by P. F. Ford
‘Okay,’ he said, resignedly. ‘Let’s hear it...’
Slater had been sitting in stunned silence for at least five minutes, but he knew he couldn’t just sit there any longer.
‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’re saying someone has messed around with the feed from the camera in the back garden and we’ve basically been receiving a photograph instead of a live feed.’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said a very unhappy-sounding Steve Biddeford. He was sitting with his head hung. Slater glanced at Weir, who was sitting up, nonchalantly, his arms folded in front of him. Slater was pretty sure that Weir was to blame in some way. He’d probably fallen asleep on the job – it wouldn’t be the first time.
‘And do we have any idea how long it’s been like that?’
‘No, Sarge. But looking at the picture I figure it’s probably been like that since around midday.’ Biddeford seemed to slump inwards.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Slater wanted to kick something. ‘So, basically, there’s been enough time to move a sodding army into that house, and then out again, and we wouldn’t have seen a bloody thing.’ It wasn’t a question it was merely a simple statement of the obvious. ‘So we’re about to launch one of the biggest operations there has ever been in this town, and in all probability our target buggered off at least twelve hours ago. There’s nothing like giving him a head start is there?’
This time he did kick something. The chair slid across the carpet before tipping on its side at Weir’s feet. He looked at Slater in alarm.
‘Hey!’ he said, ‘Careful.’
‘Careful?’ yelled Slater. ‘I ought to be careful to make sure it’s your arse I kick next time, Weir. I think it’s safe to say you’ve pushed your luck a little too far this time. You’ve always been lazy and careless. Well, now you’ve proved you’re bloody useless too. How do you think I’m going to explain this to Jones? Do you think this sort of cock-up happens in the Serious Crime Unit? He thought we were a load of bloody idiots when he came down here. Now he’ll know he was right.’
He walked over to Weir and stood right in front of him, just inches from his face.
‘You know what’s worst of all? You haven’t just buggered up your own career, you’ve buggered up mine, and probably young Steve’s, in the process. Now, go and do something useful like make the tea. And when you’ve done that just keep out of my way. Alright?’
‘Err, yes. Sir.’ gulped Weir. He slunk off, muttering to himself.
‘Err, it’s my fault too, you know,’ Biddeford said, guiltily.
‘I know that, Steve,’ said Slater, sighing. ‘But that bugger’s been doing this sort of thing for years. He’s always got away with it before, but I’ll bloody make sure he doesn’t get away with it this time. He’s made us all look like idiots.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Right now, I’m going to call Jones and explain to him what a bunch of wankers we are at Tinton. After that I don’t know. It’s too late to call everything off now. I just hope there’s still a target in that house when it all goes down, then we might just get way without too much shit hitting the fan.’
Chapter Fourteen
It was coming up to 6am, and it was just about light enough to see what was going on outside. Slater stood at the front bedroom window of number 12, binoculars at the ready, his ears still ringing from the bollocking he’d had to endure earlier when he’d called DI Jimmy Jones to impart the good news about the camera feed.
The fact that the camera had been tampered with was bad enough, but Jones had been gracious enough to concede that this could have been done remotely. What had really got to him was the fact that the two officers watching the monitors had failed to notice anything was wrong – even when night had fallen. He had left Slater in no doubt that if Slick Tony wasn’t in that house when it was raided, the finger of blame would be pointed firmly in his direction.
‘Ready, Steve?’ Slater asked his young partner, who was watching the screen displaying the feed from the front of the house opposite.
‘Yeah, ready,’ said Biddeford.
The incompetent DC Richie Weir had been removed from the surveillance team. He would be dealt with later. Right now it was down to Slater and Biddeford to observe and monitor events as they unfolded across the road.
Slater focused his binoculars across to the far end of the estate. This was the direction the assault team would be arriving from. They should be here any minute.
‘Right,’ boomed DI Jones’ voice across the airwaves. ‘You all know what to do, so I don’t expect to hear a lot of chat over the air. DS Slater can see what’s going on and he will be in constant contact with everyone. I’ll be arriving with the backup team. Okay. Let’s do it.’
Through his binoculars, Slater watched a battered transit van trundle into sight. The plan was for the van to go anti-clockwise around the green, as it was the shortest distance to number 38. To Slater’s surprise, it took the clockwise route, slowing to a halt just past their own house, number 12.
‘What are they bloody doing?’ said Slater, in disbelief.
In panic he grabbed his radio, forgetting all his communications training.
‘This is DS Slater. You’re outside the wrong house you idiots. The suspect is in number 38.’
There was silence for a moment and then a voice came back at him.
‘You sure about that? I could have sworn they said number 8.’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure. It’s number 38. That’s why we’re in number 12, because it’s the house across the green from the suspect. We wouldn’t be able to see much if we were next door but one, would we? Do you need me to wave out of the bloody window? Just look at the house numbers.’
A cry from Biddeford caught Slater’s attention and he lowered his radio. He followed Biddeford’s finger where it was pointing on the screen, and let out a groan. He watched as a dustcart drove carefully onto the narrow road of the estate.
