“You still puffing away at those cancer sticks?”
Regan ignored John. He had got used to this line from him over the years.
“I think we wait here. Once he arrives he has to slow down for this junction. That’s when we jump him. See the entrance to the office block just there. He has to slow down to enter. Just leave it to me.”
John nodded.
The rush through London’s morning traffic proved to be a worthwhile cause. Regan discarded his smoked cigarette into the gutter. He looked up and saw Bill’s boss, Dennis Marks, driving a dark green Rover saloon. He was alone. The Rover slowed just like Regan had predicted. He saw the front wheels turn towards the entrance and spoke, “John! Go!”
In seconds both men were standing alongside the Rover, Regan at the driver’s side and John stationed at the opposite side. Marks turned his head to one side then the other. He did not look at the faces. He only had eyes for the two Brownings pointed at him.
Chapter Twenty-One
REGAN TAPPED ON THE driver’s window with the gun barrel and gestured in a downward motion. Marks unwound the window a few inches. “My name is Steve Regan. I’m an undercover cop but you already know who I am. We are going to jump in the car with you and go for a short ride. Do you understand?”
“What if I say ‘no’ or drive off?”
“It will be the last thing you ever do.”
Marks looked into Regan’s eyes, for Regan had removed his Aviators. Another ploy he had learned from John – when negotiating with the ‘enemy,’ let them see your eyes. Marks knew the cop was serious. He pulled up the central locking button on the driver’s door. No sooner had the button clicked the two men got inside and sat down. John sat in the front passenger seat with Regan in the back right behind the driver, Marks. Regan and John had their weapons aimed at the driver’s head. Marks was unaware neither man had released the safety or cocked the Browning SAS-style.
Regan broke the brief silence, “Drive normally and follow my directions. Don’t talk unless I ask a question.” The Customs boss nodded his head in understanding. Regan directed the driver first to execute a U-turn to head towards Central London. After a few hundred yards, Regan spoke again, “Turn right into Tinworth Street, just there,” as he pointed with his free hand in front of the driver’s face. “Now, as soon as you pass that pub on the right, turn left into Randall Street.
The next thirty seconds of the drive were in total silence until Regan spoke again, “Pull over right there. You see the parking space about thirty yards ahead on the right? There.”
There was no answer, but Marks, the driver, did exactly as instructed. This was a side street occupied by small industrial workshops with rolled steel shutters. They were under the railway arches and leased to small businesses by British Rail. There was no movement in the street apart from two stray dogs fighting over a bone at the end of the street. The only noises were the dogs and the trains click-clacking on the railway track above the industrial units.
Dennis spoke as he pulled on the parking brake, “What is it you want from me?”
Regan said, “Only the truth. I have no time to spare and I need to know where Bill is.”
“Bill who?”
Dennis felt the pistol barrel prodded into the nape of his neck.
“Do not fuck around, Mr. Marks. You know who I am talking about. Bill, your agent you sent to Wales to see if I had gone rogue.”
Marks said, “Okay, okay, what do you want to know?”
“I need an address for him or even better, his address and Caroline Sewell’s.”
“What do you want her address for?”
Another prod of the gun barrel produced a wincing noise and left a red weal on the back of Marks’ neck. “Right, alright. I got the message. But how do I know you aren’t on the other side, gone rogue, gone dark?”
“You don’t, but here is how it is. It’s your man who is rogue. He shot me and beat up Blue badly. Raped his missus too. Now he’s on his way to murder a fucking judge. There’s only me and my buddy here can stop him,” Regan paused then shouted close to Marks’ ear, “Underfuckingstand? Capiche? Dig? Comprendez?”
The Customs man recoiled from the noise reverberating in his ear. His body gave an involuntary shudder. “He lives in Finchley at his flat 23A, Hendon Avenue, Finchley. All I know about his barrister girlfriend is she lives in a flat in Ranelagh Gardens, Chelsea. I remember Bill telling me it had a red telephone kiosk on the pavement right outside the entrance.”
