by Ellis, Tim
They both fired.
The door swung open, and then they heard cries of, ‘My leg! Fuck, I’ve been hit.’
They dived through the door just as a sustained burst of gunfire screamed past them and thudded into the end wall.
‘Where are we?’ Xena asked.
Scylla shone the torch around the empty room. ‘In deep shit, I’d say.’
‘There’s no way out?’
‘No wonder you’re a detective.’
‘How many bullets have you got left?’
‘I’ve not been counting, but I’ve used one magazine and emptied probably half of this one.’
‘No more magazines?’
‘No.’
By the weight of the magazine, Xena guessed she had about fifteen rounds left. She moved to the door, pointed the Glock up the corridor and let off three rounds.
‘Bronwyn and Xena’s last stand,’ Scylla said.
‘Xena and Bronwyn’s last stand. My seniority should count for something.’
‘Of course, I forgot you were a senior citizen.’
Return gunfire whizzed past the door.
‘Any bright ideas?’ Xena asked.
‘We should have gone up.’
‘Great.’
***
Sliding the Pulsar night vision goggles onto his head and switching them on, he moved into the basement corridor and squatted until his eyes adjusted. It had been at least ten years since he’d looked through the familiar telescopic lenses that sucked in all the available light and turned it into an eerie green.
There were no human objects or movement that he could detect, but the acetone stench of cordite from weapon fire hung in the air as if he’d walked into a nail bar in the centre of Chigwell.
What was he getting himself into? He should really wait for back-up to arrive, but he was a senior officer and had no excuse for sitting on the fence like a rookie.
Although the two men he’d killed were carrying Uzis, all their other equipment was standard police issue, such as the night goggles. Were they police officers? It was a sad day for policing if they were.
His thumb eased the safety catch of the Uzi.
Slowly, he moved forward.
How many men were there? Who were they after? Were they really chasing down suspects?
He had no information, and toyed with the idea of using the radio to talk to the person in charge, but he didn’t want to show his cards too soon. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone in blind, but he preferred to have intelligence of who and what he was dealing with.
‘Jennings?’ came out of the radio.
Should he pretend to be Jennings again?
‘Where the fuck are you, Jennings?’
‘This is DCI Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station – who’s that?’
There was a long silence and then, ‘Hello, Ray. Where are you?’
‘In the reception with your two men, and I’d like to know what’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, Ray – top secret.’
‘Who are you?’
Silence.
‘Give me the name of someone I can talk to. I need to know that you have the authority to be down there.’ He didn’t want to give the game away and let whoever it was know that he was already in the basement with them.
No response.
It appeared as though he’d got as much information as he was going to get.
He kept shuffling forward until he came to a crossroads. Now what? He stared straight ahead, right and then left. There was a round object on the floor.
He crouched and picked it up. The casing was still warm. An M84 stun grenade – standard issue for Special Operations. Maybe he had stumbled onto a Top Secret operation. If he’d had his phone, and there’d been a signal, he could have called someone in the Special Operations Directorate and found out one way or the other, but he didn’t.
He heard gunfire some way down the corridor to his left.
As he turned his head, he caught a glimpse of movement and the flashes from a muzzle.
He threw himself backwards beyond the corner of the wall.
Bullets screamed past him and one smashed into the corner of the right-hand wall, spraying shards of plaster into the air.
No police operation would authorise the murder of a senior police officer. Now he knew what he was dealing with. These were rogue officers.
Whoever was in charge had sent one of his men back along the corridor to deal with Kowalski. Clearly, they were here to do a job and leave no witnesses.
He stuck his head round the corner, saw movement and fired.
A grunt followed.
They were all wearing bullet-proof vests. He should have taken a vest off one of the dead men, but he hadn’t. Keeping low, he took another look round the corner of the wall. The man was lying in the corridor.
He waited, saw movement and took a head-shot.
The man jerked backwards.
There was no more movement.
What the hell was he doing? After it was all over, would he be proved right? Or would he be locked up for multiple counts of murder and interfering in an authorised operation.’
He moved forward, but kept the Uzi aimed at the man’s head. There was no movement – the man was dead.
The radio crackled. ‘Motson, did you get him?’
It wasn’t his radio, it was the dead man’s – they’d changed frequency.
After removing his radio, he stripped off the dead man’s vest and shrugged into it. The radio was in the pocket, and he attached the earpiece and throat mike. Then, he helped himself to the man’s Uzi – it didn’t hurt to have a back-up – and the spare magazines.
Christ! He’d come to see Jerry. Instead, here he was doing a very good impression of John McClane in Die Hard.
Would he get out of this alive? Would he see Jerry again? At least he knew she’d pulled through. The kids still had one parent to look after them. If he was killed in the line of duty, Jerry would get a substantial lump sum and a decent pension. She was still young enough to find another man. Of course, any replacement wouldn’t be Ray Kowalski, but he’d be good enough to keep Jerry warm at night.
