Four very long hours went by and it was now late afternoon. Patrick was still asleep and Joanna appeared to be dozing, curled up on the anorak. Outside, nothing moved except crows and pigeons, and I was thankful that I couldn’t see the dying rats from my position by the window. This had been opened just a crack to enable us to hear what was going on outside as well. Trains incessantly rumbled out of sight. I suddenly remembered that I had a couple of bars of Kendal Mint Cake in my pocket and ate half of one.
Someone laughed and I heard voices, children perhaps. Whoever it was wasn’t close by, perhaps somewhere down on the entry road. Patrick was instantly awake and came over.
‘Kids come here after school,’ he said quietly. ‘Big kids, that is. They try to break in, bring stuff to start fires but usually get scared off by the rats. Someone shouted at them yesterday, one of O’Connor’s mob, and they ran off, so this might be a different lot. I don’t think they need concern us.’
I wasn’t surprised – the smell the lobby’s stink had permeated everywhere in the flat. It was the kind of stench that you felt would be in your lungs for ever.
‘Where d’you reckon O’Connor goes?’
‘At a guess, to collect money from various protection rackets he has and to milk the drug dealers who operate with his permission and pay a heavy fee. Marlene mentioned a big job he was planning, if you remember.’
‘Killing top Met cops and leaving their bodies outside primary schools, wasn’t it? And murdering Marlene for good measure.’
‘Well, the latter’s on hold as she’s in a remand centre. As for the other, I did prime Mike Greenway. You get some rest now. Did you eat all the rations?’
‘Of course not. Can’t we flush the loo?’
‘Only if you fill the cistern with a battered saucepan I found among some junk in the kitchen. But I’ve no idea how much water’s left so I suggest you don’t – in case I’m here for longer.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘It’s still better than what’s outside the door.’
Only just.
Before it got quite dark, late-ish, as it was mid-September – no lights allowed – we finished up nearly all of what remained of the rations. Joanna and I insisted Patrick had the last meal as we reckoned that, having only just arrived, we were much better nourished. I gave him my last Kendal Mint Cake for ‘dessert’. Then he took over the watch at the window while Joanna and I sat on the sofa. It appeared to be on the point of collapse.
We waited.
‘I wonder whose corpse it is in the underpass?’ Patrick said to me at one point. ‘And why send the head to you?’
‘We might never know,’ I replied, preferring not to have to resurrect that nightmare moment at all.
After another age had gone by it became as dark as light pollution allows in big cities. I felt myself nodding off, and by my side Joanna’s breathing told me that she was soundly asleep. I wanted to ask Patrick if his arm was still troubling him but thought better of it. He didn’t need to be reminded right now. Then, silhouetted against the window, I saw his body stiffen and he said something under his breath.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I think so. Two of them, on the road, and as well as bags they’re carrying a torch this time. They haven’t done that before.’
‘So they don’t trip over the dead rats in the underpass, I expect.’
‘You don’t have to go through the underpass. There’s a footpath but they don’t seem to use it.’
This was really good to know.
‘I suggest we go for it. But first I must verify that it’s O’Connor and not someone else. You two stay here.’
‘We’re not letting you out of our sight.’
‘You can see me enter the block from here.’ He sounded surprised.
‘We’ll come part of the way. And then one of us can phone.’
‘Oh, all right.’
Gently, I shook Joanna.
NINETEEN
Going out into the open at least meant we could have fresh air. Unconsciously, perhaps, we all took several deep breaths, and then Joanna and I followed Patrick as he turned left and took a narrower path that ran a short distance away from the front of the building we had just left. The reflected glow of the lights of London on the low-cloud night sky meant we could see fairly clearly. Our path skirted the wreckage of the children’s playground and then curved around to the left, which fortunately meant we were now not in view of our target. Meanwhile, whoever had just arrived was going through the underpass.
Roughly halfway there, Patrick stopped. The ground rose a little and there were a couple of low retaining walls at right angles where our path joined another. There was yet more rubbish in the small dip created but it would provide a little cover.