Regan calmly said, “Is all this kosher?”
“I swear it is. What happens now?”
“Simple. My buddy will tie you up, gag you and we will put you in the boot of the car...”
“What!”
Regan said, “What what?”
“That’s outrageous. It’s kidnapping. Look, why don’t we go to the office. One phone call and I can call in the cavalry.”
“I don’t have time for all that. You don’t get it. Your man is about to kill a judge any time soon. Besides, your mob will start asking too many questions of me,” Regan said.
John reached into his backpack while Regan was talking. He removed a roll of duct-tape, snapped some off and plastered it over Marks’ mouth.
“Time to shut up...” said John, “Now twist around in your seat, put your arms behind your back.”
Marks complied as John snapped on the plastic cuffs and tightened them so their prisoner’s arms were pinned behind his back. Regan got out of the rear passenger seat and opened the driver’s door. He held Marks’ shoulder and gestured upwards. The prisoner stood up outside the car. Regan pushed him to the rear of the car where John was using the car keys to unlock the boot. It sprang open. Regan positioned Marks so his back was resting on the rear of the car. One push from Regan and Marks fell into the boot with his legs sticking up in the air. John held both Marks’ ankles and twisted so the Customs man ended up on the boot floor mat and his body lay at right angles to the car. In a flash, John snapped another plastic tie around his ankles. Marks could no longer cry out, or move his arms or legs. Satisfied, John closed the boot lid.
“What would you have done if he hadn’t talked, Steve?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe flogged him with a wet lettuce.”
“Same weird sense of humour I see,” John replied. They broke into a trot after secreting the guns in the backpack.
Regan and John ran back to where they had left the Triumph. There was no time to waste.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IT ONLY TOOK A FEW minutes of riding the Bonnie for Regan to feel back in the zone. All thoughts of Bill and Caroline were banished in this space. He gunned the Triumph for what it was worth through Vauxhall, on to Vauxhall Bridge and slewing left into Grosvenor Road reaching speeds of seventy miles per hour. He heard the sound of two-tone horns so checked his mirror and glanced behind him. “Oh shit! Just what we need, a fucking cop car. Hold on tight, John.”
John wondered what the hell Regan was up to because instead of increasing speed, he slowed down to around thirty. He soon found out. Regan had slowed down so he could glance left and right. He was looking for something. The Triumph dipped down at the front as Regan applied the front brake, forcing John to slide into Regan’s back. Then the machine lurched to the right at almost a ninety-degree angle. John saw what Regan was aiming for.
A few seconds later, Regan had reached the end of the pedestrian passageway. It was too narrow for any car, never mind a police car. He looked in the mirror and saw the police car parked on Grosvenor Road at the entrance to the passageway. Regan could not resist smirking.
Several more minutes of riding back in the zone saw Regan arrive in Ranelagh Gardens. The area was occupied by up-market flats. Each building was three storeys high. Where is it? They thought.
“This is the right place, John. Look out for the red telephone box outside a block of flats.”
They saw it at the same time. “There it is!” Both men spoke as one.
> Regan almost dropped the Bonnie in his rush to speak to a security guard in charge of the small residents’ car park.
“Excuse me, mate. Have you seen my friend? Caroline, the barrister. I have some urgent paperwork for her.”
The guard was a huge, black guy who appeared pleased to have someone to talk to. His face lit up on hearing Regan’s inquiry as if no one ever noticed he was there and now he felt important.
He spoke slowly in a West Indian patios, “Yeah, man, lady left already. You mean the blonde barrister lady?” His accent made barrister sound like barista.
Regan nodded, opened his mouth to say something but the guard continued, “Strange thing is man, the boyfriend left after the lady.”
Regan asked, “Why strange?”
“Well man, when the man stay he always leave with her, always together innit?”
“What does the man look like?”
“Hey man! You ain’t no jealous boyfriend or anything, is you?”