He hugged the wall as he moved forward again, but then felt cold metal on his neck.
Dropping the Uzi, so that it hung on its strap from his shoulder he held up his hands and slowly turned his head.
Had they come up behind him? He was getting sloppy in his old age.
A police officer pulled him back to the crossroads, and they moved behind the wall.
The Chief Constable was standing there.
‘Hello, Sir. You got here quickly.’
‘That’s what helicopters are for. What’s going on, Ray?’
‘All I know is that two men tried to kill me on the stairs leading down here, and that guy lying in the corridor . . .’ He hooked his thumb round the left-hand corner. ‘. . . was sent back to kill me after I spoke to the man in charge. I think they’re police officers, but whatever’s going on here hasn’t been authorised.’
‘Nobody can get hold of Assistant Commissioner Bruce Artell, but his deputy – Commander Clair Ross – has said that she knows of no operation that has been authorised at King George Hospital. Are you sure they’re police officers?’
‘I’m not sure of anything. I got a call from the hospital saying that Jerry had woken up . . .’
‘That’s great to hear, Ray.’
‘Thanks . . . Anyway, the doctor said they were having problems with the lights, and the back-up generator hadn’t kicked in, so I brought a torch with me. When I got here, and went to climb the stairs to the ward, I spotted two officers with weapons on the stairs leading down here. I showed them my warrant card, asked them what was going on, and things went downhill from there. One of them said they were chasing two suspects, but I have no idea who.’
‘Suspects? Terrorist suspects?’
‘I have no idea, but why would they try to kill me?’
He indicated the radio. ‘Their leader is on the other end of this, but . . . if you speak to him, and he’s not prepared to give himself up, you’ll lose any element of surprise.’
The Chief Constable nodded. ‘Yes, but I think we have to find out what’s going on before we charge in with all guns blazing.’
‘I have the feeling it’s too late for that.’
He passed the radio over to the Chief Constable.
‘This is chief Constable William Orde from Essex Police Force, who’s there?’
There was no response.
‘You have nowhere to go. I have an armed response team here with me. Three of your men are already dead. Give yourselves up, and we can prevent any more needless loss of life.’
‘If you send in the ART, we’ll kill them,’ a voice said over the radio.
‘Give yourselves up, and then I won’t have to.’
There was no further response.
‘I think you’ve had your answer, Sir,’ Kowalski said.
‘So it would seem.’ He turned to the commander of the ART. ‘In most cases I’d say we wait and negotiate, but I don’t think that’s going to work here. Are you prepared to go in?’
‘We’re ready, Sir.’
‘You’re authorised to use deadly force. Prepare your men.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’ll join . . .’
‘Stand down, Kowalski.’
‘But . . .’
‘You’re too old, you have a suspect heart, Jerry’s waiting for you, you haven’t been part of an ART for at least ten years . . . need I go on?’
‘I could . . .’
‘. . . Wait here with me. Any more suggestions?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Sir.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘What’s that?’ Xena said.
‘I thought you’d be familiar with the sound of gunfire after what we’ve been through.’
She stuck her head out of the door. ‘They’re not firing at us.’
Scylla sat with her back against the wall. ‘Who are they firing at then?’
‘That’s a brilliant question.’
‘And what’s the answer?’
‘I can only imagine that they’re firing at other coppers – an armed response team would be my guess. Who else would have firearms? Somebody must have raised the alarm.’
‘Who’d have thought I’d be glad to see a bunch of coppers with guns?’
‘You’re just typical of the general public. No thanks. No gratitude. All we get are complaints, complaints and more complaints. We risk our lives day in and day out to keep you safe in your beds, to safeguard your property, to . . .’
‘Will this be a long speech?’
‘Start firing back up the corridor. We’ll catch them in a crossfire, and maybe get out of this hellhole in one piece.’
It didn’t take them long to empty their magazines up the corridor towards their pursuers, and then they sat back down against the wall in the darkness and waited for the end of their journey to arrive – one way or another.
‘If it’s the cops they’ll arrest me, won’t they?’ Scylla said.
‘And throw the key away if I have anything to do with it.’
‘If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead by now.’
‘I only have your say-so on that. They could have been coming here to ask me to join them. You’ve probably robbed me of a well-paid job opportunity.’
‘Yeah, I can believe you’d fucking turn me in. God, I hate coppers.’
‘Hello?’ a man’s voice seeped along the corridor.
‘We’ve got fucking bazookas,’ Xena shouted.
‘We’re the good guys, but you can stay down here if you want to.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Sergeant Austin Camacho – CO19.’
‘What about the other guys?’
‘They’re all dead.’
The two women edged out into the corridor. ‘We haven’t really got bazookas,’ Scylla said.
‘I think I guessed as much.’
