“Wot you reckon, Danny?” The voice was gravelly, pure South London.
“No sweat, mate. Place is empty. That Tare bleeder ain’t due back till after midnight. Not a sign of him or his mate even after we cut off all his fucking power. His telly must be on the blink, everyfink.”
“So?”
“Ned, you stay with me, Alfie round the back. Jack, watch the road. If he comes back early, you know what to do. Right? Shooters ready?” Ratso heard muttered responses. “Right—let’s do the bleedin’ garage, grab the gear and load the van.”
“An’ if the buggers come back?” The lookout sounded worried.
Hogan sounded exasperated. “Like I said, Jack. Yell like fuck. Right? Then it’s into the bushes and we grab Tare and his gofer when they get out their motor.”
It’s going to be kinda crowded in the bushes, Ratso thought. Ludicrously, a variation of the lyrics of the “Teddy Bears Picnic” flitted through Ratso’s mind—If you go into the bushes today, you’re sure of a big surprise. But as for Danny’s plan, it was piss-poor. No way would Rudi Tare drive in once he saw a Transit parked in his drive. Not that he could dial 999, either.
Ratso thought about the feverish activity now taking place in the neighbourhood. The roadblocks would be in place, stingers across the road. Danny, you’re trapped. The thought was warming—not as good as a snifter of scotch with Neil Shalford but pleasing enough. He wondered how Hogan would tackle the garage. Both white doors were metallic up-and-overs with a lock built into the twist handle in the middle. Perhaps Danny had somehow got a key. Even in a secluded location like this, to force the door with the Transit would be far too noisy. Every kid for miles around would think Santa’s sledge had fallen from a roof, reindeers and all.
He heard footsteps disappearing in all directions and then the clunk of something being moved. There was a solid thump as whatever it was hit the gravel. Ratso could now guess what was going on but still could see nothing, his view blocked by the van. After a few minutes of undefined movements, the yard was illuminated, suddenly and eerily by the business end of an oxy-acetylene cutter. The bright golden yellow flame showed three men as shadowy figures standing by the white garage door. Then the flame was fine-tuned to a razor-sharp pinpoint of light, which cut through half-inch-thick metal in seconds.
Ratso could hear a choir singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” as the cutter completed its circle around the handle. He heard someone wrench the handle clear and then came the rattle and scrape as the door pivoted upward. The black interior of the garage was invisible as the cutter was extinguished. Ratso heard swearing, followed by a clunk as the gas cylinder and blowtorch were loaded back into the rear of the van. Someone laughed as Danny’s familiar voice said they needed to leave plenty of room for the gear.
The CD of carols had ended. As Silver, Uden had to decide when to intervene but Ratso’s role was to give him a heads up. It wasn’t time yet. He saw a torch illuminate the garage before the door was lowered, only the occasional flicker of the men moving around inside visible through the hole. Did they know where the gear was stashed? Unless Danny knew, finding 30 kilos of cocaine in a house that size could take till long after midnight and Danny was expecting Tare back by then.
With someone guarding the gate, he bet Uden would be reluctant to call up the Merc until Jack had left his post to join the others. But getting the Merc to block the exit in time was going to be a close thing … too damned close. Ratso eased his position, stretching now that the sensors were inoperative. He shook some circulation into his aching legs. He had spent too long in his cramped, crouched position. Now every second seemed an age. Two minutes; three, four, five, six minutes all passed with only vague sounds of activity from the garage. He sent out a whispered message on the two-way. “Cyclops to Silver. Santa’s boys in the garage.”
The sound of the garage door being raised alerted him, followed by irritated voices. “Yer … but finding it wasn’t no big deal. We gotta lift the fucker. We know it’s full of the stuff. Get it in the van. Get lifting. I got the rest. Bleedin’ bonus that is.” Danny’s gravelly voice carried across the yard. The torch was extinguished but Ratso was satisfied from the grunting and swearing that the men were carrying a safe. No way were they carrying just 30 kilos of Class A in its wrapping.