Regan burst out laughing, “No way man! She just friend of mine.” Regan in his chameleon way started to imitate the patios.
Regan saw the guard’s shoulders relax before he spoke again, “The man he ugly. Squashed face, man. Can’t see what she see in him. She’s a looker, know what I mean.”
“Thanks, I think...”
The guard hadn’t finished cooperating, “Wait she did say what she doing today. Made a change. She smile for once and had a spring in her step. ‘Not far,’ she said ‘Off to Inner London Sessions. I’m doing a stint as a Recorder.’”
He smiled again before adding, “I made her laugh. I said I didn’t know she was in an orchestra. She gone and told me a Recorder was a part time judge. She said she has a trial starting there today.”
“How long after she left did the guy leave?”
“Strange that. Only a few minutes. I did wonder why they didn’t leave together. It seemed like he was trying to follow her or something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Man, he hid behind that tree down there and watched the lady grab a taxi cab. Then he did the same thing. It was weird, man, like in the films, you know, follow that car,” said the guard with a laugh that would have been infectious in different circumstances.
“How long ago was all this?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
REGAN ROARED OFF ONCE more on the Bonnie with John Barnard clinging to his back. John still had the backpack strapped to him with all the tools of his former trade.
He weaved in and out of the London morning rush hour traffic. Regan felt justified to have chosen the Triumph as his two wheeled pursuit transport in the metropolis. Adrenaline now overwhelmed him and overrode the nagging pain in his side from the gunshot wound. It was just as well because his riding style had to be aggressive but also defensive.
Taxis of the black cab kind and buses are the two worst enemies of anyone on two wheels in London. One black cab tried to carve him up on Chelsea Bridge just like the earlier incident in the race to interdict Marks. Regan swerved to avoid colliding but this time kicked the driver’s door. He was tempted to once again wrench the cab’s offside mirror off before throwing it into the dark Thames below. The driver shook his fist at the disappearing exhaust pipes of the Bonnie.
Regan pulled off the busy Elephant and Castle roundabout into Newington Causeway. He knew exactly where the Inner London Sessions Court House was from years back giving evidence in a case there. As he got close he relaxed the throttle and dropped his speed to around fifteen miles per hour. Both men now had their ‘eyes on.’ Nothing escaped their attention whether moving or stationary.
“There he is,” shouted Regan. Underneath a spreading chestnut tree inside the grounds of the court house stood Bill Morris. He was trying to look nonchalant, smoking a cigarette. Even from a distance Regan could see he had eyeballs on the sandstone steps leading to the entrance of the court building.
There were small groups of people and individuals walking towards the entrance. Some were obviously barristers or solicitors. They all wore the same uniform of dark grey suits and carried grand looking bags. It was even possible to say who were the barristers as they carried a cloth bag tied up with a drawstring. Inside, nestled the badges of their profession, a horsehair wig and a liveried tin that protected it, and the black court gown. The tin was embossed with the barrister’s initials. The female barristers were even easier to detect. Without fail, all wore the same black jacket, skirt of the same colour and a white high-necked blouse. They also carried the tell-tale cloth bag.
Regan turned right into a side street alongside the court building and parked the Bonnie. John pulled off his backpack, opened it and checked the contents. First he checked one Browning, then the other. He handed the second one to Regan who checked it again then pushed it into the large side pocket of the stolen flying jacket. John secreted his inside his belt then both men hid below a low wall in front of a house opposite the grounds of the court. They had a perfect view of Bill who was still leaning against the tree. He was leaning but watching. Regan and John were watching him.
Caroline Sewell had first taken a cab to her chambers to collect some papers before taking the Tube. First from Temple Gardens Tube station to Embankment then on to the Elephant and Castle. From there, she walked the few hundred yards to the court house. As she walked through the gate of the court into the grounds, she remembered to use the entrance reserved for judges. It was at the side of the building and close to where Regan had parked the motorcycle. The cab ride to her chambers was unplanned. It had initially confused Bill who thought she was heading directly to the Inner London Sessions. He realised what was happening and decided to wait for her to arrive at the court house.
