Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  “What about cell site, have we got that?”

  “We have, and the cell site data is even more interesting. It places Winston in the vicinity of Commercial Street around the time we think Tracey was killed.”

  “So, things aren’t looking too good for Claude?”

  “No, they’re not. Dawson’s testimony, combined with the phone data, put him squarely in the frame for this. If the DNA from under Tracey’s nails turns out to be his, which I suspect it will, I think we’ll have enough to charge him.”

  “So, how did we find him?”

  “The drug squad boys have been watching a wash house in Limehouse, run by a little oik called Clifford Mullings. They followed Mullings to another flat on a dodgy estate in Canning Town last week, and guess who opened the door to let him in?”

  “Winston?”

  “None other.”

  “It doesn’t mean he lives there, though. He could just have been visiting.”

  “I pointed that out to the drug squad, but they assured me it was Winston’s flat; said their information was one hundred percent reliable.”

  “Have you told Holland?” Dillon asked.

  “I’ve updated him with what we’ve got, but I’ve made a point of telling him not to get too excited just yet. I don’t want him telling the AC we’ve got this case cracked, only to find that Winston’s not our man after all.”

  Dillon frowned. “He ticks all the boxes for me,” he said.

  Jack shrugged. “’He would tick all the boxes for me, too, if it wasn’t for that message. I just don’t see what he could gain from writing something like that.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to deflect us away from the real motive, hoping we’ll think we’ve got a serial killer on the loose when it’s nothing more than a simple revenge killing by an angry pimp.”

  “Do you honestly think that’s why he went to town on her genitals or pulled half her intestines out – just to throw us off the trail?”

  Dillon thought back to the SPM and shuddered. “She’s a sex worker. Maybe she was shortchanging him and this is a message to the other girls.”

  “Do you really buy that?” Jack asked.

  Dillon sighed, “How many times in the past have we been surprised by the senseless brutality of murder? How many times do we hear people say, ‘I never thought he would be capable of something like that?’ Maybe Winston was high when he killed her, or maybe he’s just an old-fashioned psychopath.”

  “Yes, but is he an old-fashioned psychopath with rudimentary medical knowledge?” Jack asked.

  Dillon considered this. “That’s a good point,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine Winston having any medical knowledge, but I could be wrong.”

  “So, that makes two reasons why he doesn’t tick all the boxes for me,” Jack said.

  Steve Bull shuffled into the office looking fit to collapse. He stopped, sniffed and recoiled. “Phwoor, it smells like something died in here. Where’s that pong coming from?”

  “Me, I’m afraid,” Dillon admitted.

  “How are you getting on organising a surveillance team?” Jack asked him.

  Bull shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve spoken to C11. Every team in the Met is already deployed tonight. All they could advise was to phone back in the morning and they’ll try to accommodate us then. The one thing they did say, though, was that they won’t deploy unless we have a definite pick-up point. They just don’t have the resources to let a team sit on a dead plot all day.”

  “Okay, put a briefing package together, Steve. If they aren’t willing to deploy unless they know he’s there, we’d better house him for them.”

  “But we don’t even have a ‘nondy’ van,” Steve pointed out.

  Tyler turned to Dillon. “Any chance you could blag the observation van from those Flying Squad mates of yours at Rigg Approach?”

  Dillon shrugged. “I suppose I could phone over and see if they’re using it tonight,” he said.

  “You might want to shower first,” Bull suggested, fanning his nose.

  ◆◆◆

  The observations on Claude Winston’s address began at seven p.m. Despite their tiredness a sense of expectation now buzzed through the team, reinvigorating them.

  While the aim on paper was purely to confirm that Winston was using the flat, Tyler had made it clear during the briefing that if Winston came out, they would try and follow him away from the estate. If the chance presented itself, once they were far enough away to protect the drug squad’s source, they would jump the bastard and make an arrest.

  A battered nondescript van was driven into the estate and parked up at the base of Winston’s block, and the rest of the team strategically positioned themselves to cover the estate’s three exits. They communicated via Cougar radios, using an encrypted radio channel specially designated to their team.

  Kelly Flowers had drawn the short straw, and from her cramped position in the back of the ‘nondy’ she was watching the communal entrance to the block like a hawk. The first-floor balcony had a large overhang, making it virtually impossible to see Winston’s door, but it didn’t really matter; the communal entrance was the only way out. As long as they kept eyeball on that, they should pick him up, sooner or later.

  At least the torrential rain that had been lashing the capital for most of the afternoon had subsided; now there was nothing more than a minor drizzle to contend with, and even that was clearing. As long as the van’s blacked out rear windows didn’t steam up too much, she would be fine. “Control from Kelly,” she whispered into her Cougar, “I’m in position and have eyeball on the stairwell leading to the target address. For your info, there’s no sign of the subject’s vehicle outside the block.”

