He looks up and around the room.
Something’s wrong.
Our eyes meet.
Colin Richardson.
From the hard hat, he produces a Glock.
The best I can do is shout, ‘Gun!’
There are screams as he fires. My screams. My out-of-body screams, sounding as if they’re coming from speakers on the walls.
One shot.
Two shots.
Three.
He hits my chest with all of them.
The bullets feel like rapid, pounding punches from a heavyweight boxer. Air turns to fire in my lungs. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating.
As I fall, I see the ceiling of the pub, the swirls on the cracked, filthy Artex. My shoulder cracks against a table. My spine hits a log basket. I thump my elbow as I hit the floor. Glasses crash as others rush from tables.
More shots.
Two in rapid succession.
Both from the other side of the room.
‘Officer down!’ a woman officer shouts above my head.
I’m in shock and I’ve lost perspective. It seems like the whole room has tilted and everything has slid on top of me.
‘Stand back. Don’t move her,’ says a commanding male voice. ‘Shift those tables, get everyone away.’
A clean-shaven face with brown eyes peers down at me. Two minutes ago, he’d been studying the Racing Post on the other side of the bar. He unzips my anorak. His eyes dart around my chest. ‘You’re okay,’ he says. ‘The vest’s intact. It’s done its job.’
‘Good grouping,’ says an insensitive female firearms officer from over his shoulder.
Dr Browneyes puts his hands either side of my face. ‘Do you have any pain in your neck?’
‘Not my neck, no. But my elbow and bum hurt like mad.’
‘Okay, lie still while I check you over and get you out of your vest.’
‘It’s a while since a man told me to do that,’ I joke.
Alice Ross’s young and excited face pops into view. ‘Richardson’s dead, ma’am. TFU shot him.’
The slow ripping noise of Velcro fills the room as the doctor opens up my ballistic vest. ‘I want to sit you up, Annie, but tell me straight away if you feel any pain.’
Several hands support me.
‘Slowly,’ shouts the doctor.
They get me upright, then finish peeling off my anorak and vest. The doc looks intently into my eyes. ‘Okay?’
I nod.
‘Help her stand, please.’
A mix of male and female plain-clothes officers lift me to my feet. The pub had been filled with them – and them only. I’d asked for the operational back-up because I’d expected to make the arrest of Charlie York, and knew it would need several men to bring him in.
The room looks like a war zone. There’s broken glass all across the floor, upended tables and, directly opposite me, the body of Colin Richardson. He’s on his back. Arms spread wide. Part of his head missing. There’s also blood seeping through his workman’s top. It looks like TFU took him down with a body and head shot, but I have no idea whether the bullets came from two officers, or just one. I pity them. I know what’s coming. A full inquiry, no active duty until the kill is vindicated. I get a flash memory of Richardson holding his grandchild, of him passing the young boy back to his own son, of Sharon Croft watching them all. Some poor beat bobby is going to get lumbered with the burden of breaking the bad news to them.
The pub door opens and in storms DCI Goodwin. He looks furious. ‘What the hell happened here?’
‘He shot me and TFU shot him,’ I answer dispassionately. Goodwin stares at me and I realise that until now he hadn’t been aware that I’d been hit. ‘I was wearing ballistic armour, sir.’
‘I should hope so. Are you hurt?’
‘Some bruising, sir, that’s all.’
The doctor pushes into our conversation. ‘Inspector Parker needs to go to hospital for a full examination. I know she looks all right, but please don’t underestimate the emotional and mental impact of being shot. Raised voices and stressful inquisitions are not conducive to coping with traumatic incidents like this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Goodwin to me, in a genuinely conciliatory tone. ‘I thought we’d made this place secure, ensuring that only York would be allowed in?’
‘I don’t know what happened there,’ I confess.
‘I do, sir,’ says Alice Ross from behind me. ‘I just spoke to the two UC’s on door watch. They were briefed to stop anyone approaching the entrance and ask them for the time, or a light for a cigarette, and if necessary to say the pub was closing because of a food incident. Richardson showed them a British Gas pass and said he’d been called by his bosses to fix an emergency leak.’
