A Handsome Stranger

by P. F. Ford

  Once I was convinced we had really been left on our own, I slipped it out of my pocket. If the sergeant wouldn’t let me talk to Dave Slater, I’d just have to contact him myself. Jelena watched as I found Slater’s number and pushed the button. There was just one little problem.

  ‘Bugger! I’ve got no signal.’

  Undismayed, she fished around in her own pocket and produced her own mobile phone. She studied it for a moment.

  ‘Have signal,’ she said, handing me her phone. ‘Here. Make call. Get out here.’

  I tapped in his number. I could hear it ringing. But then it went straight to voicemail. I cut the connection.

  ‘Oh shit!’ I said, desperately. ‘It’s gone straight to bloody voicemail.’

  ‘So, leave message,’ said Jelena, stating the obvious.

  ‘Ah! Yeah. Right,’ I said, sheepishly. ‘I suppose that will be better than nothing.’

  I tried again. This time I left a message asking him to call back straight away on this number. He surely couldn’t be away from his phone for long with such a major operation going down right now.

  Slater looked at his phone. He made a habit of doing it because there were lots of black-spots around Tinton where there was just no signal. No one seemed to know why, it’s just how it was, but it meant it was easy to miss calls. Right enough, he noticed he had a voicemail.

  He looked at the number. It wasn’t one he recognised, so he decided it could wait. It was probably just some stupid spam message about accident insurance. He was too busy to fart around right now. He put the phone back down and looked at his watch.

  They’d drawn a complete blank looking for Sophia Ingliss. They’d had everyone out looking, but she had managed to evade them so far. He wasn’t really surprised. He’d read her file. She knew a lot more about this sort of lark than all of them put together. If she really wanted to stay out of sight, she certainly knew how, and there wasn’t much any of them could do about it.

  He couldn’t spend any more time looking for her. It was nearly time to get back to the surveillance house. He had a bad feeling about this job. It just seemed to have disaster written all over it.

  It had been an hour since I’d left Slater his voicemail message. Why hadn’t he called back? Jelena was managing to keep remarkably calm, but I knew she was becoming increasingly worried about Sophia. What if she shot Slick Tony? What if she actually killed him? We had to stop her somehow, and surely Dave Slater had to be our best hope.

  Not for the first time, it was Jelena who proved to be the clear thinker.

  ‘He not call back,’ she explained. ‘He know your number, not know mine. Would you answer call from not known number if you busy?’

  Of course she was right. He’d need the minimum of distraction right now. And no, I wouldn’t answer a call from a number I didn’t know if I was busy.

  ‘What about a text?’ I said.

  ‘Can try,’ she agreed. ‘Better tell she have gun.’

  And so I sent the weirdest text I’ve ever sent.

  ‘Dave, Sophia may have gun. Alfie.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was four am. PC Steve Biddeford groaned as he struggled to wake up. He was as stiff as a board and he ached everywhere. Thank goodness this operation would soon be over. Sleeping on a camp bed was the worst idea ever. He rather wished he’d just stayed awake. Even his aches seemed to ache.

  They had agreed to grab four hours sleep each while they could. Richie Weir had been first, sleeping from 8pm until midnight. Having to keep watch in the same room meant Biddeford now understood exactly why Weir was single. When he was awake, Weir was the most uncouth slob Biddeford had ever met. To his utter amazement, the man was just as bad when he was asleep, punctuating his snores with a continual stream of loud farts. There had to be something medically wrong with him, surely? To top it all off, Biddeford had been subjected to a tirade of foul language when he’d woken Weir at midnight as agreed.

  It suddenly dawned on him that Weir was supposed to wake him at four, but it had been the alarm on his mobile phone that had roused him. So where the hell was Weir? A sound not unlike a pig snuffling for truffles told Biddeford what he suspected. Bloody Weir; he was asleep when he should be on watch.