‘Oh shit!’ he said, as the dustcart took the anti-clockwise route around the green. ‘This is going to complicate things.’
He glanced through his binoculars and, with a surge of horror, saw that the transit van had disappeared from view. He jerked back to the screen and let out an even louder groan.
‘Oh God, no,’ he said, as he watched the two vehicles approach each other from opposite sides of the green. ‘I don’t believe this is happening.’
Bobby Geddis had been driving his dustcart for years. He had started driving one back when they were still called binmen. Nowadays, of course, they had to be called by the far poncier, politically correct title of waste disposal operatives, but as far as Bobby was concerned, they were still binmen and he was still their driver.
He felt responsible for his crew. It was his job to collect everyone in the morning, and take them off to the Station Cafe for breakfast before they started their round. And so, every morning, at the same time, he drove onto the estate and around the green to number 26. Today was no different – well, until he spotted the battered transit van coming the other way. He’ll just have to back up, thought Bobby, and he hummed to himself as the dustcart trundled along.
In the police transit van, the assault team were beginning to get hot and bothered. It was hot work wearing body armour, especially when there were eight of you crammed in the back of a van together. But they were professionals, and despite their discomfort no one said a word. When the van had stopped, they had all been holding their breath waiting for the signal to go, but it hadn’t come. Now, even though they were on the move again, they were all on edge, adrenalin pumping, waiting for the two thumps on the side that would tell them it was time to launch the assault.
PC Murray was driving. He really should have been wearing a hearing aid, he reflected to himself sadly. His hearing was getting worse. But then, if he did that, everyone would know, wouldn’t they? Anyway, it was the sort of mistake anyone could make. Eight, thirty-eight – there’s not that much difference
, is there?
He pulled away from number 8 and the van lumbered off around the green. It was just as he reached the halfway point to his destination that he realised there was a dustcart coming the other way. He’ll just have to back up, thought PC Murray, and kept his foot pressed on the accelerator.
Just seconds later, however, he was forced to slam on the brakes. The two vehicles sat bumper-to-bumper; there was no way they could pass each other. Someone was going to have to give way.
PC Murray flashed his lights and waved his arms furiously, but the man behind the wheel of the dustcart just stared at him blankly.
From his viewpoint up in number 12, Slater watched in dismay as their slick, supposedly well-planned operation slowly began to turn into a disaster right before his eyes.
‘You couldn’t make it up,’ he said, despairingly, as he stared down at the two vehicles. ‘Should I resign now, d’you think? Or shall I just wait until I get the sack?’
Biddeford had been tasked with watching the screens and he let out a low whistle, that made Slater’s heart sink even lower.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Biddeford said quietly, ‘but there’s a van delivering milk coming onto the estate now.’
As Slater moved his binoculars to watch the new vehicle, he felt like crying.
‘I didn’t even know they still delivered milk,’ he said, sadly. ‘Why does it have to be here, and why does it have to be right now? Honestly, it’s like we’re watching a bloody Carry On film.’
As the milk van made its way onto the estate, Biddeford turned his attention back to the screen. Hold on, was that a figure? No, perhaps he had imagined it. Wait, there it was again. It was real enough. But who was it, and where were they going? Maybe it was just somebody walking home…
Down on the road, PC Murray was now out of his van remonstrating with the dustcart driver who looked down benignly from his cab.
‘Well, like I just said,’ said Bobby Geddis, smiling pleasantly. ‘If you back up out of the way, I can come through, and then you can have the road all to yourself.’
‘This is a major police operation. You’re obstructing us from doing our public duty,’ insisted PC Murray.
‘And you’re obstructing me from doing my public duty. And anyway, it will be much easier for you to back up than it is for me.’
Meanwhile, the milkman had chosen to take the clockwise route around the green. He only had one call to make on this estate. It was at number 20. As he cruised around the green, he noticed two vehicles pulled up near where he was going to stop. The drivers appeared to be having a chat.
It’s amazing how many people do that these days, he thought. Just stop for a chat, blocking the road. Selfish buggers. Now I’m going to have to reverse out when I’ve finished.
Leaving his engine running, he stopped as close to number 20 as he could, right behind the tatty-looking transit van blocking the road. He grabbed two pints of milk from the back and walked off to make his delivery. No milk today, said the note. The milkman plodded back to his van and climbed inside. He reached forward to make a note in his book that number 20 had had no milk today.
PC Murray had finally realised he was wasting his time trying to reason with the dustcart driver. The man was an arsehole. It was just going to be quicker in the end if he backed up and let the other vehicle through. Barely suppressing his anger, he jumped back into his van, pushed in the clutch and slammed the van into reverse gear. There was a satisfying crunch from the gearbox. He let the clutch out and put his foot down.
The police van leapt backwards, straight into the milk van. There was a crash and crunch of broken tail lights.
The milkman had taken his handbrake off and was about to set off for his next delivery, when suddenly his van was shunted back a few yards. He yanked the brake on now and jumped out. He ran towards the van that had just reversed into him.
‘Hoy! You stupid tit!’ he yelled. In frustration he banged hard on the side of the police van. Twice.
