by G. F. Newman
‘For fuck sake, Cole!’ Isaacs said, and crashed a side window with the butt of his shotgun.
Then the doors were open and they were in the car, the engine roaring with life. Tully pushed his shotgun through the window to warn off the police as they crept forward. The Renault accelerated away north along Brampton Road without slowing when it took a left fork into Longleigh Lane, weaving in and out of traffic. The sound of police sirens was everywhere.
Now there were more police cars arriving, how many Tully couldn’t work out, but he knew more would be flooding the area they were heading back into. What the fuck was Cole doing? Running on adrenalin and a self-preserving reflex, he wouldn’t give up trying to save himself and would want to press on regardless, even if driven into a corner. He would not give up unless that deep, deep instinct to survive was wrestled with him to the ground, cuffed and beaten out of him.
The progress of another police car on the adjacent street was heard closing in on them. How far ahead of it they were was impossible to say. Cole Coleman pulled straight out of the junction into busy Bostall Hill Road, glancing on the Hill. Tully wanted to smile and slap Cole Coleman on the back.
The chase reached speeds of ninety miles an hour along this wide stretch of the A206, and Tully wasn’t sure if the police cars were chasing them or each other to be out in front as one overtook another and was itself overtaken.
Judging the traffic with great precision, Coleman braked hard then swung the car through the oncoming vehicles and into West Heath Road, a turning that brought them back to Brampton Road. He did it almost without losing any forward momentum.
‘This is fucking murder,’ Tully said. He was soaked with sweat and could see himself ending up through the windscreen or concertinaed from a head-on cannon. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, he thought, as he wrenched round to check through the rear window on what progress the police were making.
‘We’re all gonna wind up nicked!’ Hayes said.
‘I’ll shoot the fuckers first,’ Isaacs informed him.
Tension in the car brought them to the edge where almost anything could tip them over into hysteria. Staying in control was impossible and he thought he might have shat himself.
‘We gotta get rid of this car,’ Coleman said. ‘Every Old Bill south of the Water’ll have its description.’
Then opportunity presented itself. Tully felt elated.
‘There!’ he shouted. ‘We’ll have that.’
A Volvo 740 pulling out of a line of parked cars stopped to let them pass.
Coleman stood on the brake while wrenching on the handbrake and locking the back wheels, putting the car into a neat spin. The Renault slewed across the damp road surface and came to a halt with its radiator buried in the side of a parked car, blocking the road. The driver of the Volvo sat staring like he was unsure what he’d seen. He remained unmoving until Isaacs dragged him out of the driving seat and Coleman took his place.
The entire hijacking took less than a minute, but long enough for a police car to have come up on them. Isaacs fired his shotgun at the car as the Volvo sped away. Cole Coleman seemed to go to pieces now, like his programmed getaway was out of sync, and was awaiting instructions while keeping the car in forward motion. Tully saw him glance in his direction and knew he was expecting him to tell him what to do.
‘Do a left, Cole,’ he shouted above the roar of the engine. There was no left turn at that section of the road and the order confused Coleman. ‘Right, you berk! I mean right.’
‘Fucking well say what you mean, for fuck sake,’ Coleman screamed back, and he swung the car into the next turning, cannoning off a parked car.
‘You’re gonna kill us all, you mad fucker,’ Hayes said.
‘You fucking well drive, then!’ was Coleman’s retort.
The hijacked Volvo squealed out onto the dual carriageway of Harrow Manorway.
Traffic was congested, the air thick with the wail of police klaxons and exhaust. Cole Coleman found it from somewhere to burn rubber as he applied his skills as a getaway driver. He wove in and out of vehicles, slicing through any gap that presented itself: three police cars stayed on their tail, following the swath their car cut through the traffic. A fourth police car roared out of a junction ahead of them and tried to cut them off. Coleman shot straight through the red lights at the junction, swerving at a violent angle to avoid crossing traffic, and mounting the pavement. Tully closed his eyes with the image of an old woman behind the lids. He felt no bump, and didn’t know how Coleman avoided her as he sped back onto the road into the nearside lane of vehicles. Traffic on the junction halted and the police cars swarmed through, closing on them again. Isaac gave them both barrels from his sawn-off shotgun, causing the police driver to brake.
