More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  The officer shook his head. ‘I can’t allow civilians to be involved. Out of the question.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m not a civilian,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Home Office? Do you want to be more specific?’

  ‘I think you can put two and two together,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can give you names at the yard who’ll vouch for me.’

  ‘We don’t know Mr McIntyre’s state of mind,’ said the superintendent. ‘Though from what he’s done so far it’s clear that he has issues.’

  ‘Agreed. But those issues aren’t going to be helped by fronting him with men in black carrying assault rifles. And if you’re right and he’s intent on suicide, there’s no way you come out of this smelling of roses.’

  The superintendent rubbed his chin. ‘Let’s see what we get from the negotiating team,’ he said, He looked at his watch. ‘Their ETA was ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, I don’t think a negotiating team is the way to go,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re taught all about negotiation and hostage management. No offence but he’ll run rings around your guys. And the last thing you want is to send your men in. He’s not your run of the mill nutter with a gun. He’ll know exactly how they’ll enter and he’ll be ready. You won’t take him out without casualties.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘I’d already come to that conclusion myself,’ he said.

  ‘If this is a suicide scenario, then he wants to go out with guns blazing. He wants your men to go in.’

  The superintendent rubbed the back of his neck and sighed again

  ‘So I don’t see you talking him out, and I don’t see you forcing him out,’ Shepherd continued. ‘How about we try Plan C. Let me go and talk to him. I can find out what he wants and maybe persuade him to walk out.’ He nodded at Armstrong. ‘Billy here knows him best. Let the two of us go in. We’ll sign any paperwork you need. It’ll be on our heads.’

  The superintendent considered it for a few seconds. ‘I’ll need to run it by my Gold commander,’ he said. Shepherd could practically see the man’s brain working. If Shepherd was involved and it went wrong, the superintendent would have the perfect patsy to blame. Shepherd smiled at the man. It was a gamble he was willing to take.

  ‘Just make sure he knows what the downside is,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if it does go bad, it’ll be on camera.’

  Virtually on cue a helicopter flew overhead. It was a civilian chopper and they could see a television camera protruding from one of the side windows.

  ‘Let me hit the radio, you guys stay here.’ The superintendent walked away.

  ‘Think he’ll go for it?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘I think he might, but it’ll be the Gold commander who makes the call.’

  ‘Do we have a Plan D?’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Storm our way in?’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking abseiling down from a helicopter.’

  ‘I suppose you have tried the obvious?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘The obvious?’

  Shepherd mimed putting a phone to his ear. ‘Calling him?’

  ‘Straight through to voicemail.’

  ‘Give it another go, just in case.’

  Armstrong pulled out his phone, tapped out a number and listened. He shook his head and put his phone away.

  ‘Did Jock say anything about any souvenirs?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘Most guys have something tucked away.’

  ‘That’s the truth. Hopefully just a short.’

  ‘And there was no clue he was going to kick off when you saw him?’

  ‘He was depressed. And drinking too much. But that’s true of half the ex-Regiment guys. You and me are the exceptions, you know that.’

  ‘What well-balanced, God-fearing members of society?’

  ‘You know what I’m saying. We get more than our fair share of suicides, we’ve got former members of the Regiment living on the streets, in prison, running drugs.’

  Shepherd nodded. He knew that Armstrong was right. Life in the Regiment was as exciting and fulfilling as it got; you devoted yourself to the SAS and in return they took care of you and all your needs. But when it came time to leave, the shock of entering mainstream society again was more than some guys could deal with. Shepherd had been lucky, he had gone straight from the SAS into a police undercover squad, from one tight-knit group to another. Armstrong had also transitioned smoothly into civilian life, albeit in jobs that generally involved him carrying a weapon in war zones. Others weren’t as lucky. Family life also tended to suffer. During their SAS days the men were off on missions most of the time, leaving their wives pretty much on their own to bring up any children. Once they left the Regiment, relations were often put to the test, a challenge at the best of times but more so when many of the men turned to drink or drugs.