  He struggled to his feet, his rage barely in check. If Weir wants to ruin his own career that’s fine, but he’s not ruining mine.

  Weir was stretched out on his back on the floor. Biddeford kicked him hard. ‘Wake up, you lazy bugger,’ he roared.

  There was a grunt from the floor, but that wasn’t enough for Biddeford so he kicked Weir again. This seemed to do the trick.

  ‘Whathefucksupwiyounow?’ groaned Weir sleepily.

  ‘You bloody, lazy, useless git,’ spat Biddeford. ‘You’re supposed to be watching the damned house. What if he’s done a runner?’

  When he’d first joined the police force, Biddeford had been a non-swearer. The frustrations of policing had soon fixed that but, even so, he wasn’t one for frequent profanity. However, working with Weir was giving his patience a severe test.

  ‘Oh don’t panic,’ yawned Weir. ‘It’ll be fine. I told you before, he’s probably not there anyway.’ He climbed slowly to his feet and stretched. ‘If it’ll make you happy, just whizz through the recordings. I bet you nothin’s happened.’

  Frantically, Biddeford sat at the table, did a fast rewind, and then set the recordings running at speed. After twenty minutes, he was happy that nothing had happened at the front of the house. Then he did the same thing with the recording from the back. He knew straight away that something wasn’t right, but it took a couple of minutes to work out what it was. He clutched his head in his hands as if in agony.

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  Weir jerked his head, looking surprised that Biddeford had sworn. He ran over to the monitor.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  Biddeford pointed to the screen.

  ‘Look,’ he said.

  Weir studied the screen, and then shrugged.

  ‘But there’s nothing happenin’,’ he said. ‘It looks like a nice day.’

  ‘And you think that’s a good thing, do you?’ said Biddeford, turning to face him.

  ‘But there’s no one doin’ a runner or anything, so what’s the problem?’

  ‘And if you look out of the window now,’ said Biddeford slowly, ‘is it a nice day?’

  Weir looked out through the window.

  ‘Can’t see, can I? It’s dark.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘Watch carefully,’ said Biddeford, much more patiently than he felt.

  He switched back to the live feed from the camera behind the house. It showed a beautiful sunny day. Then he pointed to the monitor showing the camera from the front of the house.

  ‘See,’ he said. ‘It’s dark out the front, and it’s a sunny day out the back.’

  ‘Oh fuck!’ said Weir.

  There was a noise from downstairs.

  ‘It’s only me,’ shouted Dave Slater as he came in the back door. Biddeford heard his footsteps coming up the stairs and his heart sank. What was he going to say?

  ‘Everything alright?’ Slater asked as he entered the room. His phone pinged to announce the arrival of a text message but he ignored it, obviously taking in the look on Biddeford’s face.

  He heaved a heavy sigh.‘Ok,’ he said, resignedly. ‘Let’s hear it...’

  Slater had been sitting in stunned silence for at least five minutes, but he knew he couldn’t just sit there any longer.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’re saying someone has messed around with the feed from the camera in the back garden and we’ve basically been receiving a photograph instead of a live feed.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ said a very unhappy-sounding Steve Biddeford. He was sitting with his head hung. Slater glanced at Weir, who was sitting up, nonchalantly, his arms folded in front of him. Slater was pretty sure that Weir w
as to blame in some way. He’d probably fallen asleep on the job – it wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘And do we have any idea how long it’s been like that?’

  ‘No, Sarge. But looking at the picture I figure it’s probably been like that since around midday.’ Biddeford seemed to slump inwards.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Slater wanted to kick something. ‘So, basically, there’s been enough time to move a fuckin’ army into that house, and then out again, and we wouldn’t have seen a bloody thing.’

  It wasn’t a question; it was merely a simple statement of the obvious.

  ‘So we’re about to launch one of the biggest operations there has ever been in this town, and in all probability our target buggered off at least twelve hours ago. There’s nothing like giving him a head start is there?’

