by GB Williams
All of them had their heads down and their mouths shut. Good. If they kept this up they might just make it through. Though even Teddington had to admit she was getting a little bit sick of braces-girl crying. Every sob grated on her nerves.
She closed her eyes, internalised.
She monitored her own breathing. Smooth, regular, normal. In control without being controlled. Her heart rate was down; if not exactly to her normal resting heart rate, definitely within a few beats of it. She opened her eyes, saw the crushed pile of the hard-wearing commercial grey and blue carpet. It hadn’t been cleaned in a while. She could see deep-grained stains, muddy footprints. It hadn’t even been vacuumed recently—there was a small thread of white cotton two feet in front of her, perhaps from someone’s shirt, the kind of loose thread that falls off at first wear.
Why are you thinking about cotton threads?
Because there are men with guns in the room and you need to ensure that you stay as calm as possible. Though that crying kid isn’t doing much to help.
Taking a deep breath, she carefully extended her view. The guy in the blue suit was shifting from foot to foot. She could hear another woman sobbing gently, and looked slightly up. Zanti. She was crying, trying to control it, but her breathing stuttered as she transferred the cash from the tills into whatever bag she’d been given. Samuel was still in his elevated seat. He wasn’t the tallest man ever. His hands were up near his shoulders, but slowly lowering.
Don’t do it, Samuel, don’t.
Pretty Boy looked like a boy band member in his sharp grey, though Teddington wasn’t sure that she’d seen many boy bands wear suits this last decade. He did a double-check towards Samuel.
‘Hands in the air,’ he growled.
Samuel reached for the ceiling, his face grey. Pretty Boy concentrated on Zanti, telling her to move across to empty Samuel’s till. There wasn’t much room back there, and as Zanti reached for the furthest stash of cash, she pushed Sam, whose feet didn’t touch the floor when he was sitting. He flailed, yelped, grabbed for the desk, and as he started to fall, Teddington hoped to God he didn’t hit the silent alarm.
2
‘So, your intel was correct.’
‘I never doubted it,’ DCI Piper told Superintendent Broughton down the phone.
‘I did.’
The other man disconnected. Piper sighed, suspecting Broughton was red-faced in annoyance and had only called in an attempt to gloat in case of failure. It had been made perfectly clear that if this operation proved to be an expensive waste of money because the informant was unreliable, heads would roll—and Piper’s would be the first. Slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, Piper swallowed the dryness of his throat and thanked the Lord he hadn’t been led astray.
‘That didn’t sound like a comfortable conversation.’
Piper turned to the man at his side in the nondescript Transit parked within viewing distance of the Invicta Bank. The surveillance van was big enough but there was so much in-built equipment that there wasn’t much room left for the three workstations inside. Piper sat nearest the cab, nearest the bank; Tactical Adviser Jonah Andrews was nearest the back. He had one earphone to his ear, having taken it from Piper when the DCI’s mobile rang. As Andrews was dressed all in black and sitting in the shadows, most of the detail of his uniform and bulletproof vest were lost and his black face the most visible part of the man. Piper knew Andrews was younger than him, but the guy had a face Piper doubted had ever smiled and a head that knew how to grow hair, but seemed too scared to do so.
‘It wasn’t,’ Piper admitted.
‘What did you expect, relying on information from Charlie Bell of all people?’
Piper had to force himself not to tense. He was sick of having to defend himself on that point. ‘Charlie Bell was a damn good DS.’
‘Yeah,’ Andrews agreed lightly, ‘right up to the second he crossed the line and killed a man. Dragging all of us and the station’s name into the mud with him.’
That was an argument Piper had heard too often and only some of it was true. Charlie had killed a man, but he’d also served his sentence. Whatever Andrews said, Charlie’s actions hadn’t actually made that much difference to the standing of the police or the station in the local community. They were the police; any expectations of thanks or respect seemed to belong to a culture long past gone. Most locals just thought of them as pigs. People could live with the occasional bad cop being uncovered. One big headline, then tomorrow’s chip paper. It was the police officers themselves that seemed to have the problem. Though thankfully not all of them. Even they got over the occasional negative headline. The problem with Charlie Bell was that he just kept on hitting the headlines.