Slater had a grandstand view as the eight armed officers swarmed from the van. The milkman flung his hands up in the air and screamed. PC Murray tumbled from the front seat, trying to shoo the armed officers back into the van, but it was too late. They were off, heading towards the nearest house, automatic weapons poised ready.
They seemed to hesitate and then stop in front of the house, peering at the number on the front, and then at each other. Upstairs at the window, Slater couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a complete debacle.
‘All that’s missing is the bloody Benny Hill music,’ he said.
It was Biddeford who made Slater tear himself away from the unfolding fiasco.
‘Bloody hell, Sarge!’ he said. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’
What?’ he said, swinging the binoculars back towards number 38.
‘Walking down the road, heading towards number 38.’
Slater swung the binoculars past number 38 and on down the road until he saw the figure. He could see quite clearly that it was a woman. She was wearing jeans, a light coat and a headscarf. Wherever she was headed, there was something about the way she walked which made him feel she had a definite purpose in mind. She was almost close enough for him to make out her face. He quickly adjusted the focus to be sure, but he already knew who it was.
‘Sophia Ingliss!’
‘What the hell’s she doing here?’ asked Biddeford.
‘We’re just about to find out,’ said Slater, as he watched the figure slow down.
She was checking the numbers. Right now she was at number 42. Surely she wasn’t going to go to the house? Had Alfie misjudged her? Had he misjudged her? But why else would she be here?
She seemed to come to a decision and moved forward with renewed purpose. As she walked, she put her hands into her pockets, and for the first time Slater noticed the bulge where her right hand pocket was. Suddenly his blood seemed to turn to ice. Jones had told him to follow his hunches, and this was a hunch he couldn’t ignore. But surely there wasn’t enough time…
‘Quick,’ he said, tearing the binoculars from around his neck, ‘Call Jones and tell him to get here now.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Over there,’ said Slater, pointing through the window.
Chapter Fifteen
Slater ran down the stairs, threw open the front door and ran as fast as he could. He vaulted the small wall at the end of the front garden, tore across the verge and stumbled over the road. Then he was on the green, still galloping as fast as he could. As he ran he chanted to himself over and over ‘please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong.’
Across the green, he could see Sophia hesitate momentarily and then march down the path to number 38. There was no front door as such, it was on the side of the house. Still running flat out, Slater could see her knocking on the door. In the distance he could hear the sound of sirens approaching. But they were all going to be too late if anyone answered that door.
He was beginning to flag and slow down, but he kept his legs pumping, gulping in huge amounts of air. He was still watching Sophia. His mind had gone into overdrive and now he considered another scenario. Maybe there was another reason for her being here? Had Jones been right? Was she in league with Slick Tony? How would he break that news to Alfie? Please don’t be in league with him, he thought, please don’t.
The sirens were getting nearer, but he knew they wouldn’t get there in time. He’d promised to keep her safe. What if she got hurt, or worse? How would he explain that to Alfie? He tried to summon up some more energy from somewhere, some more speed. He was getting closer, but now he was really struggling.
Up ahead he saw Sophia take a step back. Had someone opened the door? Then a man stepped out. He was at least a foot taller than her, and his intent was clear. He lunged for her. It looked as if she was in big trouble. Please don’t hurt her, just wait until I get there and you can fight someone your own size. Then she took her right hand from her pocket. Oh
no! Not the gun…
And then something completely unexpected happened, and it happened so fast Slater wasn’t sure exactly what he’d seen. Instead of the sound of the gunshot he was expecting, there was a blur of movement and suddenly the man was reeling backwards, clutching his left arm. Now Sophia was going after him. Another blur of quick movements and he was down on the ground clutching his testicles.
Slater slowed down as he crossed the road to reach the gate to number 38. Behind him in the road, the first of the back-up vehicles arrived. DI Jones jumped from the car as it skidded to a halt.
‘Sophia Ingliss,’ he called, as he ran past Slater. ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move. Keep your hands where I can see them.’
Sophia did as she was told.
It’s not her hands you need to worry about, mate, thought Slater, as he leaned against the wall of the house, hands on his knees, desperately trying to re-inflate his lungs. The sound of pounding boots was getting nearer. The assault team, alerted by the arrival of the back-up vehicles, had finally found the right house.
Better late than never, I suppose. He heaved himself upright and started towards Jones who was instructing two police officers to arrest the figure curled up in a ball clutching his testicles, and then directing the rest of the assault team into the house. Jones turned to him as he approached and pointed at the man on the ground.
‘Who the hell’s he?’
‘I have no idea, Sir,’ said Slater. ‘Ms Ingliss knocked on the door and he answered it. When he saw her he attacked her. I saw the whole thing. It just happens she knows a bit more about self-defence than he does.’
‘So where’s Slick Tony? If that woman’s allowed him to escape, she’s going to be in big trouble. I told you she was in league with him.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ said Slater. ‘But if he’s not in that house he didn’t come out this way. And, as for being in league with him, I have to tell you, that’s just a crock of shite. If she’s in league with him, then so am I.’