late twenties, she estimated. None of a drug abuser’s facial haggardness or the puffiness of an alcoholic. A mugging victim, rushing
to the hospital for help? But the bandage seemed to have been on for some time . . .

  All those thoughts flashed through her mind in the moment before he responded. ‘I’m – I’m okay,’ he said, taking in her uniform. ‘I’m not hurt.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ Connie protested. ‘What happened to your arm? Have you been stabbed?’

  ‘No, no.’ He put a hand on the car for support as he stood. A wince as he straightened his legs.

  ‘No, you’re really hurt. Let me help.’ She moved to aid him. He tried to shrug her off, only to gasp as he moved his left arm. ‘I’ll get you to A&E.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he replied. ‘It’s a bullet wound. If it’s logged into the system, there’ll be questions.’

  Her gaze flicked to his injured arm. ‘You were shot?’

  ‘Through-and-through penetration of the short head of the biceps. The long head and brachial artery aren’t damaged. I’ve washed the wound.’

  Connie blinked at his professional and precise terminology. ‘Are you a qualified medic?’

  ‘No, I’m just an interested amateur.’

  The remark produced an involuntary laugh. ‘Well, I’m a professional,’ she said, smiling. ‘And you do need medical attention.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m the one who should be apologising. I just hit you with my car!’

  ‘My fault. I should have been paying more attention. I need to go.’ He looked back towards the road.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said Connie. ‘You said you washed the wound. With what?’

  ‘Just water.’

  ‘No alcohol or antiseptic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m guessing it hasn’t been sutured either.’

  ‘No.’

  She waved her hands in pleading exasperation. ‘You can’t go. You’ve basically still got an open wound. It’ll almost certainly be infected. At the very least, it needs to be cleaned properly.’

  He indicated the hospital. ‘If I go in there with a bullet wound, you’ll have to log it. The people who shot me will know I’m here. They’ll come to finish the job.’