Piper looked at Andrews, and considered Charlie’s defence. What Charlie had done in killing Phillip Mansel-Jones was get a crook off the street who was too powerful for the police to stop. While the Force had rules, Mansel-Jones had force and no rules. What Charlie had done was save at least one little girl’s life, a simple and important fact which had never come to light. Which never could come to light. Charlie had brought justice, albeit rough justice, where there was none to be had within the bounds of the law. Another thing only Piper knew was that if Charlie hadn’t got there before him on that fateful night, he would have done exactly what Charlie had. He owed Charlie thanks for that at least; he wasn’t sure he could have lived with himself as a murderer. He’d seen how hard that was for Charlie, too. The man wasn’t broken, but it had been a close-run thing. And Rhys Mansel-Jones was still around to run the organisation his brother had left behind. Albeit not as effectively.
‘Then last year,’ Andrews went on, ‘he breaks out of prison from his own son’s funeral and digs all the dirt again.’
At least a lot of those headlines had been positive. The press had gone from vilifying Charlie for kidnapping a prison guard, to lauding him as a victim of attempted murder at his own son’s funeral, and all but suggesting he was a hero for getting a wounded officer medical care until he could publicly surrender himself back into judicial care. It was a typical journalistic about-face. It opened old wounds within the station and rubbed a sea’s-worth of salt in.
‘He did not break out,’ Piper said with deceptive calm. ‘He attended his son’s funeral and got shot at. As was the prison officer he was handcuffed to. The officer was, in fact, shot. Bell had no choice but to run. And he gave himself up voluntarily.’
‘That’s not how most of the boys see it.’
‘Well, the boys need to open their bloody eyes. I know Bell a damn sight better than any of you. He was my DS. I was in charge of him. I arrested him. I gathered the evidence that built the case against him. I was in charge of the hunt for him. I received him back into custody. And in case I have to remind you, I’m in charge of this operation—an operation based on the information supplied by a registered informant. If CHIS can accept his information, and I can, you’d better learn to and fast, because the raid we were told about is in progress and our suspects are going to be running out any second. As your lads are in place and primed, and we’ve got cars standing by to follow and trap the getaway, with a little cooperation and trust, this op should be sweet as a nut. And that will be in large part down to Charlie Bell.’
His jaw was clamped shut as he turned to look out through the front windscreen. ‘What the—?’
Two marked police cars came to a sudden halt either side of the Invicta Bank; Piper was moving from the van, shrugging his jacket into a more comfortable position, even as the first uniformed officer was stepping from the car. The ageing man was thickening around the middle and greying on top. Piper didn’t need to flash his badge at a man he’d known for over twenty years.
‘Sir!’ The constable stopped short, surprised to see him.
‘What’s going on, Lawson?’
‘Silent alarm from the Invicta Bank.’
Piper swore, making Lawson back up in surprise. ‘And none of you bothered to listen to this
morning’s brief? The one telling you this was expected and not to act?’ Even as he said this, uniformed officers were stopping traffic and holding pedestrians back. Piper knew recriminations would come later. There would be an in-depth review of every man’s action and as senior officer on this operation, he would be first under particular scrutiny.
He pushed his hand through his hair. This was supposed to be straight forward. From Bell’s information the plan was five men in and out quick, Piper’s plan was Andrew’s men would shoot out the tyres and move in, Piper would bungle and let Bell get away. Quick and easy. Ish.
Right now, though, he had to get hold of the situation and minimise the damage. Thankfully he’d had a backup plan in case this happened: he had to make it look like the only response was standard operating procedure. The van was currently far enough back that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious from the bank, but he’d move it closer at some point to make it look newly arrived. He swiftly told Lawson what to do, move the squad cars back, block the roads, two-layer cordon. The man was dependable and reliable, acting quickly and well. As a PC, Lawson had more respect and leadership skills than many of his more senior officers. Lawson moved away to direct the other responding teams with Piper’s total confidence.