‘You two wait here,’ Patrick whispered, drawing the pair of us towards him. ‘And be careful. Another two yards to your right and you’ll be in view of some of the windows of the mobsters’ flat and also the main entrance. Bend low and conceal yourselves behind the wall. I’ll go inside and listen. I’ll come back here but if I don’t return in five minutes, phone. You’ll have to go somewhere out in the open to do it. As I said, be careful.’
He gave us both a peck on the cheek and walked away.
A minute or so later, when we were crouched down behind the wall, Joanna had a quick peep and said in my ear, ‘I can’t see him. Can you?’ Silently, we had had to shift a few soggy cardboard boxes, redolent of tomcats, out of our way.
‘No.’
We waited, frequently taking quick looks over the top of the wall.
‘D’you reckon those two have come out of the underpass yet?’ Joanna then asked. ‘I haven’t seen them either.’
‘God knows,’ I muttered.
Surely five minutes had gone by, I thought after what seemed half the night had elapsed. I couldn’t even see the time by my watch in the gloom. I counted up to a hundred and still nothing moved. The distant traffic roared on, ambulance and police sirens blared, at least two car alarms were going off somewhere, trains carried on rumbling.
Then, two figures approached the entrance, the same two: bags, torch. Was it my imagination, or was one of them big and broad, the head indistinct as though bearded? He shambled inside while the other, who was carrying the bags, followed. About a minute later, a cheer came from within, a deep, booming voice I recognized, then shouting them into silence.
‘O’Connor!’ Joanna hissed. ‘It’s him! Phone!’
I told her I would come straight back and went, bent low, to where I could no longer be seen due to the corner of another building blocking the view and stood up, cramped. The nearest and safest open space was back down on the access road. I ran, pausing every twenty yards or so to try my phone but did not get a signal until I was outside near the main road, a long way that took far too much time.
I thought 999 a bit low key and potentially slow so I rang the NCA emergency number I have memorized, where one speaks directly to someone working within the organization. All I had to do was quote my personal password and give the location. One no longer has to provide a postcode but I was able to pinpoint the block as it had what appeared to be a mobile phone mast on the top. I warned that the underpass was blocked to vehicles, adding that there was a route for those on foot by the children’s play area.
I ran back to Joanna and once there had a longer look over the wall. Nothing whatsoever appeared to be happening.
‘They’re stuffing themselves,’ she said dismissively.
‘Patrick told us that they had two camping lamps,’ I said. ‘But I can’t see any light which means there must be curtains. If the food’s arrived no one might be keeping watch.’
‘You’re going over there?’
‘I’m supposed to be his backup,’ I fretted.
‘Then let’s back him up. We might meet him coming back.’
We did not and soon there was no choice but to cross the open space between the blocks. This appeared to have been originally intended as a car park
but local youths had turned it into a football pitch with makeshift goals. Broken glass was everywhere, our feet crunching on it as we moved quickly and lightly. Perhaps it had been strewn there by O’Connor’s gang, or others, to prevent any play taking place.
Arriving, we flattened ourselves against an outside wall, listening. I could hear low voices and, looking up, saw that a small window was open. It was impossible to hear what was being said, but I could hear sirens again and prayed that they were not coming here as I had emphasized that as silent an approach as possible was imperative. They faded into the distance.
‘Do I have to repeat myself?’ O’Connor’s voice suddenly yelled. ‘If I say we’re moving out, we’re moving out. D’you think I can keep filling you lot up with booze and nosh out of my own pocket for no return? You can start working for your living. Anyone who wants out, go right now, but don’t expect to come back and not get a bullet.’
We were around a corner from the entrance but, if anyone exited and came this way, they would see us. I looked about me: there was absolutely no cover and above us came the sounds of movement. Grabbing Joanna’s arm, I pulled her into slightly deeper shadow a short distance farther away and we froze, listening. Either one person was coming down the stairs, muttering to themselves, or there were two of them.
