by Jean Chapman
‘It’s coming to a head, and the pus, our own bloody pus, will soon be all over us,’ Regional Detective Inspector Betterson said without preamble, adding, ‘Mind if I sit down.’ He did so on one of the benches outside The Trap’s front door.
Liz had insisted that normal life must go on, that Cannon might as well help her do something useful, and anyway gardening was therapeutic. She had him wheel out sacks of compost from the garage and they had shovelled out the old compost from all the tubs into the barrow and were replacing it with the new when the DI arrived.
She had not felt pleased when this tall, gangling detective inspector had arrived looked gaunt and grim, or by the way Cannon had so readily abandoned his spade.
‘Your friend from the Met was anxious you should know that Jones has found out the police patrol car he had use of had gone to forensics, and we believe he and his wife have gone missing. I’ve just been to their house – to the mansion,’ he corrected, ‘and the size of that place says it all.’
‘I thought he was being watched?’
‘No sign of my man either,’ Betterson said, ‘I’m hoping he’s just in a situation where it’s too difficult to make contact.’
‘So Jones is officially on the run,’ Cannon said and wished he could tell Maddern, wished to God he knew where the sergeant was.
Betterson nodded, then immediately shook his head at the betrayal. ‘Some of the shit, most of it, will come the way of the police; you know that.’
Cannon could imagine the headlines. ‘We must make sure they know the full story, not half of it,’ he said, then asked, ‘Any news of the bikers?’
‘Some are in the county,’ he said, ‘and we’re having to pull back men from Operation Jakes to stand by for trouble. There’s to be a press conference this evening asking for any further information about the service station incident, and advising people not to take on any of the unknown bikers.’
By the time Betterson had risen wearily and said he hoped none of the trouble came their way, Cannon had already decided on a face-to-face warning to Stuart and Joy Russell. He left immediately after Betterson, handing his spade to Alamat, who had wandered out from the stable-block in paint-stained overalls for a break.
Reed St Clement seemed an oasis of peace, taking a siesta, pausing before the children arrived back on the school bus and early-shift workers began to call at the local shops on their way home, but even as Cannon parked his jeep and walked purposefully towards the newsagent’s he could hear motorbike engines in the distance. He could also hear the wail of police sirens. It sounded like a pursuit. He got back into his jeep, drove right up to the newsagent’s shop then backed it into Russell’s private parking space at the side of the shop, making it more difficult for anyone to approach the shop from the rear, or for any bikers to park there.
Inside the shop, Russell stood – mug of tea in hand – watching open-mouthed as he completed the operation and walked in. Man and wife had obviously been enjoying a cup of tea before the rush of school-children and delivery boys: the full news-bags were all waiting for them in a line by the birthday card stands.
‘I presume there’s a good reason?’ Russell said, nodding his head towards the jeep.
‘Yes,’ he said, and he pointed to the headline on the newspapers lying on the counter and the graphic pictures of the service station shooting, ‘there’s a gang of London bikers heading for the village. I mean now, at this moment …’ He raised a hand, went to the shop door and re-opened it, ‘and it sounds like the police are in hot pursuit.’
‘Let’s close,’ Joy Russell said. ‘We don’t want them in here.’
‘The school bus’ll be here any moment,’ Russell said. ‘At least the children can come in here out of harm’s way. We can’t close.’
Not for the first time, Cannon thought that Russell had too rosy a picture of life today, a man who thought of trouble as shouted abuse and fist-fights, a man who could blunder into trouble at any time. He hoped it wasn’t to be now.
All three of them moved to stand looking out of the shop window. Russell nodded to where a solitary biker cruised around the village green. He stopped alongside a mother with a child.
‘She’s waiting to meet her elder boy off the school bus,’ Russell said.
In answer to a question the woman pointed towards Snyder Crescent.
The computer hacker had done his stuff, the Faima were following a trail.
‘This is to do with Danny Smithson and his mother, isn’t it?’ Russell guessed. ‘With Sergeant Maddern and … God knows what else.’
‘It’s not unconnected, but there’s no one in Snyder Crescent now as far as I know,’ Cannon answered.
‘No, not even poor old Thompson,’ the newsagent answered grimly. ‘He warned me off, then got finished off himself. Well, they’d better not come in here asking questions.’
‘I hope they don’t, but if they do don’t give them any aggravation. You, your shop and perhaps your wife may come off the worst.’ He turned to looked directly at Stuart Russell. ‘Believe me,’ he emphasized.
The newsagent grunted.
‘The last biker incident I was involved in in London involved the use of an axe, knives, metal bars and baseball bats – and we know there has been a triple shooting on the motorway today,’ Cannon said quietly.
‘Stuart,’ his wife appealed, ‘listen to Mr Cannon or you’ll be …’
Whatever she was going to say went unfinished as the village green was suddenly full of bikes, most of them huge expensive Harley-Davidsons. They roared round the green and over it. Some parked in the middle of it, revving up their machines. By his side, Russell seethed.
‘Go in the back,’ Cannon advised, ‘I’ll stay here with your wife until they’ve gone.’
‘Some hopes,’ Russell said and lifting a hand indicated the school bus arriving, ‘but I’ll keep myself in check.’