Piper headed back to the van. His tie suddenly felt too tight. Andrews was still listening to the sound feed.
‘What’s happening inside?’ Piper asked.
‘Crowd control. They’re grouping the customers and staff into one area near the rear of the branch.’ Andrews was leaning towards the console. ‘I’ll pull my men closer.’
‘Wait!’ Piper ordered. ‘An armed response unit arriving too quick could tip the gang off to the fact that we were already here. It’ll compromise our man inside. Redeploy by all means, but give it a minimum ten-minute delay.’
Andrews gave him a sour look. ‘Thanks, I’ve never done this before.’
Piper looked away. He deserved that sarcasm. He waited till Andrews had finished his instructions before he spoke again. ‘Can we get video feed from your men?’
‘No,’ said Andrews. ‘We were equipped for backup only. My men have individual video for review only, no transmission capability.’
Piper leaned into the van and pulled open one of the storage bays beneath the workstations. He dragged out a box of audio-visual equipment. When he straightened, he looked around to see people from shops filing past, being herded out of the exclusion zone that uniform were erecting around the intersection of Glenister Street and Arthur Road. PC Lawson was walking towards him, instructing two other uniformed officers.
‘How are we doing, Lawson?’
The man trotted over, the thick stab vest adding more bulk than the years had.
‘Cordons are in place at all three road points, neighbouring shops are being emptied. I’ve called Traffic to get diversions set up and minimise the disruption.’
Thankfully Tuesday afternoons weren’t terribly busy, but give it half an hour and there would be complaints about loss of business coming through.
‘I need this set up.’ Piper passed over the equipment. ‘Close but not obvious. Channel A.’
Lawson nodded, took the box and turned away from the van. ‘Regan!’ he called as he moved to the rear of the car he’d arrived in. A very young-looking man answered the call. ‘I’ve got a job for our resident tech-spert.’
‘How long to set that up?’ Andrews asked, now standing next to Piper.
Piper shrugged. ‘Couple of minutes, maybe. Sorry for—’
‘Forget about it.’ Andrews waved away the apology. ‘I shouldn’t have had a go either.’ He drew in a big breath. ‘Right, since this is now a hostage situation, who’s our nearest negotiator?’
Mantrap open.
‘I am.’
Foot straight in.
Andrews’ look was assessing. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘Only one I’ve got right now.’ He sighed, all too aware of the potential for trouble as he looked at the Invicta Bank. ‘What the hell went wrong?’
3
As Teddington watched, wide-eyed, she saw Samuel had barely got to his feet before Pretty Boy punched him so hard he was on the floor again.
‘Mr Orange!’ The snap came from the black suited man who had fired and shouted on entry.
‘He hit the alarm.’
God damn it.
‘I don’t hear anything.’
None of them did, but they wouldn’t if it was a silent alarm that linked directly to the police station.
Teddington risked looking up at the men. So, Pretty Boy was Mr Orange, which was clearly just a code name. Chances were, the others would be colour-coded too, though it wouldn’t be linked to anything any of them were wearing.
Oh no, the Reservoir Dogs are doing their Dog Day Afternoon.
The Neanderthal was by the door. Two Guns was just beyond the front edge of the counter. From where Teddington sat, he was surrounded by happy bunnies, their jollity throwing his crew-cut agitation into stark relief. The man in black, the Leader, stood casually, centre stage. Teddington wondered what people outside would be able to see.
The windows were full height but the bottom half was frosted; the public would only see anyone who was standing up. The customers—hostages—wouldn’t be visible. The gunmen would be, but they were keeping their weapons low. Someone would have to really look to see them now. The lights at the front of the building were off, so most people wouldn’t be able to see anything.