  “Received, Kelly. We’ll get someone to have a gander.” Dillon’s voice came back.

  Colin Franklin was one of several P9 surveillance trained DC’s on Tyler’s team. Wearing a pair of dirty coveralls and a dark bandanna, he sauntered through the estate in search of the BMW.

  A few minutes later he reported back that it was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, there were no lights on inside the address, which was sealed up tighter then Fort Knox: The street door itself was made of solid metal. There was a heavy-duty iron grill covering it and another one over the kitchen window. Even a door-busters team, equipped with thermal lances and other high-tech cutting tools, would take time to gain entry. To make matters worse, a group of black teenagers, looking sinister in their Echo and McKenzie hoodies, were congregating in the stairwell that led up to Winston’s flat. Some of them would undoubtedly be on Winston’s payroll.

  Franklin had drawn hostile stares as he wandered around the estate, and he had promptly been ordered to withdraw. Under the circumstances, they could do no more without the risk of showing out. Hoping it wouldn’t take too long, but knowing that it probably would, the team settled down and prepared to play the waiting game.

  ◆◆◆

  By nine-thirty the initial excitement had long since turned to boredom. Fatigue was setting in as the effects of working two ridiculously long days started to take their toll.

  The Omega was tucked away in the corner of a small car park at the side of a Presbyterian Church opposite the estate. Traffic was light, and their position provided a good, albeit angled, view of the estate’s main entrance.

  Dillon had just returned from a nearby McDonald’s. His arms were laden with an assortment of burgers, fries, and shakes, which he quickly shared out.

  He had showered and changed into his spare suit before leaving Arbour Square, and now that he no longer smelled like a rotting corpse his mood had improved.

  “No change.” Kelly’s voice crackled over the radio, giving the latest update.

  “Poor cow,” Dillon said, unwrapping the first of his two burgers. “She must be breaking her neck for a leak by now.”

  “She’s got a plastic container and a funnel for emergencies,” Jack said.

  Steve Bull grimaced. “That’s really not an imag
e I wanted to have of Kelly.”

  “How long are you going to give it, Jack?” Dillon asked; at least Jack thought that was what he said, but with so much food in his mouth it was hard to be sure.

  “If there’s no activity by midnight I’ll knock it on the head.”

  “Do we even know if he’s in there?” Steve asked. “The lights were off when Colin did the walkthrough.”

  “The lights could have been off because he was sleeping, or maybe the lights were actually on but he’s got heavy blackout drapes up,” Jack said.

  Bull fidgeted in his seat. “We could do a quick drive through the estate to see if the car’s turned up,” he suggested. Having dozed for nearly two hours, his batteries had recharged a little and he was ready for action again.

  “Let’s just hold our position and wait for him to come out,” Jack said.

  “If he doesn’t show his face tonight, are we going to get a warrant and do the flat in the morning?”

  “I think we should get a warrant, but we’ll keep it in our back pocket for now. It’ll be better if we nick him on the street. That way, he won’t realise that we know where he lives, and I won’t get a hard time from the drug squad for burning their snout.”

  ”Logical,” Dillon said, like he was Spock, except that Spock didn’t normally talk with his mouth full.

  “But he’s not likely to give his real address once he’s in custody, so when we go and search his flat it’ll be pretty obvious that someone’s tipped us off.”

  “Also logical,” Dillon allowed, slurping noisily from his strawberry milkshake.

  “I’m sure we can come up with some plausible bullshit to hoodwink him once he’s in the bin,” Jack said, “but even if we don’t, at least any evidence inside the flat will be saved.” The murder weapon and the victim’s underwear were still adrift. Retrieving them would provide irrefutable proof of Winston’s guilt. “If he doesn’t appear by midnight, I think it’s safe to assume he isn’t coming out tonight. If we reach that point, I’ll arrange for the night duty HAT to cover the address for a few hours, and we can be back in place first thing in the morning.”

  “God, we’re gonna be so fucked by the end of the week,” Steve said.

  “Which is why I’m going to catch forty winks now,” Tyler said. “Wake me in an hour and I’ll relieve you.” With that, he slouched down in the back seat and closed his eyes.

  Dillon gave Steve a friendly pat on the arm, burped loudly and then followed Jack’s lead.

  ◆◆◆

  The radio squawked into life unexpectedly, jarring Tyler awake. He sat bolt upright in the back of the car, blinking rapidly.

  His watch said 10.15 p.m.

  Another transmission came through with heavy background noise. “…ject….out of block……wards mai……foot….” The voice belonged to Kelly Flowers, but what was she trying to say?

  “This is really not the time for her radio to pack up on her,” Tyler said, leaning forward. There was a sense of urgency as the atmosphere inside the car became charged with adrenalin.