Regan saw Bill stand up straight and followed his line of sight. He saw a tall, attractive blonde walking towards the corner of the building. She walked upright, straight-backed and had a certain elegance about her. He was looking at Caroline Sewell for the first time. She was dressed like all the other female barristers but she was distinctive. Maybe it was the way she walked, thought Regan.
Both Regan and John moved out of their hiding place as they saw Bill follow Caroline to the corner of the building. She was heading for the judge’s entrance. They moved quickly but stayed low and both men by instinct had one hand on their weapons. Before setting off, they had cocked the Brownings SAS-style.
“Caroline!” It was Bill who called out her name.
Chapter Twenty-Four
CAROLINE SEWELL TURNED around and saw Bill Morris holding a gun. She had no idea of the type of gun save it was a pistol he held in the palm of his hand and it pointed at her.
“Armed police!” It was a disembodied voice amplified by a megaphone. It startled Regan. It also made Bill spin around towards the source of the noise. It was a uniformed police officer. The officer spoke again, full of urgency, “Drop your weapon immediately!”
Bill Morris turned back towards Caroline who was frozen in her tracks. She found herself unable to move forward or back, never mind run. Her mind was frozen too, along with all her faculties. She was unable to speak nor scream. He raised the gun once more in her direction. A man in a Stetson with a wild beard jumped out from behind a sycamore tree and fired at Bill at point blank range. Regan recognised him. It was Blue. As Blue pulled the trigger, he shouted, “This is for Rachael.” Bill fired once. Blue dropped like a stone.
John reacted despite what he had just witnessed. He pulled off three rounds from the Browning and all hit the target – Bill Morris. He had been trained to ensure all potential danger was eliminated. His military training also meant he knew the effects of different types of weapon and the different sounds they made. John Barnard had heard the snap of a high velocity bullet and saw its effect on Bill’s body as the impact forced the now dead Bill into an involuntarily leap backwards and a macabre dance. A second high velocity shot rang out. The face of Bill Morris was no longer recognisable a
s a result of the head shot from the trained sniper on the court house roof.
The officer’s voice rang out once more, “Drop your weapons, now!”
Regan and John Barnard lowered their weapons to the ground and complied with the next amplified order, “Good. Now get face down on the ground with your hands open and arms above your head. Stay like that. Under no circumstances move again until you are told to do so.”
Regan cocked his head to one side to glance at Caroline Sewell. She looked as pale as a ghost. Her bag was at her feet and she was holding her face in both hands. Next, he heard a metallic sound. It was his gun kicked away from where he had laid it, followed by another identical sound of John’s gun dealt the same fate.
He next felt a kick in his ribs. Luckily it was his good side not the gunshot wound. Regan kept his cool and lay there motionless. He knew the drill. Plastic ties were placed around his wrists but not before two officers pinned his arms behind his back. More ties were placed around his ankles. Regan felt like a turkey at Christmas time. He could sense hands patting him down and probing all over. Under his arms, behind his ears, his neck, chest, arm pits, back, inside his belt, groin, buttocks, back of his knees, his pockets then a familiar voice but without amplification.
“My officer is now going to remove your footwear.”
His boots were pulled off one by one. Then the probing hands checked his stockinged feet and dove inside the boots.
It was then he was yanked to his feet in one swift coordinated movement by two male officers who flanked him.
One of the two said, “You are being arrested on suspicion of unlawful possession of a firearm. You don’t have to say anything but ...”
Regan could not resist, “I know the drill.”
The same process was repeated with John Barnard by two other officers but this time they managed to finish the police caution about self-incrimination without interruption. Regan was three yards away. He called over to John, “Don’t say a word. I will explain it all.” For his trouble, Regan was struck by one of the officers with a sly but ferocious dig into his side. Regan spoke no more until they reached Vauxhall Police Station.
Who the F*ck Am I? Page 10