  It had been a couple of years since Shepherd had seen McIntyre. He hadn’t been in great shape, he’d been drinking too much and was living in a wretched flat in Reading, to the west of London. Back in the day, McIntyre had been one of the fittest guys in the Regiment, but those days were long gone. Shepherd had given McIntyre a job body-guarding a Russian oligarch but had lost touch shortly afterwards.

  ‘He was in a bit of a state when I saw him, but I thought he’d pulled himself together,’ said Shepherd. ‘You now he was thrown out of the Regiment because of his drinking?’

  Armstrong nodded. ‘Yeah. He told me.’

  ‘The Regiment put him through a detox program but at the end of the day he just wouldn’t give up the booze. He had his pension and that doesn’t go far. Like I said, I thought the body-guarding gig had put him back on the straight and narrow.’

  The superintendent was heading back in their direction and he waved them over. ‘They call you “Spider”, is that right?’

  ‘It’s been known,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Turns out the Gold Commander knows you. Bit of a fan, actually. Chief Superintendent Warner.’

  ‘Richard Warner?’ said Shepherd. ‘He was a superintendent with West Midlands police when I came across him.’

  ‘He’s with the Met now. He’s retiring next year, I think. Anyway, he says I’m to take any assistance you’re prepared to offer.’

  ‘So we can go in?’

  ‘If you’re sure it’ll help, you can. I’ll need you to both sign a waiver and I’m going to need you in vests and radio contact, but soon as you like.’ He lifted the police tape and Shepherd and Armstrong ducked under. ‘We’ve set up an ops room in the estate agents around the corner,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘Any sign of the negotiators?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘On the way, but stuck in traffic,’ said the superintendent. ‘They’re the wrong side of the river.’

  Two young constables in fluorescent jackets were standing either side of the door to the estate agents, Inside were another four uniforms and two Specialist Firearms Officers, dressed in black and checking their Heckler and Kochs. Two paramedics in green jackets, a blond woman and man with a shaved head, were deep in conversation and holding mugs of tea,

  The superintendent waved over a uniformed sergeant, a grey-haired man in his fifties, short and thick-set like a wrestler gone to seed. ‘Bill, I need jackets and helmets for these two, and a radio.’ The sergeant nodded and headed outside to a van.

  Armstrong put his helmet and gloves on a table and stripped off his leathers. Underneath he was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

  One of the SFOs walked over. ‘Anything we need to know, Guv?’

  ‘All good, John,’ said the superintendent. ‘These two are friends of the man holed up in the house. They’re going in for a chat.’

  The SFO’s eyebrows shot skywards. ‘That’s a protocol I’m not familiar with,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been cleared with Gold,’ said the superintendent. ‘They’re former SAS, with any luck they’ll talk him down.’

  ‘Shots have been fired, Guv. We’ve move
d past talking.’

  ‘Duly noted, John. But McIntyre is former SAS which means if shots start flying he’ll be more than capable of holding his own. Let’s give this a go.’

  The SFO nodded. ‘We’ll need to be in position, just in case it kicks off,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘They’re not going to be armed, are they?’ said the SFO, gesturing at Shepherd and Armstrong.

  The superintendent looked over at Shepherd and Shepherd shook his head. ‘No,’ said the superintendent. ‘The negotiating team are stuck in traffic so this is our best option at the moment.’

  ‘And if we hear shots?’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Armstrong. ‘He’s not going to be shooting us.’

  The SFO nodded, called over his colleague, and the two men headed outside.

  The sergeant returned with vests and helmets. Armstrong and Shepherd slipped them on. The sergeant handed Shepherd a radio. ‘It’s tuned to the super’s frequency,’ he said.

  ‘Stay on it because we don’t want Mr McIntyre picking up any of our traffic,’ said the superintendent. ‘Any problems, call for assistance and we’ll move in.’