  This time he did kick something. The chair slid across the carpet before tipping on its side at Weir’s feet. He looked at Slater in alarm.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, ‘Careful.’

  ‘Careful?’ yelled Slater. ‘I ought to be careful to make sure it’s your arse I kick next time, Weir. I think it’s safe to say you’ve pushed your luck a little too far this time. You’ve always been lazy and careless. Well, now you’ve proved you’re bloody useless too. How do you think I’m going to explain this to Jones? Do you think this sort of cock-up happens in the Serious Crime Unit? He thought we were a load of bloody idiots when he came down here. Now he’ll know he was right.’

  He walked over to Weir and stood right in front of him, just inches from his face.

  ‘You know what’s worst of all? You haven’t just buggered up your own career, you’ve buggered up mine, and probably young Steve’s, in the process. Now, go and do something useful like make the tea. And when you’ve done that just keep out of my way. Alright?’

  ‘Err, yes. Sir,’ gulped Weir. He slunk off, muttering to himself.

  ‘Err, it’s my fault too, you know, Sarge,’ Biddeford said, guiltily.

  ‘I know that, Steve,’ said Slater, sighing, ‘but that bugger’s been doing this sort of thing for years. He’s always got away with it before, but I’ll bloody make sure he doesn’t get away with it this time. He’s made us all look like idiots.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Right now, I’m going to call Jones and explain to him what a bunch of wankers we are at Tinton. After that I don’t know. It’s too late to call everything off now. I just hope there’s still a target in that house when it all goes down, then we might just get way without too much shit hitting the fan.’

  Chapter Twenty

  It was coming up to six am, and it was just about light enough to see what was going on outside. Dave Slater stood at the front bedroom window of number 12, binoculars at the ready, his ears still ringing from the bollocking he’d had to endure earlier when he’d called DI Jimmy Jones to impart the good news about the camera feed.

  The fact that the camera had been tampered with was bad enough, but Jones had been gracious enough to concede that this could have been done remotely. What had really got to him was the fact that the two officers watching the monitors had failed to notice anything was wrong even – when night had fallen. He had left Slater in no doubt that if Slick Tony wasn’t in that house when it was raided, the finger of blame would be pointed firmly in his direction.

  ‘Ready, Steve?’ Slater asked his young partner who was watching the screen displaying the feed from the front of the house opposite.

  ‘Yeah, ready,’ said Biddeford.

  The incompetent DC Richie Weir had been removed from the surveillance team. He would be dealt with later. Right now, it was down to Slater and Biddeford to watch as events unfolded across the road.

  Slater focused his binoculars across to the far end of the estate. This was the direction the assault team would be arriving from. They should be here any minute.

  ‘Right,’ boomed DI Jones’ voice across the airwaves. ‘You all know what to do so I don’t expect to hear a lot of chat over the air. DS Slater can see what’s going on and he will be in constant contact with me. I’ll be arriving with the backup team. Okay. Let’s do it.’

  A battered transit van slowly trundled into sight. The plan was for the van to go anti-clockwise around the green, as it was the shortest distance to number 38. To Slater’s surprise, it took the clockwise route, slowing to a halt just past their own house, number 12.

  ‘What are they bloody doing?’ Slater cried, in disbelief.

  In panic, he grabbed his radio, forgetting all his communications training.

  ‘This is DS Slater. You’re outside the wrong house, you idiots. The suspect is in number thirty-eight.’

  There was silence for a moment and then a voice came back at him.

  ‘You sure about that? I could have sworn they said number eight.’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure. It’s number thirty-eight. That’s why we’re in number twelve, because it’s the house across the green from the suspect. We wouldn’t be able to see much if we were next door but one, would we? Do you need me to wave out of the bloody window? Just look at the house numbers.’