There was a heavy tailback of traffic from the roundabout ahead, made worse by a police van that must have approached along one of the adjacent roads and gone into the roundabout against the flow in order to block their exit. Tully glanced at Coleman, praying he had some special magic for getting them out of this. They were boxed in on the offside lane by a crash-barrier. Coleman mounted the kerb of the central island between the road and fence, heading towards the roundabout where the police van loaded with the Bill was waiting for them.
‘Fuck it!’ Hayes said. ‘We got no chance there.’
‘Have it over the fence,’ Tully said.
Coleman slammed the Volvo to a halt and the four of them leapt out, taking their guns and the two money sacks. Tully led the way over the barrier while Isaacs covered their retreat from the policemen, some of whom were out of their cars and running through the stationary traffic. Isaacs fired off a round before scrambling over the fence himself.
Traffic on the southbound carriageway was free-moving and, with the help of Coleman, Tully set about hijacking two vehicles. ‘We’ll have a better chance of getting away, ‘we split,’ he shouted.
The first car they dragged was a Granada Scorpio. It went without a hitch. Tully levelling the shotgun at the driver did it. Coleman pulled him out and clambered in, Hayes straight after him. The thought crossed Tully’s mind that maybe he should go too and leave Isaacs. He decided against it. Benny Isaacs was a good ’un who deserved better.
Tully turned his attention to finding his getaway car; he levelled his shotgun at one but the driver refused to stop. He gave the driver of the next car no opportunity to deny him, at once opening fire. The driver slammed on the brakes. Tully wrenched open the door and dragged the man out. From the open window Tully covered Isaacs as he climbed aboard.
Back along the road, policemen jumped the barrier and flagged down a lorry which they put across the road. It wasn’t big enough to block the whole carriageway. Tully anticipated what would happen, but was in no mood to stop for the policeman who tried to plug the gap between the end of the lorry and the central barrier. The policeman bounced off the front of the car as it ploughed through the gap and accelerated away.
It raced on across the roundabout at Yarton Way as two police cars forced their way through the frozen traffic. Tully made a fast exit from the roundabout at the end of the dual carriageway and a wide U-turn on to Abbey Road. His driving skills under pressure were less than Coleman’s. Making a right turn to go down New Road and through the park, he cannoned off stationary vehicles like someone drunk before making a fast left. On reaching Woolwich Road he tried to go right into Bedonwell Road and misjudged the turn, mounting the kerb and tearing out the side of the car on a lamp standard, before smacking into another car. Both he and Isaacs were dazed. The car engine had cut out and he didn’t attempt to restart it. All he was aware of then was the wail of police sirens. They were everywhere and he needed to abandon this car. Isaacs shouted something and ran off along the road. He watched him go, shedding clothing as he went and wrapping the shotgun in it.
Stirring himself as his basic survival mechanism surfaced through the f
og, Tully grabbed the sack and the shotgun and ran. He wasn’t sure of the direction and fled into the grounds of a Health Authority clinic, which was housed in a rambling, soot-grimed brick building. Prams and pushchairs were lined up outside. Glancing behind, he saw policemen from the first two cars to arrive giving chase on foot and he felt an irrational sense of injustice that he should be the only one being chased – he assumed the others were clear away. He turned, firing his shotgun at the approaching policemen, causing them to scatter. The sack banged against his hip as he ran, but he was loath to ditch it. Coming past some bushes he pushed the money sack under damp leaves that had been swept into a pile, then ran on alongside the building and into the back garden, over a fence, into another garden and out into the adjacent street, where he flagged down a car by standing in its path. The woman driver turned to protect two small children on the rear seat. Tully wrenched open the passenger door and clambered in without explanation.