  Shepherd clipped the radio to his belt, then checked his vest. “if you do move in, what’s the SP?’

  ‘Simultaneous front and back. Breach the doors. Stun grenades.’

  ‘No snipers?’

  ‘He has the windows all covered, and shooting through glass isn’t on anyway.’

  ‘What about the attics?’

  ‘We’ve checked. There are brick walls between the buildings. We can get through if necessary but there’ll be a lot of noise. To be honest, it couldn’t be any worse. If it was a detached or a semi then we’d have options. But a terraced house is as difficult as it gets. We need you to sort this for us, Mr Shepherd.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘One thing,’ said the superintendent, lowering his voice. ‘I know he’s your friend, but the best thing for everyone concerned is that he comes out and we don’t go in.’

  ‘No question about that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What I’m saying is, just talking might not be enough. And there are two of you.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Armstrong. ‘You want us to belt him over the head?’

  The superintendent put his hands up. ‘I’m just asking you to consider all your options while you’re in there,’ he said. ‘He’s got a gun. We can’t let him stay in there for ever. If he doesn’t come out of his own accord, who knows what’ll happen.’

  ‘We hear what you’re saying, Superintendent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Billy’s right. If Jock trusts us to go in there, we can’t betray that trust.’

  ‘Even if it means that he dies, and some of my men die with him?’

  ‘It won’t get to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll talk to him, and whatever his problem is we’ll resolve it.’

  The Superintendent smiled grimly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I just want this to be over with no one hurt.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Shepherd. He took a deep breath and nodded at Armstrong. ‘Right, let’s get to it.’

  The Superintendent walked them out of the estate agents and along the road. There were two SFOs with Heckler and Kochs behind an ARV, their weapons trained on the front door of McIntyre’s house. The downstairs windows had been covered with sheets of newspaper, so that no one could see inside. The superintendent stopped alongside the SFOs. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  Shepherd and Armstrong walked across the road. Both ends of the road were blocked off with cars and it looked as if all the houses in the street had been evacuated. ‘The superintendent has a point,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they start shooting it’s going to get messy.’

  ‘Jock’s a mate, Spider. You don’t fuck over your mates.’

  Shepherd grimaced. He knew that Armstrong was right, but he’d seen armed police in action often enough to know how easily it could all go very wrong. ‘Two of us, one of him, we could bring him out without anyone getting hurt.’

  Armstrong stopped. ‘That’s fucked up and you know it,’ he said. ‘Us going in there, it’s like we waving a white flag. We say we just want to talk. If we pull a stroke like that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s wrong, Spider. You know it is.’

  ‘I just don’t want Jock to get hurt,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s talk to him, see how that goes.’

  Shepherd nodded in agreement and the two men walked over to the house. Shepherd knocked on the door, then stood to the side just in case McIntyre decided to let off a warning shot. ‘Jock, it’s Spider!’ he shouted. ‘I’m here with Billy Armstrong.’

  There was nothing for a few seconds and then the scrape of a foot against a carpeted floor. ‘Spider?’

  ‘Yeah, now will you open the bloody door and let us in.’

  ‘Spider Shepherd?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jock, how many Spiders do you know. Open the bloody door.’

  He heard something heavy being pushed to the side, then two bolts bing drawn back. The door opened a couple of inches and a single brown eye peeped out, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Fuck me, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said McIntyre. He opened the door wide and ushered the two men inside before slamming the door shut.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ asked McIntyre, looking at the two men in amazement. He was holding a pistol, a Russian Makarov PM by the look of it. Almost certainly a souvenir from Afghanistan. It normally came with an eight-round magazine but the new models could hold ten or twelve. It was the Soviet Union’s standard military and police handgun until the early Nineties and the one in McIntyre’s hand had probably been pried from the dead hand of a Russian soldier. It was a small gun, just over six inches long and weighing less than two pounds. It was only effective up to about fifty yards but it wasn’t accurate above ten yards.

