by Paul Watson
Copyright © 2019 by Paul Watson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
paulwatsonbooks.com
Reflux
An Andy Teague Thriller
Paul Watson
Table of Contents
Copyright information
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Author's note
ONE
Andy strolled through the narrow alleyway on a warm June evening and stopped to let the gaggle of teenagers push past him. He loved the smell of London in the summer: floral scents mixed with vapour from soft tarmac. After stooping through the door to the pub, Andy approached the barman, ordered a pint of “Werrels Red Snapper” and left the bar.
He stood on the pavement behind a red rope, and the robust tang of the beer cheered him; he gulped it to slake his thirst. As he waited, the air became tinged with the odour of drains.
‘Hello mate, the roads from the airport were busy.’ Steve faced Andy from the other side of the rope.
Andy sipped his beer. ‘Great to see you, buddy.’
‘I’ll get you a refill.’
Andy finished his drink and traded his empty glass for Steve’s cabin bag; Steve walked into the bar.
A yellow mountain bike zipped around the corner. The rider had dirty blond long hair and wore a grey hoodie, a facemask and no helmet.
The rider’s protective gear appeared strange to Andy; why go to the trouble of filtering out nitrogen dioxide but leave yourself unprotected against head injury?
Andy’s concerns proved correct. The cyclist rode straight into him and knocked Andy through the rope. The rider grabbed Steve’s bag, turned and stepped on the pedals ready to get away.
Andy bounced to his feet and grabbed the bike under the seat post.
‘Don’t think so mate.’
The cyclist slammed the back of his head into Andy’s nose; Andy sensed adrenalin surge. He forced his arms around the guy’s upper arms and squeezed tight as he put his head fast against the rider’s ear. Andy’s bear hug immobilised the cyclist.
‘How romantic,’ said Steve, who emerged with the drinks.
‘Call the police.’
Steve complied and then helped Andy hold the thief.
The police arrived in a car and a van; a street robber was a good arrest, and there were plenty of units available this early in the evening. A young police officer in her early twenties strode towards them.
‘What happened?’
‘This lad smashed his bike into me and tried to make off with the bag.’
‘Is this true Jake?’
Jake said nothing.
Two male police officers took hold of the robber. One was thickset with greying temples and cauliflower ears, and the other was pale and skinny.
‘Hi Amy,’ they said to the female officer.
Steve stepped away; Amy took off Jake’s face mask, arrested him and cuffed him.
‘How are the cuffs Jake, are they comfortable?’
Andy watched with interest. He enjoyed observing details: the small simple steps that combine to create techniques and processes. The police officers pushed Jake over to the van and searched him; they removed his small blue backpack and handed it to Amy.
Jake entered the van; the driver closed the door.
‘Amy, can you book him in? Jamie and me can take statements.’
‘No problem, Rob.’ Amy hopped into the van and it drove off.
Rob, the thickset officer, turned to Andy, ‘Well done holding Jake until we got here, he weighs as much as a flea, but he’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘He was wriggling and wrestling and had huge strength for a tiny man.’
‘Jake’s wanted on warrant, so you’ve done us a favour holding on to him.’
‘Do you want me to take statements Rob?’ said Jamie.
‘Yes please, start with these men and then see if you can get details of a few witnesses too. I’ll see what CCTV we can find.’
Jamie walked over to the police car and rummaged in a sports bag; he brought out a leather folder. Rob entered the bar to retrieve the CCTV.
Andy sat with Jamie at a table outside the bar and answered questions about the incident. He saw Steve stood over by the mountain bike, chatting to two ladies in their early thirties who were drinking Prosecco and laughing. Steve put his backpack on with one strap, and then with both straps, and sucked in his belly. One woman snorted Prosecco through her nose as she laughed at Steve.
‘Your mate’s a ladies man. I’d better be quick, get this finished, and get his statement too, while he still remembers the incident.’ Jamie took Andy’s contact details and wrote Andy’s mobile number, which ended in the three digits 999.
A loud beep burst from Jamie’s radio.
‘Urgent assistance required in the front foyer, Theatre Royal Drury Lane, he’s stabbed me,’ said the voice from the radio.
‘Gotta go. We’ll be in touch.’
Rob rushed from the bar and climbed into the driving seat of the police car; the blue lights lit up, and the two-tone siren deafened the customers outside the bar. Jamie ran to the car and jumped into the passenger seat. The police Astra beeped its horn at two men standing in the road blocking its exit and then shot off and turned right.
Andy joined Steve, and the two women smiled and wandered off. Andy picked up a piece of card that lay on the ground near the cycle. It was a photo of Steve.
‘You’ve dropped a passport photo mate.’
‘It’s not mine, I’ve not had my passport renewed for a few years.’