The driver of the bus must have been completely nonplussed by the sight of the sea of bikers as he pulled up in the usual place not far from the shop. The sound of the enormous revving machines, and the sight of the leather-clad riders, faces hidden behind scarves and visors, made the children uncertain as they left the bus.
Before he could stop him, Russell had gone to his shop door and opened it wide. ‘No restrictions on numbers today,’ he called, and as if finding a refuge in a storm most of the boys and girls headed for the shop. As soon as they had alighted, Russell waved an energetic arm urging the bus-driver to move off, taking his remaining passengers out of the village, which he did.
‘Who are they?’
‘Darth Vader!’
‘What they want?’
‘I can hear police cars.’
‘Is there going to be a gunfight?’
The children packed into the shop, asking questions. One or two braver, or more foolhardy, boys stayed outside. Then there was only one, who suddenly flung up his arms and shouted, ‘It’s the Hairy Bikers!’
Cannon thought the duo of cooking TV bikers would need a lot more leather and aggression to make them anything like this lot, and as one of them swung his leg over the back of his bike and dismounted, the boy turned, fled into the shop, ran behind Stuart Russell and clung to the back of his shop-overall.
The man in black leather trousers and boots, black T-shirt with the words ‘Fully Patched’ gold sprayed across the front and FAIMA down one side, filled the doorway.
Perhaps only Cannon knew the meaning of the message. This ‘fully-patched’ biker would have received a hundred per cent vote of confidence from his chapter. What he had done to achieve such support would most certainly include violence. It was a trick such groups used to ensure no undercover policeman, who would not be authorized to break the law, could penetrate their world.
‘We’re looking for the Smithsons,’ the biker said without removing his helmet.
‘They’ve left,’ Cannon said, taking the initiative before Russell could speak.
‘From where?’ The ma
n took a step inside and the children all took a step back, as did Joy Russell.
‘From 24 Snyder Crescent,’ Cannon told him.
‘That’s right,’ the biker said softly, ‘but we’ll check. Know where they’ve gone?’
Cannon thought everyone in the shop shook their heads but as the man came forward more aggressively he said calmly, ‘The police took them away to a safe house.’
The boy behind Russell’s apron leaned out to add, ‘Yeah, Danny told me his uncle threatened to kill him.’
The boy’s voice was drowned out by a blare of motorbike horns, and they all looked up to see that several police cars had come up behind the bikes in the square and several of the bikers were waving their spokesman to get a move on. He turned and walked, almost tiptoeing towards the door. Cannon waited for the intention behind the act. At the last moment the leathered giant turned and shouted, ‘Boo!’ at the children, laughing maniacally as all jumped and several of the girls started to cry. Russell clenched his fists but Cannon stepped in front of him.
‘How did you keep your hands off ’em when you were a copper?’ he breathed as the man strode with an exaggerated swagger back to his bike.
‘With difficulty,’ Cannon admitted, watching as the three police cars were brought to a halt by a line of engine-revving but unmoving motor-bikes. The police in the cars sat and watched, waiting for back-up. The biker who had been into the shop revved his machine harder, wove his way between the others and roared off in the direction of Snyder Crescent. The rest, with the exception of those blocking the way of the police cars, followed.
‘What are they up to?’ Russell asked.
‘They’ll be checking an empty house, nothing is taken on trust, and the police hopefully will arrive in force in the meantime.’
Russell nodded back towards the line of bikes in front of the police cars; several of them were now driving right up to the front of the cars, touching them, backing up and them coming back faster, braking hard. Taunting by motorbike, Cannon thought, but then the police cars, as one, suddenly backed up and opened their ranks as two police vans came on to the scene, the back doors opened and armed police got out. The situation altered in seconds, the bikers made arm-wide gestures of innocence but as the police advanced, short automatic rifles balanced on their forearms, fingers on triggers, they retreated little by little. The police shepherded them to one side and the police cars drove through and on towards Snyder Crescent. The armed police split into two, one lot remaining, supervising the bikers on the green, the others getting back into one of the vans and following the police cars.
Cannon could see one of the bikers had taken out what looked like a very modern phone and was busy touching the screen, texting – but to whom? Was he sending news of the arrival of armed police to someone in the other group?
One of the armed policemen went towards him and held out a hand. He was ignored.
Cannon knew this could be a flashpoint in a difficult situation. It never took much, and these bikers could be unarmed – or could be the ones involved in the service station shooting.
The armed officer went nearer, still holding out his hand. The biker kept touching the screen, rapidly, expertly – sending a message where? Cannon glanced around for any other reaction and was just in time to see another biker push a hand into the breast of his leathers.
‘Get everyone into the back,’ he ordered, then as one or two of the boys looked likely to argue, answer back, as kids did these days, and he caught a glint of something metal in the biker’s hand, he bellowed, ‘Move! Now!’ The children were moving, but some almost fooling about, and the shop windows were in the direct line of any fire from the revolver that now emerged from that breast-pocket.
‘Get down!’ he yelled and wished he could warn the policeman who stood with his back to the danger, hand still outstretched for the phone, but even as the gunman sighted the revolver he was in the sights of a police marksman who was lying prone on top of one of the police vans. Two shots rang out.
