Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  He sometimes wondered if he was the only one who could see that this whole poverty thing was just a scam. They didn’t beg because they were desperate, living hand to mouth, as they would have people believe. They did it because it was such an easy way to make money.

  He hated them; they were pathetic wannabes who spent their time wallowing in self-pity. They complained bitterly to anyone willing to listen that life had dealt them a bad hand, but what did they ever do to try and better themselves?

  He finished his silent vitriol and glanced at the clock on the dash. Tracey obviously wasn’t in the graveyard; she could have serviced three customers in the time he had been waiting. He tried her mobile, but it was switched off. He considered leaving a voicemail telling her to call him back but didn’t trust himself not to rant. Winston was fast running out of ideas. As he pulled back into traffic, he decided to do one more circuit of the area and then call it a night.

  Five minutes later, as Winston was about to make a right turn into Wheler Street from Quaker Street, the car in front of him suddenly stopped. He was about to pound his fist on the horn and shout at the driver, but then the passenger door opened and a peroxide blond head poked out. “Well, well, well, look who it ain't,” he said, reaching down to access the revolver in his pocket.

  As the old Mercedes E Class drove away, Fat Sandra gave it a bon voyage wave, pulled a compact mirror from her purse and began fussing at her hair. Winston drove past her and pulled over to the kerb to let the car behind him get by. The black man in the Astra’s front passenger seat gave him a funny look. “Fuck you looking at?” he wondered aloud. Normally, he would have wound his window down and told the fool to avert his eyes if he wanted to keep them. Right now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.

  Looking in his rear-view mirror, Winston watched Fat Sandra waddle back towards Quaker Street, presumably in search of a new punter. He waited until she took up her usual station outside the used car lot and then quickly drove around the block. Moments later, he drew level with her and honked his horn. Sandra turned around with all the elegance of a hippo in a tutu, expecting to see a customer. Her demeanour changed the moment she saw him, and he was pleased to see the smile on her chubby face replaced by an expression of deep-rooted fear.

  ◆◆◆

  Paul Evans and Colin Franklin had driven around the same boring circuit, checking out the same boring streets, so many times in the last forty-five minutes that they had stopped paying attention. Convinced that Winston was long gone, Franklin decided that enough was enough. He wound his seat as far back as it would go and wriggled himself down until he was relatively comfortable. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he let out a long yawn and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when the boss calls it a night,” he told his driver, who was listening to a very boring discussion about international football on Talk Sport.

  “Will do, mate,” Evans promised, smiling affectionately at his friend.

  As they were just driving around aimlessly, killing time until Tyler decided to dismiss them, Evans decided to do the decent thing when he spotted a black car in a side road on his left waiting to be let out. He slowed and flashed the driver, who pulled out without bothering to acknowledge his kindness. “Ungrateful bastard,” Evans muttered, wishing he hadn’t bothered. It was only at this point that it registered with Evans that the car was a BMW. He felt his pulse quicken. “What’s the registration number of Winston’s car?” he asked.

  Franklin opened puffy eyes and squinted at the clipboard resting on his lap. Fighting back a yawn, he recited the number he had written down in big bold letters.

  “Blimey!” Evans exclaimed when the digits Colin read out matched those on the car directly in front of them. “Colin, be a good lad and get on the radio, would you. That’s our target in front of us.” He was so matter of fact about it that it took a second or two for Franklin to register what he’d said.

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler could scarcely believe his ears when the ‘contact’ transmission was received inside the control car. To his great surprise – and even greater relief – Evans and Franklin had stumbled across Winston and were now following him along Commercial Street, where he seemed to be checking out every corner and recess he passed. Thankfully, despite his earlier use of anti-surveillance techniques, Winston now seemed completely oblivious to the Astra that was stalking him from a distance; a predator waiting for the rest of its pack to arrive before moving in for the kill.

  The other cars had immediately hot-tailed it over and had taken up station around him.

  “What do you think he’s up to?” Tyler’s asked. His brow was creased with thick worry lines.

  “What do you mean?” Dillon asked.

  “He was doing exactly the same thing the first time we saw him,” Jack explained. “It’s almost as though he’s searching for someone.”

  Dillon shrugged. “He’s a pimp. Maybe he’s checking up on his girls to make sure they aren’t slacking.”

  “Maybe,” Jack allowed, but something about that felt wrong.

  “Maybe he’s just making his presence felt,” Bull offered. “Letting people on the street know he’s out there watching them in case anyone starts getting daft ideas about talking to us,”

  “Makes sense,” Dillon agreed.

  “What if...” Jack’s voice petered out as he searched for the right words. “Okay, how’s this for a theory: what would a man like Winston do if he suspected that someone knew he’d killed Tracey?”

  “That’s easy,” Dillon said. “He’d hunt them down and do whatever it took to shut them up.”

  “Of course he would,” Jack said. “And if he’s been looking for that someone but hasn’t found them yet?”