‘Drive! Quick.’ It was an appeal rather than a threat.
The woman panicked and jerked in the clutch causing the car to jump along the street. Keeping down in the seat, Tully peered from the rear window.
There was no sign of the police. He noticed the two children staring at him. There was nothing he could do about it. He glanced at the woman, who was shaking. ‘Just calm down,’ he told her. He instructed her to make a right turn, then another, before telling her to stop. He climbed out, taking the ignition key. Then, wrapping his shotgun in his coat, he walked away.
#
Jack Lynn stroked his fingers up his wife’s crotch, applying pressure. Despite the occasional nagging about getting a regular job this was his life. He was comfortable here, his head resting on her arm, his face snug against her breast. He sensed her anxiety, but chose not to respond to it. He wanted to make love to her again, but knew he wouldn’t be able to with her watching the clock. There was time enough before the girls came home from school for lunch. He couldn’t convince her of that. Dolly didn’t like the girls knowing anything of their sex life, and got angry whenever they said they wanted to get in the shower with him. They were still young enough for that, he thought.
Having got the girls off to school that morning, she brought him tea and toast. Tea in bed with him was something he was sure she enjoyed, despite her protests. His strongest argument for keeping this sort of lifestyle was the freedom to choose to do whatever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. Since their last row about what he was doing, and his promise to go minicabbing with her brother, she had left him alone.
‘Come on, lovey. We must move,’ she said.
‘Mm, in a minute. This has gotta be better than driving a minicab.’ He slipped his finger into her, but she wasn’t having it.
‘I’ve got to get up, Jack. No. Stop it. I mean, taking me back to bed this time of the morning.’ She pushed him away. ‘Come on, the girls’ll be home for their dinner soon.’
‘You don’t use it, you lose it.’
‘Some chance of that happening to you,’ she said. ‘You’ll wear it out!’ She slapped his chest and pulled away.
‘Ah.’ He stretched. ‘S’water hot? I’ll take a bath.’
‘I’ll run it for you.’ She got out of bed and dived straight into her dressing gown.
‘I’ll just have a couple more minutes,’ he said.
‘No, Jack. I’m running your bath.’ She went out.
He reached over to the night table to look at his watch. Half past eleven. There would have been loads of time before the girls got back. He stretched again, glancing down at his erection. It wasn’t doing him any good at all right then.
30
‘THEY GOT AWAY? YOU MEAN to say they got clean away? No one nicked? No one?’ Pyle exaggerated his surprise. He was in Criminal Intelligence general office, having just been given the news by di McHale. ‘What the fuck were the woodentops doing? Playing with each other?’
‘The plonks could have done better,’ McHale said.
There was little activity around the room from other detectives, most of whom were bent to paperwork. One detective was trying to raise a unit on their own r/t. Land phones were more reliable anyway.
‘There shouldn’t be too much trouble picking them up,’ McHale added, as if in mitigation. ‘They left a trail of evidence, by all accounts.’
‘Twelve units in the area, and still they got clear.’
‘This one was down to John Tully and his little team,’ McHale informed him. ‘Our lads got it all on video. Should be handy.’
‘Been handier’ we’d been there, Graham.’
‘Yes,’ McHale said, embarrassed by his lack of judgement in this case. ‘We could have done something more. There’re a lot like this one, Fred, we had more men available.’
‘The least said about it the better.’ He was making a statement rather than consoling a colleague. ‘I bet there’s a lot of screaming going on over in division the blaggers legging it.’
‘You would think. S’why I want to keep out of it if I can,’ McHale said. ‘Only a matter of time before the shit gets thrown this way, Fred. Their commander got a right bollocking from the ACC, I hear. He’s going to want to dump on someone.’
‘It might not show too bad, we nick that team.’ Any arrests were for his squad to make now. Having supplied the information, Criminal Intelligence would bow out.