“Easy, now. Don’t fuckin’ drop this on my fuckin’ foot.”
“Over a bit. Your way. To you, Ned. Now push. I said push, you useless fucking dickhead!” More grunting. “Okay. Now one last push so there’s room for everyone and we can close the bleedin’ doors.” The speaker raised his voice just a tad. “Ned—fetch Alfie and Jack. Then ’op in the bleedin’ back an’ sharpish.”
Ratso had heard enough. He whispered a message using his callsign. “Cyclops to Silver. Santa One about to leave.”
Uden acknowledged at once.
Ratso waited for Uden’s order. He waited one, two and then ten seconds. Still nothing. He was obviously waiting for Jack to return to the van. Bloody pointless. Don’t wait, Uden, or this is snafu time. Jack can get nowhere. We need the Merc now, right now. What are you doing, Uden you tosser? Get that Merc across the entrance. Now!
Another five seconds passed before Uden’s order went out. “From Silver. All units. Attack! Attack! Attack!”
Uden’s single command had put the roadblock teams on full alert. Farther afield, police vehicles would be on standby in every neighbouring street. The carpets of nails to deflate the tires would be rolled out about three hundred meters away in each direction. Wooden barriers would also be blocking the roads as a last resort but the nails laid like a carpet from verge to verge would surely be sufficient. On Uden’s command, Ratso knew that a dozen uniforms would be tumbling out of other vans, creating a wider cordon to support the TFU in case anyone tried to hoof it through adjoining properties.
Ratso saw Ned and Jack racing toward the Transit’s headlights and then round to the van’s rear doors. He heard them scrambling aboard. Then the doors were slammed shut and he glimpsed Danny Hogan’s squat figure entering the front passenger seat. At 11:27 p.m., the driver slipped the van into gear to cover the twenty-five meters or so to the gate. The vehicle edged forward, no hurry, no tire squeal, no panic—more like a funeral hearse than a South London gang making a getaway.
Then came the sound of the Merc’s engine roaring as it accelerated to blockade the drive. The Transit had barely travelled fifteen meters when Ratso saw the lights of the Mercedes appear and screech to a stop. He saw armed officers creating a cordon with two of them positioned between the people carrier and the front of the advancing Transit, their shotguns loaded with Hatton rounds, ideal for shooting out tires. The air was now filled with shouts of “Armed police,” mixed with the revving from the vehicle engines and a constant wailing of sirens. As swiftly as he could within the cover of the bushes, Ratso moved closer to the gate, intending to get in behind the Transit to provide cover should any occupant try to leap out.
Ratso could imagine the earthy language and panic in the van at the sudden change of events. What would Danny do? Surrender? Not his style. Open fire? Maybe.
Whatever Danny ordered, the driver suddenly responded by pressing his foot down, gravel spraying out around the tires. The Transit lurched forward between the brick pillars, slamming the front nearside of the Mercedes, the crunching and tearing of metal adding to the confusion of noise. Ratso hoped the two officers carrying shotguns had managed to jump clear. So far they had not fired.
Ratso edged as close as he dared to the entrance on the driver’s side. For a second, from between the foliage, he had seen the profile of the man at the wheel, a look of snarling determination on his face as he had accelerated. Now Ratso brushed aside the greenery, planning to position himself behind the Transit. A glance right showed that the van had failed to shift the front of the Mercedes enough to squeeze between the vehicle and the pillar holding
the gate. At that second, a shot rang out, almost certainly of a Hatton round. He heard it smash into the metal of the van rather than thud into the tire as intended.
Ratso felt exposed, fearful of being caught by a ricochet if another round or two were fired but he was determined to open the rear doors of the van.
He edged forward onto the gravel just as the Transit’s reversing lights came on. Too late, Ratso realised that Danny Hogan must have ordered a retreat. The van roared straight back. Standing just four paces behind it, he had no chance of escape, had barely started to run when the rear offside corner struck him, knocking him to the ground just clear of the violently spinning wheels. Stones flew everywhere as the driver raced back a couple more meters before slamming the Transit into forward gear. Ratso rolled off the gravel and lay prone as the blue van thundered past him again.