The shot from the policeman disabled the biker with the revolver, while his shot caught the policeman a glancing blow, spun him round but continued on its trajectory straight towards one of Russell’s shop windows.
Cannon saw the toughened glass bend in as if in slow motion, give way and craze like a giant spider-web. He and Russell automatically stooped and covered their heads, but mercifully the glass stayed in place. The bullet travelled on to embed itself in the wall above a display of chocolates.
Inside and out, general mayhem broke out.
The children squealed, panicked and pushed each other through the door to the back of the shop. Outside, several bikers pulled guns, the police dropped behind their vehicles and a police loud-hailer ordered the bikers to throw down their weapons.
Some of the bikers revved up, crouched low behind their handlebars, drew guns, and drove at the police lines, firing. The police returned the fire and several bikes and riders were hit. Two fell from their machines, and the police increased fire to deter any rescue attempts.
The roar and smoke of exhausts and the mud, grass and gravel thrown up by the bikes increased as the remainder of the gang hastily circled away and rode after the main party – towards Snyder Crescent.
‘What can we—’ Russell was asking but broke off as the shop door opened and a woman holding a small child’s hand walked in. The normality of it was totally bizarre in the middle of such chaos – a woman with a child and a shopping bag, she was like someone from another world. Then both realized it was the woman who had come to meet her older child. She seemed to meet the shop-keeper’s eyes then whatever control was keeping her on her feet deserted her. Cannon whisked the shop chair from near the counter and had it under her just before her knees gave way. Russell picked up the child.
‘There’s … shooting,’ she said, but not as if she believed it, ‘guns.’
‘Where were you?’ Russell asked, placing her child on her knee as she reached for him.
‘Behind the jeep,’ she said and looked at Cannon, ‘but where’s my David?’
‘In the back with my wife,’ Russell told her, ‘all the children off the bus are safe.’
‘But what shall we do?’
‘Best for you all to stay here a little longer, then we’ll make sure you all get home safely,’ Cannon said. ‘The police will have sent for help and ambulances. Even as he spoke there was the sound of a different siren in the background, but Stuart Russell nudged his arm and nodded over in the direction of Snyder Avenue. A line of black smoke was rising into the pale-blue afternoon sky and in seconds the line billowed into a cloud, the cloud became denser with sudden bursts of angry red lighting the centre.
‘Something’s well ablaze,’ he said.
‘24 Snyder Crescent,’ Cannon said.
‘You reckon?’ Russell said.
Cannon nodded as they watched the remaining police tending to the injured, taking guns and knives from the prostrate bikers, waiting for ambulances so these men could be taken to hospital, kept under armed guard and, when they were fit, questioned.
Then there were other people hurrying across the green, coming from all directions. Some stopped to look or talk to an officer, most headed straight for the shop.
‘Parents of the children, they’ll have heard the commotion, bet they can hardly believe it either,’ Russell said, with a quick glance at his splintered window with the bullet hole through the top left-hand corner, and the woman being reunited with her second son.
More sirens, very near this time. Two ambulances sped into the village and were soon tending to the injured and loading them into the vehicles. An armed constable ran across to the shop and asked all the adults and children to stay inside until they were told it was safe to leave. Cannon stationed himself near the door.
It was difficult to decide whether it was more gunfire he could hear, or the great crack and snap of house beams and timber in the flames that now rose many feet above the other house-tops in
the direction of Snyder Crescent. Two fire engines followed. It would be a containment exercise, he thought.
Then a white van came speeding back into the village green. For a vital moment everyone thought it was one of the police vehicles, but this Mercedes van was unmarked – and it was away, out of sight, before the police could get back to their vehicles and manoeuvre around the ambulances, stretchers and equipment laid out alongside the injured. The number plate, Cannon noted as a police car gave chase, was completely obscured by filth and just like the vehicles used by the Jakeses to fetch and carry to and from number 24.
So had one of the Jakes family come back for something? And if it was a Jakes making a late escape, why weren’t the Faima after him? A Jakes prisoner could be exploited, made to talk. Cannon remembered the stash of gold bullion, the enmity between the two gangs. If the Faima had a member of the Jakes family, there would be no holds barred. He’d talk – sooner or later.
One of the ambulances was preparing to leave and while the constable received several messages on his radio his face was grim and he shook his head at the questioning looks from the adults. Then he put his hand to his ear, holding the microphone more firmly in place, exclaimed, ‘What!’ and listened again. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘So …’ a father holding the hands of a boy and girl, asked, ‘can we go?’
‘An inspector is on his way to speak to you all.’
There was some muttering from one or two of the men, but before mutiny could break out a police car came from the far side of the green, the first vehicle not to break the speed limit for some time, and stopped outside the shop. A uniformed inspector got out, spoke to the constable briefly, then turned to the adults and children now all crowded into the main part of the shop.
‘The parents who are here may leave with their children, and if there are neighbours’ children here they could see safely home that would be a great help. I do not want any child to leave here on their own. They will be taken home by a police officer as soon as possible, and I would advise that you all stay at home once you get there.’