‘That might embarrass the local commander a bit more – if the press gets going. Still, fuck him. I don’t owe him any favours.’ He turned as dc Hill came in with his video. ‘What’s it look like, Matt? id them all, can you?’
‘Well, it’s not brilliant, guv.’ The dc was uncomfortable. ‘It’s a bit blurred, what there is. The shutter must have jammed.’
Pyle followed the di down the room to the video player and screen and saw nothing on tape that was worth much. ‘Not exactly Michael Winner, are you?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘It’s not easy doing obo on your own, guv.’
Pyle gave him a look. ‘I shouldn’t say too much about that.’
‘It shows what’s going on all right,’ McHale commented. ‘Be handy if it showed who they were.’
The ninety seconds of video tape were short on detail. None of the four blaggers could be identified, only what they were doing. An idea crept into Pyle’s head. ‘This’ll do nicely, Graham,’ he said. ‘I mean, they could be anyone – it gives us more scope, doesn’t it?’ He grinned at what he had in mind.
‘You going to get some raids organised, Fred?’
‘It’ll make a nice show, if we can pick up Tully,’ Pyle said.
There was need of concerted police action to redress the balance before any media got hold of what happened out at Abbey Wood and started demanding to know just how efficient the police were.
Criminal Intelligence had gathered information on John Tully and his associates, and those he was known to work with. The computer would come up with the three most obvious candidates on the blag with him.
Pyle organised the four simultaneous raids, with no particular order of merit or preference over who arrested whom. He got Benny Isaacs and sent ds Lethridge to raid Tully’s flat, ds Barcy – the violence specialist – after Cole Coleman, and borrowed a ds along with a squad from the arms unit to pursue the fourth suspect, Mark Johnson.
#
The local police station was descended upon by the Squad, and even though it was a smallish influx, the system seemed ill-equipped to provide the help they expected. di Pyle arrived with Benny Isaacs at the same time as the borrowed ds showed up with the protesting Mark Johnson. Pyle’s other two squads weren’t far behind.
In the back reception area he caught hold of a constable who was passing. ‘Where’s Inspector Kenley?’
‘How should I know?’ the spotty-faced pc replied.
‘Find him. Tell him Inspector Pyle’s here.’
&nb
sp; The uniform stiffened and went away at a run.
Pyle turned and looked at his prisoner and smiled. ‘What d’you reckon, Benny? Want to put your hands up now?’ That wasn’t going to happen.
Isaacs said, ‘Not even to help a nice fella like you, Mr Pyle.’
‘About right. First, we’ll have a little chat away from the front office. When you’re ready with your statement we’ll take you in and put the tape recorder on and do what we call the ethical interview.’
The blagger didn’t respond, but it was clear he knew there could be no other option. The heavy bit came sooner rather than later these days, because of all such interviews being recorded. The same was happening with each of the other suspects Pyle looked in on at their pre-interview interviews. With all his previous convictions, Mark Johnson was at pains to be as helpful as possible. For this blag he claimed an alibi, which he insisted they check out. Pyle would see how he shaped before he wasted detective man-hours checking his story.
‘Why don’t you do us all a favour?’ the borrowed ds suggested. ‘John Tully’s dropped you right in it.’
‘No, John wouldn’t do that even if it was true,’ Johnson said with such faith Pyle found it touching. ‘Not John. You’re pulling my leg.’
‘You were the fourth man on that blag yesterday.’
‘No. I told you the truth. I was with m’ Mum in hospital. The old girl passed away just about the time they was making it. Why don’t you check that out, Mr Pyle?’
‘You’re a million, son. I mean, you go mates with John Tully, don’t you?’
‘You know I do. I mean, it’s on m’ sheet. S’why I got a pull. You see if my Mum didn’t pop off yesterday with me at her bedside holding her hand. I was.’ He was unemotional about this.