  “He’ll keep on looking until he finds them, and the longer it takes the more desperate he’ll become,” Dillon said. “I take it you think he’s looking for Sandra Dawson?”

  Jack nodded, thoughtfully. “I do. I think he was actively looking for her when we first saw him, but luckily Steve found her before Winston could get his grubby paws on her. He doesn’t know that, so he still out there looking for her.”

  “Surely, she’s not stupid enough to go back out on the streets?” Dillon said. “Not after making a statement to us.” He turned to face Bull, seeking confirmation.

  “I’ve warned her not to,” Steve said quickly. “She promised me she would lay low, but she was obviously very worried about losing her income.”

  Dillon shook his head in frustration. What was wrong with these people? They had their priorities all wrong. “She should be more worried about losing her life,” he said, thinking that if anything happened to her it would be entirely her own fault.

  CHAPTER 12

  DC Franklin’s voice came over the speaker, interrupting their conversation. The disembodied voice was crystal clear as it gave its message.

  “...Subject has just turned into Quaker Street…Stand by. He’s just pulling up behind a manky looking old Tom outside the used car lot…”

  The three men inside the Omega stared at each other uneasily, each wondering the same thing.

  Dillon quickly squeezed the Press-To-Talk button. “Describe her, please,” he demanded in a voice full of urgency.

  “She’s really fat, and she’s ugly, and she’s got peroxide hair,” Franklin informed him, “All in all, she’s just your type, guv.”

  “Shit! That’s got to be Sandra!” Bull exclaimed. None of the other working girls they had seen had hair like that.

  “Take him out, now,” Tyler ordered.

  “All units from control,” Dillon announced. “We think that Tom’s our star witness, and we think he’s out to knobble her. Move in now. Effect an immediate arrest.”

  The team was startled by the unexpected order but they nonetheless reacted quickly. In accordance with their training, they moved as a cohesive unit. Three murder squad cars converged on Winston’s black BMW in a matter of seconds, blocking it in.

  Franklin and Eva
ns, who were already on scene, were already half out of their car as the others arrived.

  As Bull threw the Omega, its tyres squealing, into Quaker Street, a frenzy of activity was unfolding in front of them. Squad cars were being abandoned in the middle of the road as officers sprinted towards Winston, each one eager to lay hands on him and claim the arrest. Shouts of “POLICE!” and “STAY STILL AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!” filled the air. Winston sat there in stunned silence inside the car as they rushed towards him.

  In his peripheral position, Bull spotted a single prostate form beside the BMW. Slumped forward, it remained supine and unmoving. Although it was too dark to be positive, he instinctively knew it was Sandra Dawson. The burning question inside his mind was what condition would they find her in?

  Had they moved too late?

  At that moment, from deep within the heart of the chaos, there came a loud boom. As the explosion filled the air Franklin, a twenty-five-year-old detective who Tyler had recently encouraged to apply for the accelerated promotion scheme, went down hard. A strong sprinter, he had rapidly closed the gap on Winston and was still running as he fell, arms stretched out and flailing.

  Tyler was still only half out of the Omega when the shot was fired, and the unfolding scene registered on his shocked mind in slow motion, a frame at a time. There was nothing he could do but watch on in horror. As Franklin lay on the floor, legs wide apart, Jack saw that he was terribly still. “Oh my God!” he breathed.

  “GUN!” one of the officers nearest to Winston shouted, breaking the spell.

  “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” Someone else screamed.

  Another shot rang out, but Jack couldn’t tell if anyone else had been hit in the pandemonium that ensued. At least one officer was down, the extent of his injuries unknown; the others were all unarmed and dangerously exposed.

  As the detectives scattered – diving behind whatever meagre cover they could find – Winston seized the moment. He floored the accelerator, and his car surged forward to ram a Squad Vectra blocking his path.

  DC Evans, in a cold rage and completely oblivious to the danger he was placing himself in, had drawn his extendable metal baton and was repeatedly striking the BMW’s windscreen. He ignored calls from the rest of the team to take cover. This low life had shot and possibly killed his friend and partner. Evans wasn’t letting him go without one hell of a fight.

  Winston rammed the Vectra again. Another shunt and he would be able to squeeze the BMW through the gap he was creating. Seeing this, Tyler, Dillon, and Bull all dived back into the Omega, intent on giving chase when it happened.

  “Don’t you dare let this asshole get away,” Jack thundered. “Do you hear me, Steve? I want this bastard,”

  “Then you’d better get in line, guv,” Bull snapped back through gritted teeth. “Colin and his wife are expecting their first baby in a couple of weeks.”

  This was personal now, for all three of them.

  Dillon was already on the Main-Set to the Central Command Complex at New Scotland Yard, requesting urgent armed assistance and an ambulance for Colin Franklin.

  The sound of metal scraping against metal was horrendous as Winston shunted the unmarked police car yet again, this time forcing it completely out of the way.

  After being used as a battering ram, the front of the BMW was badly damaged. The grill, bonnet and one wing had all crumpled, and the nearside fender protruded at a dangerous angle, but the wheels still turned freely and smoke billowed from his tyres as he fled the scene, desperate to escape at any cost.