TWO
Rob and Jamie were first on the scene outside the theatre. Rob braked, shut off the engine and siren but left the rear reds and blue roof lights flashing. He joined Jamie on the pavement.
Jamie saw his colle
ague, Gary, talking to a man in a white Panama hat. Gary had removed his stab vest, and his shirt was open, revealing a small cut on his flabby abdomen.
‘I’m all right. The knife got stuck in the plates of my vest, it still got through and nicked me though. Serious knife, and he used a hell of a lot of force; have you got a weapons tube in the car?’
Gary held up a knife, and Jamie studied it; the blade was thick at the top and sharpened to a lethal edge at the bottom, with serrations. It had two-inch-long cut-outs on the flats of the blade, near the handle; they were blood flutes to release the suction and ease withdrawal from the flesh. Jamie recognised it as a standard issue British Army combat knife.
‘All right mate, you’re doing great,’ said Jamie. ‘We’ll find him and go through the rest later. Where did he go?’
‘I stopped him on the street as I’d seen him an hour ago in the same spot. I was just going to chat to him to find what he was up to, but he’s not chatty I guess. He pushed through the crowd going into the theatre.’
‘Description?’
‘White male, early thirties, 5 foot 10, he wore long orange shorts.’
‘The ambulance is on its way Gary, but it looks like a scratch, the weapons tubes are in the boot,’ said Rob, and he gave Gary the car keys. ‘Jamie cover the front exit; no-one in or out. I’ll go around the back: firearms are on their way, along with everyone else.’
Jamie walked up to the front door of the theatre and stood under the canopy which provided welcome relief from the sun.
He peered inside the foyer, at the polished white and black tiled floor, as sunlight glinted off the glass chandelier which hung from the centre of an ornate ceiling. Jamie positioned himself with his shoulder against one of the glass doors, so it was impossible to open it. The swell of theatre goers exited past a central pillar, either one or two at a time, and police officers shepherded them inside a cordon. Two girls around fourteen years old came out crying and hugging each other, and their parents followed close. In his peripheral vision, Jamie glimpsed a single figure, descending a wide carpeted staircase. Jamie stared at the man and noticed that he wore orange shorts. The suspect stopped and returned to the first-floor.
Jamie pushed through the crowd and ran to the foot of the stairs. He gazed upwards and glimpsed the man disappearing around the half landing and up the second flight. Jamie bolted up the stairs and pressed a button on his radio.
‘I’m in pursuit of a suspect,’ said Jamie. He ran up the stairs and bounded around the corner, pushing off the wall to change direction through 180 degrees.
‘That’s all received, keep up the commentary Jamie.’
‘Suspect ahead at the end of the corridor, first-floor landing, about twenty metres away; he’s gone through a door on the left.’ Jamie reached the door and kicked it open; there was no-one there. He was at the base of a concrete spiral staircase, newer than the rest of the theatre. A sign fixed to the wall instructed: ‘Roof access only, no access to the public.’
‘I’m going up a set of stair’s. It looks like it goes to the roof, call in the helicopter if available.’
‘That’s received, India 99 are you available to deal?’ said the voice the other end of Jamie’s radio.
‘This is India 99, we’re in the air, and nearby, we can look.’
Jamie continued running up the concrete staircase. After thirty seconds he reached a small concrete landing; a green fire door with a horizontal opening bar blocked his progress. Jamie raised his knee, thrust his hips forward, pulled his toes back and smashed the heel of his Magnum police boots into the bar. On the other side, blue sky stretched over the city rooftops. Jamie stepped out and surveyed the area. He stood on a stable platform, surrounded by railings; below him was another roof of less robust construction.
I could jump but would I fall through the roof?
Jamie noticed the knife man, stood at the edge of the platform, to his right.
Perhaps he’s thinking the same thing.
The sound of rotor blades preceded the sight of the police chopper above them.
‘This is I99, we’ve got the suspect and an officer in view on the roof. The suspect has nowhere to go.’ The guy in orange shorts heard the message blast out of Jamie’s radio, and he stared at his only exit, the door behind Jamie.
Jamie put his feet shoulder width apart, his weight on the leg furthest from the suspect. The knife man sprinted towards the door. Jamie tensed his core, took a step to the side and threw a punch as the guy arrived. He punched the man just under the nose which knocked out a tooth.
Jamie twisted clockwise and drove his left fist into the suspect’s solar plexus; the suspect bent at the hip and vomited onto the roof. As the man bent down, Jamie struck with an uppercut. There was a momentary expression of utter astonishment on the guy’s face before he collapsed.