‘As I said a while back, I’ve thought for weeks that it was a bloody waste of my time,’ a man said when they must have been almost out in the open air. ‘And now he’s buggered up his hand by shutting it in—’
Silence but for the merest hint of swift effort followed by a few soft thuds. Then, moments later, someone appeared, his back to us, dragging another. This one was dumped down to be quickly joined by a second; the pair then rolled as close to the wall as possible. The one responsible for all this came towards us.
‘Can you hear anyone else coming down?’ Patrick whispered.
‘No,’ I replied, my heart pounding in my ears.
‘I hope you phoned.’
I told him I had.
‘Some were talking of mutiny just before he got here.’
Overhead, O’Connor shouted something – I thought I heard the word ‘van’ – but indistinctly, as though he had gone into another room. Tramping feet then started to-ing and fro-ing, as perhaps the men gathered their stuff together, but it all sounded very erratic, and there was a bang followed by swearing as someone either fell over or walked into something solid.
The three of us stood there and, as we watched, three unmarked cars and one police area car left the main road and parked blocking the access road of the estate. Around a dozen darkly-clad figures got out and approached, fanning out, four heading for the underpass, the rest going from sight as they sought cover. Three must have moved very quickly as they were fairly soon just a short distance from us, approaching the entrance. But they didn’t see us until Patrick waved and I found myself gripping his other arm for a moment as their weapons were instantly ranged in our direction.
Palms outwards in a gesture of peace, Patrick quietly said, ‘NCA. They’re coming out.’
The burly individual in front of the trio marched right up to him, having gestured to the other two to get out of sight. ‘ID?’ he mouthed.
I produced mine. ‘You don’t carry IDs when you’re working undercover,’ I informed him in a whisper.
‘He’s with you?’ This with a thumb jerked in Patrick’s direction.
Overstrung nerves were sorely tempting me to clout him somewhere where he wasn’t protected by his dark blue Ninja turtle outfit. Instead, I told him Patrick was indeed with me.
‘Stay out of the way and you won’t get hurt.’ He turned away to organize some of the rest of his group, who were just arriving.
‘There’s two here.’ I indicated the two prone figures almost at our feet.
‘Oh … right.’
A police Range Rover with flashing blue lights but no sirens then came into view, bumped over various kerbs to circumnavigate the road block, performed a niftier off-roading over other obs-tacles and speeded in the direction of the underpass.
‘Did you mention the blockade in the tunnel?’ Patrick said to me out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Must be at least a super who’s decided to turn up. Shall we go and watch the fire escape?’
Joanna and I shadowed him towards the rear of the building, if indeed such hideous structures have backs and fronts. We heard the semi-subterranean crash when we’d gone about twenty yards and my working partner swore under his breath and then stifled a laugh. He was probably – it was too dark to see – still smiling when he turned to us after having had a quick look around the corner of the building.
‘I’ve previously checked and the door’s actually locked,’ he reported. ‘So if they come this way they’ll have to shoot their way out. We’ll stay here and await developments.’
We couldn’t see it but heard the Range Rover, no doubt a little dented now having battered through the shopping trollies, arrive in a scream of brakes – we discovered afterwards that it had nearly hit a row of concrete bollards. Whoever was inside, in charge, had brought a megaphone with him and now used it.
‘Armed police!’ roared a bullfrog-like voice I seemed to recognize. ‘Come out! You’re all under arrest and completely surrounded!’
‘They ain’t,’ Patrick said in my ear.
‘Masterson,’ I said.
‘Super?’
‘DI.’
‘Bloody hell.’
Out the front there was the sound of breaking glass and a shot was fired. Seconds later what could only be the Range Rover roared away in reverse and another shot banged off metal. Someone was firing from an upstairs window.
‘Developments,’ Patrick said, and was gone, moving quickly in the lee of the building, his destination out of sight from where we were. I glanced round at Joanna and she gave me a little push by way of answer. We ran.