  The acrid stench of burning rubber filled the night air as the Omega gave chase. It was, Jack thought grimly, a trail of carnage that even a blind man could follow. Looking back out of the rear window, Tyler was aware of his officers getting up and running towards Colin Franklin. The scene appeared surreal to him. He knew that they would perform whatever Emergency Life Support they could until the experts arrived, but would it be enough?

  Jack was furious with himself for not having anticipated this. His lack of foresight had endangered one of his best men. He shook his head, attempting to dispel his anger and focus his thoughts. There would be plenty of time for recrimination later. Right now, all that mattered was catching Winston before he escaped or, worse, harmed someone else.

  ◆◆◆

  The BMW skidded through the stop line at the junction with Commercial Street, colliding heavily with the side of a London taxicab. The shocked cabby, screaming obscenities at Winston, was forced onto the pavement by the impact, scattering a small group of horrified pedestrians unfortunate enough to be in his path.

  Winston’s gaze darted nervously towards the rear-view mirror as he struggled to control the rear end of his car, which was still fishtailing violently. As the BMW settled, he slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck have I done?” he screamed, breathlessly.

  He didn’t fully understand what had happened back there. All he knew was that one moment everything was going according to plan and then, without the slightest warning, he was being raided. They had materialised out of thin air as if by magic, and it had taken him by complete surprise. He doubted that David Copperfield could have done a better job.

  Surrounding him quickly, their triumphant smirks openly mocked him as they advanced on the stationary BMW like a pack of starving hounds baying for his blood.

  He had weighed up his options in an instant. Carrying a loaded firearm would automatically guarantee him a five stretch at one of Her Majesties less salubrious establishments, maybe more given his form. And he could expect his sentence to be increased considerably when they found the drug stash in his flat, if they hadn’t already.

  Those drug squad bastards had been trying to cultivate a snitch inside his network for ages, and it looked like they had finally succeeded. It was too much of a coincidence to believe they had randomly chosen tonight of all nights, when he had a small fortune in raw cocaine hidden inside his flat, to come after him in earnest. Well, they had caught him with his pants down, he’d give them that, but they had severely underestimated him if they expected him to come quietly. Surrender was not in his nature; he would escape or die trying.

  Shooting the damn cop had been stupid, but he just hadn’t been able to stop himself. His hatred for them was so deep-rooted and malignant, like a living thing eating away at his insides. It had completely overwhelmed him as they surged forward to effect the arrest.

  And he didn’t regret it, even though he was now potentially facing a murder charge. No matter what the personal cost, he had shown them that messing with him was a fucking big mistake.

  An unmarked police car appeared behind him; blue lights flashing, siren wailing. Winston dropped a gear and floored the accelerator. Ignoring the protests from his screaming engine, he overtook two cars on a straight section of road, but just as he started to put some distance between himself and the cop car, he found himself stuck behind a double-decker that was only doing thirty. Cursing profusely, he gunned the gas pedal and went for the blind overtake.

  As he pulled out, he was dazzled by the flashing headlights of a large Ford van coming the other way.

  There was nowhere for Winston to go; he was already level with the bus and he was travelling way too fast to stop. Convinced he was about to die, he instinctively swerved to his left, crashing into the side of the Route Master. The driver of the Ford Transit, reaching the same conclusion, also swerved to his left, scrapping the nearside of his vehicle along a row of parked cars. Somehow, the seemingly inevitable head-on collision was avoided, but Winston’s car suffered terribly as it was violently buffeted between the side of the bus and the van. Sparks flew everywhere. Both of his wing mirrors were ripped off. The sound of metal distorting and shearing was horrific.

  And then the BMW had torn itself free. Marvelling that the Beamer was still drivable after what it had just been through, Winston lost no time in building up speed. He had left a trail of destruction behind, and with any luck, th
is would prevent the pursuing police vehicle from getting through.

  ◆◆◆

  The Omega had indeed been forced to stop, but only for as long as it took to make sure that no one was seriously injured and to tell everyone to stay exactly where they were as help was on the way. The BMW was still in their sights as Bull carefully manoeuvred his way through the debris. “Some poor sod’s going to be doing paperwork for a week, writing this mess up,” he told his passengers.

  “Never mind that,” Dillon told him. “You just concentrate on getting us back in the chase.”

  “Consider it done,” Bull promised.

  ◆◆◆

  Winston glanced down at the speedometer and saw he was touching seventy. A major intersection was looming towards him, and to his horror the lights were red. Braking heavily, he swerved onto the wrong side of the road and zoomed past a line of vehicles that were waiting for the lights to turn green. He was still doing fifty when he launched the car into the four-lane junction, cutting through a stream of cars, trucks, and buses criss-crossing his path. Claude Winston screwed his eyes tightly shut and waited for the terrible impact that must surely come, repeating the mantra that it was better to die than to be caught.