‘Amateurs!’ snarls Goodwin. ‘Put it in your report.’
I start to make my way to the door.
‘And where are you going?’ asks the DCI.
‘To find the men who saved my life and buy them a drink.’
91
Danny
Paula’s long gone. She’s left me in this stinkin’ hospital with my head in bits. Now she knows everythin’. Every single shitty thing I’ve done. All the dirt I’ve swept under the carpet, she’s found and vacuumed out of me. And despite that, she’s still willin’ to give me another chance – providin’ the baby turns out to be mine.
It will.
I know it will.
Ever since I came out of the nick, I’ve wanted a family. Wanted to do somethin’ good. Raise a child. That’s what we’re all on the earth for, innit? I’d make a good dad. I’d teach my kid to avoid all the screw-ups I made. With Paula’s help we’d keep it on the straight and narrow. Do things by the book. That’s how I thought she lived her life. Until I found out my butter-wouldn’t-melt wife was shacked up to another bloke as well as me.
I still can’t believe it.
Bigamy – that’s sick, innit? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got married mates who shag for England. Proper dogs they are. But they always come back to their missus and kids. They don’t go and play happy families in two places at once. Imagine cheatin’ on the person you’re cheatin’ with – that’s just mental.
The door opens and in comes a bloke in a suit. No doubt another consultant to blag a fortune off my private medical insurance.
‘Danny Smith,’ he says in a farmer’s accent, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Adrian Fellowes, from Thames Valley Police.’
My heart sinks. ‘Can’t you lot leave me alone? I’ve seen more coppers than nurses in here.’
‘I’m investigating the attack on you, Mr Smith. The shooting yesterday at Martin Johnson’s home.’
My blood boils at the mention of Bastard’s name. ‘I hope you lot beat the fuck out of him when you took him in.’
‘Mr Johnson was arrested and detained in custody. I’d like to get your version of events before we formally charge him. Do you feel up to doing that now?’ He starts to take out a pocket book.
‘No, I don’t, so you can put that away.’
‘I understand you will be discharged tonight, so perhaps we could fix a time when you can come to the station tomorrow?’
Seems I’ve not got my message over. ‘No, you can’t. I’m not goin’ to speak to you. As far as you lot are concerned, I’m not sayin’ anythin’ to you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.’
‘I don’t understand, Mr Smith. You’re in here because a man fired a shotgun at you. Surely you want him punished?’
‘What I want is none of your business.’
‘It is if it involves guns being fired.’
He studies me as if I’m a wall he’s just painted and he’s wondering whether he’s missed a bit. ‘Has someone got to you – threatened you?’
‘No. No one’s got to me. Now can you leave me alone, and move that plod from outside my door?’
‘The officer has gone. He was there at the request of DI Parker from the Central Mids cold case unit and I und
erstand they’re finished with you – for the moment.’
‘Yeah, and so are you.’
He picks up the clipboard at the end of my bed and gives it the once-over, like he’s some kind of doctor and knows what he’s looking at it. ‘You were lucky, you know. If Johnson had hit you in the face you’d be blind.’
‘If a bus had knocked you down comin’ here you’d be dead.’
He gives me a disgusted look. ‘I’m done wasting time with you. Do us all a favour, Mr Smith, when they discharge you, scurry back to London and stay down there with all those other Wormwood Scrubs good-for-nothings.’
He walks out without lookin’ back, knowing the ex-con jibe would leave me hurtin’ as much as my shotgun wounds.
I swing my feet out of bed.
Time to go.
I can’t sit around on my arse any more.
92
Annie
Ray Goodwin and I are sitting, very uncomfortably, in the wood-panelled office of Chief Constable, Sir Quintin Davies.