‘I’m DI Xena Blake,’ Xena said. ‘And this is my friend Blodwyn.’
‘Bronwyn,’ Scylla corrected her.
‘Whatever.’
‘Why am I not surprised to find you two here,’ Kowalski said, as he appeared out of the blackness with the Chief Constable at his side.
‘Is that you, DI Blake?’ the Chief Constable asked.
‘Not for much longer, Sir. I think I need to see a . . .’ She was falling, falling, falling . . . into blackness, nothingness . . .
***
‘Is that you again, Toadstone?’
‘I do my best thinking with an uncluttered mind.’
‘I’m very pleased for you – goodnight.’
‘It’s five-thirty.’
‘You’ve robbed me of an hour.’
‘I could have rung you at two-thirty when it came to me.’
‘Go on – astound me with your genius.’
‘Gingerbread and cakes is a reference to Hansel and Gretel. The witch’s cottage was built with gingerbread and cakes. There’s a Hansell’s Mead in Roydon.’
‘And you’ve got people out there already?’
‘Yes. You’re the last person I’ve called . . .’
‘The last? I’m meant to be the first, Toadstone.’
‘But . . .’
‘Never mind trying to apologise. Are you out there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘A tree appeared in the centre of a small patch of grass a month ago. The residents thought the council had put it there, but they hadn’t. We dug it up and found a body underneath.’
‘One of our bodies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Doc Riley out there?’
‘Been and gone. She said to tell you that it was the same as the others.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t call me.’
‘Would you have come?’
‘No. Richards has gone to Warrington, and Angie is on night duty, but that’s not the point. You failed to follow Standard Operating Procedures and left me out of the loop. I’ll have to make a report, there’ll be a disciplinary hearing, lines will have to be drawn . . . it’s going to get ugly, Toadstone.’
‘You do what you need to do, Sir. I have right on my side.’
‘I’ll have to give it some thought. We might be able to get away with a police caution this time. And the message?’
SEVEN GATES
‘The seven gates of the London wall?’
‘That’s what I think. Ludgate, Newgate, Cripplegate, Bishopsgate, Aldgate, Aldersgate and Moorgate.’
‘And?’
‘Well, that’s all I have at the moment.’
‘Sometimes I think you do it on purpose, Toadstone.’
He ended the call and closed his eyes.
That was five bodies now, with a clue to the location of a sixth body. How many more? The women had already been killed. All he could do was bring the murderer to justice, but that was proving easier said than done.
He was wide awake. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep. Jack would be calling for room service soon. He sprang out of bed and put his dressing gown on. Digby nuzzled under the quilt into the warmth he’d left behind and went back to sleep. After a pit-stop, he went down to the kitchen, made himself a coffee and phoned Richards.
‘This had better be good.’
‘A DI’s phone call is always good, Constable.’
‘You can’t call me “Constable” at ten to six in the morning.’
‘I can call you “Constable” any time I feel like it, Constable.’
‘Why are you ringing?’
‘Can I hear a man breathing?’
‘Is that what you called to ask me?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘Three.’
‘Three what?’
‘Three men – one after the other and all together. I had a
n orgy after I’d finished speaking to you last night, and now I’m a bit tired.’
‘Just wait until I tell your mother.’
‘Is that the best you’ve got?’
‘You’re developing a smart mouth, Richards. I got a call from Toadstone.’
‘And just because he woke you up, you thought you’d wake me up?’
‘You really think I’m that petty?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’d worked out that “Gingerbread and cakes” referred to the construction of the witch’s house in . . .’
‘. . . Hansel and Gretel?’
‘Exactly, and there’s a Hansell’s Mead in Roydon where they found another body.’
‘That’s five now. Was there a message?’
‘Seven gates.’
‘Does Paul . . . ?’
‘We both think it refers to the seven gates of the London wall.’
‘I don’t know them.’
‘The Romans built six gates in the wall to accommodate the roads leading in and out of London. A seventh gate was built in medieval times.’
‘This is all very interesting, but I have to . . .’
‘Richards? Richards . . . if you’ve cut me off . . .’
***
‘You may have everyone else fooled, but not me, Xena Blake.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You did it to get a couple of extra weeks in hospital. You love us so much you can’t bear to leave.’
‘Fuck off.’
She felt like shit. When she ran her swollen furry tongue around the inside of her mouth, she could have sworn it was the inside of a gorilla’s arsehole.
They’d taken her back to theatre to repair the wound, which – with her night exertions – had begun to tear open from the inside out. Now, she was propped up in bed with fourteen new sutures running up her stomach, an hour out of the operating theatre, and being tortured by Staff Bitch James.
‘What happened?’
‘What happened, was that due to the hospital’s negligence, I was chased all over the fucking building by a bunch of madmen with guns. Once the NHS Trust pay me the millions in compensation I thoroughly deserve, I’m going to buy my own island in the Caribbean and become a recluse.’