He heard cursing from inside the van, mixed with shouting from the TFU team as they surrounded the exit. A shot rang out, then another. Ratso knew Hogan sometimes preferred a sawn-off shotgun and that’s what it had sounded like. In his earpiece, Ratso immediately heard “Shots fired!” Hogan had made clear there would be no easy surrender.
As he started to raise his head, another shot rang out but from where and in what direction, Ratso could not tell. The van slammed into the Mercedes even harder the second time. This time the driver had struck the Transit into the lighter back end of the Mercedes. Good thinking, Danny. The noise of breaking glass and torn metal filled the air. The impact had pushed the people carrier sideways, leaving just enough room for the Transit to squeeze by. With a roar of acceleration, it started to race away when there was another shot, which Ratso reckoned was another Hatton round. This time, there was no metallic clang; he hoped that one of the tires had been shredded. If it even made it to the roadblock, the stinger would do the rest. The second Mercedes, filled with another six officers, sped away in pursuit.
At first, Ratso had assumed his injuries were nothing serious, the type of blow any sportsman would quickly shrug off. In the heat of the moment, nothing seemed to matter but catching the gang but now with the action moving on, he realised as he tried to stand that he could not. Instead, he slumped down awkwardly by the verge. As he lay there, Graeme Uden appeared and looked down at him. “You okay?”
“Slight knock. I’ll be fine. You go on. Catch the bastards.”
He heard Uden call for the ambulance that had been on standby. After he had hurried away, Ratso again lifted himself to his knees but rising was impossible as a searing pain ripped through him. Must be worse than I thought, he concluded as he lay still, awaiting help. Then from somewhere quite close by came a moan. He could see nothing but it had to be one of the TFU team.
“I’m coming, mate,” Ratso called out. Uden had obviously been unaware of the officer down, so the man must be off the drive somewhere. In the pitch blackness and ignoring what he now assumed was a dead leg from the Transit slamming into his thigh, Ratso dragged himself forward, clawing his way slowly over the stones.
Almost before he had crossed the gateway, he heard what he took to be the siren of an approaching ambulance. Teeth gritted, he forced himself to go on into the shrubbery on the other side. Again he heard an agonisingly deep groan out of the dark just ahead of him. It spurred him on. From somewhere came another volley of gunshots and more shouting. Danny Hogan was not going quietly.
Silent night, holy night.
The words haunted Ratso as he peered into the dank shrubbery. He struggled forward, his left leg useless and dragging behind him. At last he was onto the soft moss, damp twigs and wet earth under the shrubs. At that moment, the ambulance pulled up outside, the blue lights flashing across the dark green trees. It was then that he saw a slumped figure lying beneath a giant conifer, staring up at the sky. His gun lay useless near his right hand. He felt the wetness of lost blood close to the man’s head. “Hold up, mate. You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is here.” He could now hear the laboured breathing followed by a chilling moan. He clasped the officer’s hand and squeezed. “I’m with you mate. Speak to me, speak to …” Ratso suddenly found he could not finish the sentence as confusion racked his body and his brain blacked out.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Brighton & Hove, Sussex, England
It was late afternoon on Christmas Day before Ratso started fully to understand where he was and why. Having been admitted to the A&E Department at the Royal Sussex County Hospital on Eastern Road in Brighton, he gradually became aware that he was in a private room with an officer outside the door. His mouth was dry and his throat felt swollen, as if someone had forcibly shoved a large cucumber down it. He could not see the rest of his body, nor be sure what was still part of him and in what condition.
A nurse came in and wished him merry Christmas with the news that sorry, he had missed out on the turkey and trimmings over five hours before. Somehow he was able to mutter that at least he’d be able to catch a repeat of Morecambe and Wise on peak-time TV. Ratso was unsure whether he really cared about the turkey and Christmas pudding anyway. His head was pounding and his whole body seemed to ache. “Now you’re awake,” the cheerful-looking nurse continued, “I’ll get Dr. Hudson to drop by.”