Once the pleasantries of checking on my health have been completed, the chief, a strapping six-footer with Hugh Grant hair, gets down to business. ‘Chapter and verse,’ he demands from us in public school English. ‘I need every detail before I even think about telling the NCA we believe they have a bent copper in their ranks.’
‘May I set the scene first, sir?’ says Ray. ‘This is a somewhat complicated matter.’
‘You may – providing you make the complicated matter agreeably simple.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. Over the past week, DI York from the National Crime Agency and DI Parker from Historic Crimes worked on overlapping cases. York was assigned by the NCA to help recapture two escaped prisoners, Colin Richardson, the man shot dead today by our firearms unit, and Callum Waters, who thanks to DI Parker’s astute detective work is now back in Full Sutton.’
‘Yes, well done on that,’ says Davies.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Goodwin continues, ‘Part of York’s brief was to interrogate a drug user and supplier called Andrew Ellison who had been kidnapped by Richardson and Waters, presumably because he was on the verge of giving up details of the upper echelons of the gang he worked for. It was during this part of the investigation that I was called by the NCA and alerted to the fact that Ellison was offering to trade details of a very old murder, that implicated bosses he was afraid of, for more lenient treatment.’
Davies’s thick eyebrows crinkle together. ‘Your simplification is far from perfect – why did this man Ellison feel the need to do such a thing? What was his motive?’
‘Because, sir, he said he would only feel safe testifying if he knew the culprits were behind bars facing murder charges.’
‘I see.’ The chief makes notes on a large A4 pad of unlined paper, laid on a blotter on his desk. ‘Please proceed.’
‘It’s probably better if DI Parker takes over from me now, sir, as this was the point that she and DS Patel were called in.’
‘Sir, DI York and I are old colleagues. I’d go as far as to say friends, but a number of events in this case led me to distrust him. At first, I thought he was either just forgetful of facts or mistaken. Then I realised I was being deliberately misled and that he was trying to manipulate me into ignoring evidence that would incriminate him and others.’
‘You need to be specific now, Detective Inspector,’ the chief says, sternly.
‘Yes, sir. When I had the escaped prisoners Callum Waters and Colin Richardson under covert observation on a council estate in North Derbyshire, I sent a text for back-up to DS Patel and DI York. Subsequently, I’ve checked with Security and, when I made that request, only they were swiped into the area DI York had been allocated as office space. While concealed in the garden of the house where Richardson and Waters were, I heard a mobile phone ring. Immediately afterwards, Waters came out and attacked me. I had to use a Taser to render him immobile. By the time I had him cuffed and support arrived, Richardson had fled. I presumed at the time that the call I’d heard had been made by a neighbour tipping off the tenant, Sharon Croft, that someone was in the bushes at the bottom of her garden. When I mentioned this to DI York, he said I was right - that he’d been told by the house-to-house team that a Christine Hopkins had called Croft. I later checked that information, sir, and it was incorrect. There is no neighbour called Hopkins – not Christine, not Chris, not Tina. And there was not a house-to-house statement suggesting there was. Subsequently, I found that a call from a mobile had been made at the very time I had been in Croft’s garden and had heard one. Only it was not to Sharon Croft, but to a phone recovered from Callum Waters when he was returned to Full Sutton prison.’
‘And this call turned out to have been made from DI York’s mobile?’ queries Sir Quinten.
‘No, sir. It was from a burner, a pay-as-you-go phone, with no registered owner—’
‘I know what a burner is, Inspector,’ snaps the chief. ‘I’m not a bloody judge.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Carry on.’
‘The telephone service provider has confirmed that the burner using its platform made the call from inside police headquarters at the exact time I heard the phone ring at Sharon Croft’s house.’
‘Was the geo-locating that precise?’ he asks.
‘It was, sir.’
‘Then I share your concerns, but legally this is still circumstantial, Inspector, as you can’t prove York made the call. Is it possible the phone was used by your sergeant, DS Patel?’
‘No, sir. That is not possible, as later incidents will concur.’
‘Such as?’