The suspect fell on his side and bounced on the corner of the small platform, sliding over the boundary between a gap in the railings. Jamie heard a thud and cracking noise and then peered over the ledge and saw a hole in the roof covering below him. It was dark inside the hole and Jamie couldn’t detect any movement.
Rob’s voice spoke through the radio. ‘They’ve called me up to the lighting booth on the first-floor. I need urgent medical help. I also need CID.’
THREE
Andy examined the glossy piece of card, bigger than a typical passport photo. On the back were eight characters: FR006436, handwritten in neat black ink with no smudges. ‘Let me see your passport Steve.’
Steve reached into his side pocket and pulled out a small maroon coloured book; on its front, embossed in gold, stood a crowned lion opposite a chained unicorn.
Steve handed the passport to Andy, who thumbed over the first two pages until he came to the photo page.
Andy placed the photo found on the street next to it.
‘The photos are identical. The passport is years old, but this photo we’ve found is new.’
Andy turned the photo over again to reveal the numbers. ‘No match with the passport number.’ Andy closed the booklet and passed it back to Steve. ‘It’s weird mate. Maybe you should go to the police?’
‘Look at that. The numbers match.’
They stared at the passport. About two-thirds of the way down the maroon booklet, to the right and at an angle was a sticker; it had a yellow panel at the top and a white area at the bottom.
On the yellow part, was the words: MANUAL BAG TAG. On the white part, there were characters, in a light grey font: FR 006436; the same characters written on the back of the photo found near the bike.
‘Strange. Which airport did you fly from?’
‘I was on the plane from Dublin this afternoon.’
‘Did you meet anyone odd?’
‘There was one man in arrivals waiting by the luggage carousel. I stood right next to him, and as my bag came up, he grabbed it. My name tag was on the handle and I took it off him. I said, “Thanks mate, that’s mine,” and then rushed off through the green channel.’
‘Shall we look inside the bag?’
FOUR
The police van approached the barrier, and the driver parked in the yard. A skinny man, smoking a cigarette, leaned on a wire cage; a uniformed officer stood next to him.
Amy climbed from the van and opened its rear door; Jake sat on the small bench.
‘Let’s go Jake.’ Amy took hold of his arm. Jake stepped from the van. It was still hot outside, and Amy dreaded spending the next few hours inside with no air conditioning.
As a probationer, she was glad of the arrest; a street robber was a huge tick on her record, but she would prefer to be driving around in the sunshine until it got dark, and the evening got busy.
Amy pushed open the door to the metal cage, and Jake walked in, followed by Amy and the van driver. They stepped into a room with a blue vinyl floor; the familiar smells of stale lager and dead skin hung in the air.
A large desk stood at the entrance to the custody suite; two s
ergeants sat behind computer terminals. The one to the left had a bald head and his mouth set in a thin horizontal line; he sat ramrod upright in his chair, unblinking.
In front of this sergeant stood a girl around 16 years old, wearing white trainers. A red handbag sat on the counter and a police officer poured out the contents and stuffed them into a plastic bag.
‘One phone, one lipstick.’
The sergeant on the right drank from a mug that resembled a tin of baked beans. He had a wide grin, short silver hair and a chest as full as a tree trunk.
‘Next customer please.’
Amy approached his desk.
‘Hi Sarge, I arrested this man for attempted robbery at 19.15 outside the Lamb and Flag pub, Rose Street. He tried to steal a backpack from a man drinking outside the pub.’
‘How’s he been Amy, do we need the bracelets?’
‘No, he’s OK.’ Amy pulled a bunch of keys from her pocket, and unlocked the cuffs on Jake’s wrist.
‘I’m authorising your detention to obtain evidence by questioning,’ the sergeant said to Jake. ‘Would you like to call a solicitor?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Any property Amy?’
‘Just this backpack Sarge.’ Amy placed the small blue backpack on the counter.
‘Nice phone Jake,’ said the sergeant as Amy decanted the contents of the pack; Jake didn’t smile.
‘Just papers Sarge.’ Amy put the paper into a property bag along with the phone; she sealed the bag and signed it.
‘Right, fingerprints and then DNA please Amy.’
‘You know the way Jake.’
Jake shivered. He was pale and clammy. ‘I need my meds.’
‘Sarge can you organise the FME please? Jake’s ill.’
‘He’s already on his way; we need to take blood from the drink drive in cell 3.’
Jake entered a small white room. In the room stood a machine like a large photocopier with a computer screen. A fridge sat on the floor next to a drawer unit, and two chairs nestled against the wall. The smell changed from stale lager to one that reminded Amy of changing the nappy on her older sister’s baby: the aroma wasn’t unpleasant. Amy used the baby wipes to clean Jake’s dirty fingers before taking fingerprints. She swabbed Jake’s mouth for DNA too.