In the next few minutes, Ratso tried to work out what he could remember of the previous evening. The nurse returned with a young doctor, who pulled up a chair to seat himself close to Ratso. “How are you feeling Mr Holtom?”
“I’m not sure which parts hurt the most.” Ratso tried to turn his head to look at the doctor but found he could not.
“You’ve been heavily sedated. Overnight, you’ve had a naso-gastric tube from your nose to the stomach but that was taken out a short while ago. Your neck is in a collar, just a precaution.”
“I’m not paralysed, am I?”
The doctor leaned forward. “You are one lucky man.”
“Well thanks for that but it doesn’t exactly feel that way. As far as I remember, I was struck on my thigh. Got a dead leg.”
“Yes, you certainly had that. When you see your thigh, you’ll find it black and blue. But that wasn’t the problem. A dead leg, as you call it, soon recovers. When you were brought in, you were pretty much out of it and nobody had seen what happened to you. It’s easier if we know what happened.”
Ratso tried unsuccessfully to change position. “So?”
“The A&E team checked pretty much everything. That’s why you are in a neck collar, just in case of any injury there. But their thoroughness revealed the problem.”
“I was struck by a Ford Transit when it suddenly reversed into me.”
Dr. Hudson looked thoughtful. “That figures. You received a severe injury to your spleen. There was massive internal bleeding that the A&E doctor fortunately picked up.” He stared at Ratso hard. “I was called in to decide what should be done. I’m sorry to say your spleen was damaged beyond repair. I had to carry out a splenectomy—remove it. Sometimes we can repair it but not this time.”
“Is that … very bad?”
The doctor shook his head. “Your life will continue pretty well without it. You’re more vulnerable to bacterial infections but don’t lose sleep over that.”
“Can I have some water, please? My throat’s giving out.” The young nurse tilted a small quantity of water into his mouth. It tasted like nectar, soothing the burning pain that made swallowing agony. “Oh God! I remember now. There was another person I was trying to help. I found him under a tree. Is he okay?”
“That’s where the ambulance crew found you, lying flat-out unconscious beside him.”
Ratso felt responsible for whatever had gone wrong. “Did he make it?”
“He’s fine. Better shape than you. He was struck by a bullet in the chest from point-blank range but his ceramic plating saved him.”
“But he was unable to speak, as I recall.”
Dr Hudson sm
iled knowingly. “The impact knocked him backward. He hit his head on the trunk of a tree. That pretty much put him out. The ambulance crew reported he was drifting in and out of consciousness. You though were out cold.”
“I’m glad for him. Danny Hogan’s a right bastard. He’d have shot to kill given the chance. When do I get released?”
“We’ll decide tomorrow. We need to keep you under observation.” He paused as the nurse checked Ratso’s blood pressure.
“And the gang? Did you hear?”
“All arrested at the roadblock. Two gunmen were slightly injured trying to make a run for it. A load of shots fired but no other police had to be admitted.”
Despite the throbbing in his head, Ratso managed to nod just slightly.
“We can get some food sent in anytime if you wish.” Ratso declined but instead requested his phone to make a few calls. The doctor looked reluctant but before he could protest there was a tap on the door and Wensley Hughes’ head appeared. To Ratso, lying flat out, he looked enormously lean and tall until he sat beside the bed. He introduced himself to Dr Hudson, who excused himself for the moment.
The AC said nothing till both doctor and nurse had left. “Great job. Merry Christmas, too.” He handed over what was obviously a bottle in a red bag with cord handles. “That’s for another day. Anyway, how are you feeling?”
“Glad you came, sir. Good of you to spoil your Christmas Day for me.”
“Truth be told, I’m quite glad to escape the in-laws for a few hours. My wife’s sister never stops talking.”
“That would do anybody’s head in.”
“Congratulations. I’ve spoken to Chief Inspector Uden and to the assistant chief constable. Everybody’s well pleased. Shame two of you were injured but with Hogan’s mob all armed, it could have been a great deal worse.”
“Uden did a good job.”
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