  A cry from Biddeford caught Slater’s attention and he lowered his radio. He followed Biddeford’s finger where it was pointing on the screen, and let out a groan. He watched as a dustcart drove carefully onto the narrow road of the estate

  ‘Oh shit!’ he said, as the dustcart took the anti-clockwise route around the green. ‘This is going to complicate things.’

  He glanced through his binoculars and, with a surge of horror, saw that the transit van had disappeared from view. He jerked back to the screen and let out an even louder groan.

  ‘Oh God, no,’ he said, as he watched the two vehicles approach each other. ‘I don’t believe this is happening.’

  Bobby Geddis had been driving his dustcart for years. He had started driving one back when they were still called binmen. Now, of course, they had to be called by the poncey, politically correct title of ‘waste disposal operatives,’ but as far as Bobby Geddis was concerned, they were still binmen and he was still their driver.

  He felt responsible for his crew. It was his job to collect everyone in the morning, and take them off to the Station Cafe for breakfast before they started their round. So, every morning at the same time, he drove onto the estate and around the green to number 26. It was his first pickup every day, and as far as he was concerned, today was no different to any other day. Except today there was a battered transit van coming the other way.

  He’ll just have to back up, thought Bobby, and he hummed to himself as the dustcart trundled along.

  In the police transit van, the assault team were beginning to get hot and bothered. It was hot work wearing body armour, especially when there were eight of you crammed in the back of a van together. But they were professionals, and despite their discomfort, no one said a word. When the van had stopped, they had all been holding their breath waiting for the signal to go, but it hadn’t come. Now, even though they were on the move again, they were all on edge, adrenaline pumping, waiting for the two thumps on the side that would tell them it was time to launch the assault.

  PC Murray was driving. He really should have been wearing a hearing aid, he reflected to himself sadly. His hearing was getting worse. But then if he did that, everyone would know, wouldn’t they? Anyway, it was the sort of mistake anyone could make. Eight, thirty-eight – there’s not that much difference, is there?

  He pulled away from number 8 and the van lumbered off around the green. It was just as he reached the halfway point to his destination that he realised there was a dustcart coming the other way.

  He’ll just have to back up, thought PC Murray, and kept his foot pressed on the accelerator.

  Just seconds later, however, he was forced to slam on the brakes. The two vehicles sat bumper-to-bumper; there was no way they could pass each other. Someone was going to have to give way.

  PC Murray flashed his lights and wa
ved his arms furiously, but the man behind the wheel of the dustcart just stared at him blankly.

  From his viewpoint up in number 12, Slater watched in dismay as their slick, supposedly well-planned operation slowly began to turn into a disaster right before his eyes.

  ‘You couldn’t make it up,’ he said, despairingly, staring down at the two vehicles. ‘Should I resign now, d’you think? Or shall I just wait until I get the sack?’

  Biddeford had been tasked with watching the screens and he let out a low whistle, that made Slater’s heart sink even lower.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said quietly to Slater, ‘but there’s a van delivering milk coming onto the estate now.’

  As Slater moved his binoculars to watch the new vehicle, he felt like crying.

  ‘I didn’t even know they still delivered milk,’ he said, sadly. ‘Why does it have to be here, and why does it have to be right now? Honestly, it’s like we’re watching a bloody Carry On film.’

  As the milk van made its way onto the estate, Biddeford turned his attention back to the screen. Hold on, was that a figure? No, perhaps he had imagined it. Wait, there it was again. It was real enough. But who was it, and where were they going? Maybe it was just somebody walking home…

  Down on the road, PC Murray was now out of his van remonstrating with the dustcart driver who looked down benignly from his cab.

  ‘Well, like I just said,’ said Bobby Geddis, smiling patiently. ‘If you just back up out of the way, I can come through, and then you can have the road all to yourself.’

  ‘This is a major police operation. You’re obstructing us from doing our public duty,’ insisted PC Murray.

  ‘And you’re obstructing me from doing my public duty. And anyway, it will be much easier for you to back up than it is for me.’