  Bull started the engine just in case.

  “…Repeat Subject has come out of the block, going towards the main road on foot.” Flower’s voice came through on the speaker again, crystal clear this time, but was the warning too late?

  “He’s coming towards us!” Jack said. “Keep your eyes open, boys.”

  The first few seconds after a contact is established are always the most dangerous, and when Winston didn’t appear Jack started to fret. Surely, they hadn’t lost him already?

  Jack was staring at the entrance so hard that his eyes were hurting, but he was afraid to blink in case he missed something. Seconds passed with excruciating slowness.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Bull asked; his voice strained.

  “Be quiet Stevie,” Dillon soothed. Like the others, he was painfully aware that Winston should have reached them by now. Had he somehow managed to slip out of the estate while Kelly was transmitting? Dillon bit his lip and thought hard. Pace, time and distance, that’s what it all came down to in the end: at the pace Winston was walking, how far could he have travelled in the time that had elapsed since he was last seen?

  Steve Bull snatched up a map the Intel Cell had printed of the estate. Had he missed something when he was preparing the briefing? Not according to the map. Whatever route Winston took out of the estate, someone should pick him up.

  So, where the hell was he?

  “There he is, over there,” Bull suddenly exclaimed, pointing into the darkness.

  Tyler froze, conscious that sudden movement draws the human eye like nothing else, even from a distance. He allowed his eyes to follow the line indicated by Bull’s extended finger, and sure enough, there he was, strutting through the estate like he owned the place.

  “Fuck me, look at that leather jacket? It’s that Lawrence Fishface bloke from The Matrix, only with dreadlocks,” Steve whispered.

  Tyler let out his breath and sagged back into his seat, relieved.

  A slow smile spread across Dillon’s dark features. “Got you now, you bastard,” he purred.

  Dillon took the radio back from Jack and began issuing instructions to the others, telling them to be ready to move off in case he got into a vehicle.

  Claude Winston paused at the edge of the road and had a good look around before crossing.

  “He’s eyes about,” Tyler warned.

  “Bloody hell, if he turns right, he’ll walk right past us,” Steve said, looking around to see what options they had.

  “It’s alright, he’s not coming this way,” Dillon said as Winston veered off to the left.

  “C’mon Dill,” Jack said, as he killed the internal light and slid out of the car.

  On his way out, Dillon turned to Steve Bull. “Try and shadow us if you can, and be ready for a quick off. If he gets in a car, you’ll only have seconds to pick us up and get behind him.”

  “No pressure there, then,” Bull said.

  Dillon winked. “We live for pressure,” he said as he closed the passenger door.

  “Not me. I just want a quiet life,” Bull told the empty car.

  Tyler crossed the road and began following Winston at a discrete distance, hands in pockets and head down. Dillon stayed on the same side, but he dropped much further back, adopting the classic surveillance ‘back-up’ position. He found himself wondering where the hell Winston was heading.

  ◆◆◆

  Winston had collected the drugs from the safe house without incident, and they were now safely hidden in his flat, ready for him to drop off at the washhouse first thing tomorrow. Their presence made him uneasy. He wasn’t worried about break-ins; the iron gates that he had fitted would foil any burglar. Besides, he was ‘The Man’ and his reputation was known, respected and feared. What concerned him was the drug squad’s growing interest in his operation. They had been carrying out sporadic surveillance on his people over the last couple of months, not that it had got them anywhere.

  Walking briskly, he passed several turnings before reaching the one he wanted. Checking to make sure that he wasn’t being followed, he ducked into the narrow street.

  The BMW was parked about twenty yards in from the junction. Since the drug squad had started taking an unhealthy interest in him, he had made a point of not parking outside his address anymore. In fact, he had made a point of not parking in the same street on any two consecutive nights. If they were watching him, the last thing he wanted to do was make it easy for them to predict his movements. Predictability was a death sentence to someone in his profession.

  He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine and cranked the sound system up to full blast. Barry White sounded as cool as ever as he sang ‘Don’t make me wait too long’.

  Winston reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and removed a bulky object wrapped in a leather shammy. Placing it on the passenger seat, he carefully unfolded it, reached down and cupped the gun in his hand. It fe
lt good. Winston often wished that his parents had chosen to immigrate to America back in the sixties, instead of Britain. He had grown up watching programmes like Miami Vice and Hawaii Five-O, and he longed to live in a subtropical climate, surrounded by fast cars and even faster women. A man with his talents could become a serious player over there.

  The gun was a Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38 revolver, often referred to as a ‘Saturday night special’. The five-round cylinder was fully loaded. Claude had obtained the gun as payment in lieu of a drug debt. Pointing the gun at an imaginary front seat passenger he adopted a Gangsta pose. “BANG! You’re dead mutherfucka!”