  When they had served together in Afghanistan, McIntyre’s hair had been thick and sandy-coloured. Now it was grey and thinning and his shoulders were flecked with dandruff. His eyes were red and watery and his nose and cheeks were peppered with broken veins. ‘What’s going on, Jock?’ asked Shepherd, taking off his helmet. Armstrong did the same.

  ‘Just a wee contretemps with the boys in blue,’ said McIntyre. ‘It’ll be over soon.’ He locked the door and shoved two bolts across, then waved the two visitors through to the front room.

  That McIntyre had covered the windows with newspapers was clear from the outside. What the cops didn’t know was that he had driven screws into the framed and threaded metal wires from side to side.

  ‘That’s clever,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Just in case they think of coming through the windows,’ said McIntyre. He pointed at the floor below the windows and Shepherd saw several planks of wood into which had been driven six-inch nails. ‘I learned that one in Sarajevo.’

  ‘What you’re doing isn’t fair, you know that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Fair to who?’

  Shepherd gestured at the window. ‘The guys out there.’

  ‘Spider, last time I looked they had Hecklers and there were a lot of them.’ He held up his gun. ‘I’m just here with my Makarov, minding my own business.’

  ‘You phoned 999, Jock. You called it in.’

  McIntyre squinted at Shepherd. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I used to be a cop, you soft bastard. You called it in and then you shot the cop car and sat on your arse and waited for the armed cops to turn up. If you’d wanted to kill yourself, why involve anyone else?’

  ‘Who says I want to kill myself?’

  ‘What’s happening then, Jock? What do you hope to achieve by this?’

  McIntyre shrugged. ‘I thought I’d play it by ear,’ he said.

  ‘You were always a mad bastard, Jock, but this takes the bloody biscuit,’ said Armstrong. ‘You got any beer?’

  ‘Fridge,�
�� said McIntyre.

  Armstrong headed down the corridor. Shepherd looked around the sitting room. ‘Bit bigger than your place in Reading,’ he said.

  ‘I was sharing it with a guy but they cut off his benefits and he did a runner,’ said McIntyre. ‘Stung me for the rent and left me with the electricity and gas to pay. If I don’t come up with cash, I’m out on the street.’

  Shepherd dropped down onto the sofa. ‘That’s what this is about, is it? Money?’

  McIntyre smiled thinly. ‘You know what your problem is, Spider? You always have to over-think everything. You were never happy just following orders, you always needed to know who, what and why. Sometimes shit just happens and that’s all there is.’

  Armstrong reappeared with three cans of strong lager. He tossed cans to McIntyre and Armstrong and popped the tab on his. ‘I see there’s money for lager,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’d begrudge a man his last drink would you,’ said McIntyre. He put his gun on the coffee table and opened his lager.

  Shepherd shook his head and popped the tab on his can and raised it in salute. ‘Cheers, you mad bastard,’ he said. Shepherd wondered how many shots were left in the clip. A lot depended on whether Jock had reloaded after shooting the police car. And the big question was how much ammunition McIntyre had. Souveniring a gun was one thing, but the Makarov used a specific 9x18mm round and they were hard to get.

  McIntyre stood up and clinked his can against Shepherd’s and Armstrong’s before drinking. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m really glad you two turned up.’

  ‘We’re here to help,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I don’t need your help, Spider. In fact as soon as you’ve finished your beers, you and Billy need to push off.’

  Armstrong waved his can at the wires over the window. ‘That’s nasty, Jock,’ he said.

  ‘Only if they come in through the windows.’

  ‘I’m guessing they’ll be using infra-red as we speak,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ll know about the wires. In fact they’ll know exactly where you’re sitting right now and will probably have at least one sniper with you in his sights.’

  McIntyre grinned. ‘I’d be shitting myself if there weren’t three warm bodies in here,’ he said. ‘No way they can tell us apart with infra-red.’