Except perhaps the overgrown Neanderthal by the door. While the door was recessed into the bank, and she was pretty sure she’d heard him throw the latch, he was relatively easy pickings if the police brought in a sniper. Was that likely? She had no idea.
The Neanderthal was watching Mr Orange push Sam and Zanti into the main space of the bank. His eyes moved down to Teddington. She felt like she’d been slapped so she looked away. A glance back up showed the man was now looking at the still sobbing girl.
Mr Orange pushed the two cashiers into the group; Teddington noticed that as he paused in the doorway of the cashiers’ area, he did something to the latch so it wouldn’t catch. As Zanti and Sam half sat, half fell to the floor, they set the little girl, Lucy, sobbing even harder. Teddington wondered how Lucy hadn’t run out of tears yet.
Two Guns was shifting again, stepping back and forth.
Best way to stop a disturbance—don’t let it start.
The words of a long-ago trainer whispered into Teddington’s ears. The advice had served her well in work, hopefully it would serve them all well today.
Teddington turned slightly to look at the mother and child. Lucy was snuggled up to her mother. They were clamped tight together, both staring wide-eyed at Two Guns.
‘What’s your name, kid?’ Teddington asked the girl. She already knew it was Lucy, but she needed to engage the child.
Lucy just tried to burrow deeper into her mother’s shoulder.
‘Lucy,’ the mother whimpered. ‘Her name’s Lucy and I’m Megan.’
Teddington nodded but focused on the girl. ‘Hi Lucy, I’m Ari.’
Though Lucy finally focused on her and nodded, the sobbing didn’t stop.
‘Shut her up.’
Teddington turned to face Two Guns.
‘Mr Pink,’ the Neanderthal grated. ‘Ignore the kid, stick to the script.’
Two Guns, Mr Pink, huffed and turned back to his job. As far as Teddington was concerned, the only problem was Lucy was now sobbing even harder.
Teddington focused on Lucy. ‘I know you’re scared, Lucy, we all are.’
‘Yous not.’
‘Oh kid, I can assure you I am scared.’ The weight of the knots in her belly proved that to herself, if no one else. ‘But I need you to try to be calm for me okay, Lucy? It’s okay to be scared—only a nitwit wouldn’t be scared right now. You’re not a nitwit, are you?’
The girl shook her head.
‘You’ve just had a new brace fitted today, haven
’t you?’ Teddington moved closer, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘So I know you’re a brave little girl. I need you to be brave again now. Take some deep breaths and control your tears okay?’
Lucy nodded and she was starting to take some deep breaths, controlling herself, but the sobs weren’t done with her yet.
Sharply, Mr Pink turned to face the customers. His gun pointed directly at the girl.
‘If you don’t shut it—’
Instinctively Teddington put herself between Lucy and Mr Pink’s guns.
‘—I’m goin’ t—’
‘Mr Pink!’ the man at the door warned as the girl’s wailing ramped up.
‘She can’t help it,’ Teddington said. ‘She’s scared and you threatening her is just going to make her cry more.’
Now on her knees, between Lucy and Mr Pink, Teddington was looking directly down the barrel of another gun. Round and silvery this time, but just as deadly. This one shook more than the last one. Amend that to way more deadly.
Lucy could have no idea how scared Teddington was at this point. Teddington was hard pushed to define it, except for another time when she was tied to the plumbing in the middle of a riot and being beaten with her own belt, and threatened with… well, she wasn’t going to dwell on that. She had troubles enough this second, she couldn’t take the weight of past troubles too.
She looked up at the man, Mr Pink. He was sweating. She was sweating. They were both breathing hard. His eyes were wide and full of anger. Her eyes felt just as wide and full of fear.
A hand, large and heavy, clamped on her head.
‘You.’ Her head was forced forward and down till she was crouched on the floor again. ‘Head down and be quiet.’ The gravelly voice told her this was the Neanderthal. ‘You keep your kid quiet.’ He must be talking to Megan. ‘And you—’ this to Mr Pink, ‘calm down and back off.’