‘Stand back!’ Patrick shouted when he saw us, and fired two shots at the lock on an outer door we saw when we arrived. He kicked in the door and went inside. But not up the stairs, I discovered when I switched on my torch – he was standing to one side in the lower stairwell, which turned out to be the only place we had come across so far in this godforsaken hole that wasn’t full of rubbish, or worse.
Upstairs there was incoherent shouting, upheaval and then repeated bangs as though they were trying to kick through a door. Was it one of those that allowed access to this fire escape?
The stairs were open plan, made of rough concrete, and there was a primitive metal handrail on both sides. Shoving Joanna and me into the stairwell recess like a couple of parcels, Patrick rummaged for a few moments in one of his anorak pockets, found whatever it was he needed and, making me understand that he wanted me to shine the torch on what he was doing, went up four or five stairs. Working quickly, he hooked one end of something – I couldn’t quite make out what – to one of the handrail’s uprights, about a foot up off the steps, and then stretched it across to the other side. There it was passed around one of the handrail’s mounts in the wall, brought back again, pulled tight then wrapped round and round the upright before being anchored by a rough knot. The result was not level but would suffice.
Snare wire turned into a trip wire.
‘Get rid of the light!’ Patrick hissed.
Above us the door gave way and smashed violently back against a wall, broken glass tinkling down. There was more shouting and I made out, ‘Bugger O’Connor! If he wants to kill all the cops let him!’
‘Jinty’s been good to us!’ another man bawled back.
‘Then go and lick his arse!’
‘There’ll be cops out the back as well, you moron! Didn’t you hear those shots? We’re surrounded!’
The reply was a string of obscenities.
We drew back into the depths of the stairwell as they descended, one, by the sound of it, tripping on a landing and being thoroughly cursed as someone else fel
l over him. The whole circus came thumping down the stairs and the inevitable happened. In the dimness I saw the first two cartwheel and slam into the doorway, and this carried on in most satisfactory fashion until there were around eight of them in one large pile. The wreckage started at the bottom of the stairs and almost entirely blocked the doorway, most of the men jammed in the gap, unable to move.
Patrick went forward and spoke quietly, but then had to raise his voice a little as they were all panting for breath. ‘Armed police,’ he told them. ‘Several of us from the National Crime Agency, in fact. We’re the ones who shoot first and ask questions afterwards. One of you move and you’re finished.’
He came back to me and spoke in an undertone. ‘Keep the torch on them. If one does move, fire a shot through the doorway. Don’t accidentally kill Masterson, though – that would be rather awkward.’ Then, carefully stepping over the trip wire, he went up the stairs.
Joanna and I exchanged deeply worried glances. These mobsters didn’t look as though they intended to stay put, whatever Patrick had said. One on the top was already trying to push himself upright. Joanna kicked his backside, hard, while I leaned out over the top of the lot of them, had a quick look to see if anyone was around and fired a shot skywards. It smashed a window somewhere.
This did have the effect of bringing up reinforcements – three of them.
‘National Crime Agency,’ I declared, in case it was a different three as they panted up. ‘Several more suspects for you. My husband has gone to find the rest upstairs.’
Up in the darkness there were three shots in quick succession and a man screamed.
Just remembering the trip wire in time, I ran up the stairs while undertaking a little arithmetic. Thirteen, Patrick had said. Two outside, unconscious, seven or eight in the heap – hard to tell exactly – which left two or three plus O’Connor, unless Patrick hadn’t counted him in.
There was no way I was going to play Murder in the Dark so I kept the torch switched on. This mindset did prove to be the right one when I came upon a man – drunk? wounded? – draped over the handrail on the second flight of stairs. I settled on the former – he reeked of spirits – just before he moved and tried to grab me as I went by. I resisted the temptation to tip him over, carried on then heard a scuffle behind me. I saw that he had got hold of Joanna, who I hadn’t realized was with me. She had no such qualms, thumped him midships and upended him over the rail.
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