‘Sir, on top of that call from within police HQ, and in addition to York’s lie about the neighbour tipping off Sharon Croft, we have evidence that the burner also sent a text message to a phone owned and concealed by Kieran Crewe inside Full Sutton, just an hour before I interviewed him.’
The chief makes a note and then asks, ‘What did the text say?’
‘It said, “A said nothing”.’
‘A?’ he questions as he writes it down.
‘I believe ‘A’ referred to our witness Andy - Andy Ellison, who died in custody following his kidnap by Richardson and Waters. And I think the reference to ‘nothing’ indicates that Kieran Crewe had been told Andy had not given us any incriminating evidence.’
‘Again damning, but circumstantial, as you can’t prove it was York who sent that text.’
‘I can, however, prove it was sent from a specific spot in Nottingham, sir. The very same location that DI York called me from on his force issue phone straight after I had finished my interview in Full Sutton.’
The chief makes more notes. ‘Presumably, you established this through satellite triangulation on the phone and the GPS tracking we have on all force cars?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I wait until he finishes writing, then add, ‘During my call with DI York, he also warned me not to approach Kieran Crewe’s brother, Raurie. He told me he was subject to NCA surveillance.’
‘And was he?’
‘No, sir, he wasn’t. But at the time I believed he was, so I stayed away.’
‘All right, let me take stock of where you are – or where you think you are, Inspector. There are two specific occasions you can prove York lied to you. The first, in respect to a call to the escaped prisoner Callum Waters that York passed off as coming from a Christine Hopkins to Sharon Croft. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And secondly, that Raurie Crewe was subject to an NCA surveillance operation, when he wasn’t.’
‘That’s also correct, sir. And if I may, there are two additional pieces of evidence that are critical.’
‘Tell me,’ he says wearily.
‘I went to see Raurie Crewe at his workplace, sir. Only DCI Goodwin and DS Patel were aware of my intended visit. As arranged with Mr Goodwin, I told Crewe that, for a certain amount of money, I would stay silent about the faked death of his brother, Ashley.’<
br />
‘And did he offer you money?’ The chief’s pen is poised.
‘No, sir, he didn’t. And I hadn’t expected him to. What I had expected was for him to panic and call for help.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes, sir. As soon as I left he called the burner we have been attributing to DI York.’
Goodwin steps in again. ‘By now, sir, we had a recording tap on that number – the telco had been very cooperative. May I play it for you?’
‘Please.’ Sir Quentin sits back in his brown leather swivel chair.
Goodwin puts his own phone down on the chief’s desk. ‘I have it here as an imported data file, sir. The first voice is Crewe’s, the second is York’s.’ He passes over a sheet of paper. ‘This is a transcript of the conversation you are about to hear.’
CREWE: ‘I’ve just been visited by one of yours.’
YORK: ‘Male or female?’
CREWE: ‘Woman. Late thirties, early forties.’
YORK: ‘What did she want?’
CREWE: ‘Same as you. Same as the rest of your lot. Says if she doesn’t get it, she will breathe new life into something we thought long dead.’
YORK: ‘Don’t worry, I can take care of this.’
CREWE: ‘I’m not sure you can. You should have stopped this happening in the first place.’
YORK: ‘Trust me, I’ll sort it.’
CREWE: ‘Then do it quickly. She gave me one day.’
YORK: ‘Relax. It’ll be fixed by tonight.’
Goodwin turns the recording off. ‘Sir, given that DI York then failed to show for a pre-arranged goodbye drink with DI Parker, and in his place, Colin Richardson turned up with the intent to kill DI Parker, I believe there are strong grounds for the CPS to bring charges of attempted murder against DI York, as well as several other charges of corruption and aiding and abetting the escape of Category A prisoners.’
‘I agree,’ says Sir Quentin, with sadness in his voice. ‘I’ll alert the Director of the NCA immediately and then inform the CPS.’ He picks up a desk phone. ‘Is Raurie Crewe in custody? Has he told you of York’s whereabouts?’
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