Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  To this day Sam still wasn’t sure who was more shocked; the teenage robber with blood pouring from his forearm or Sam herself. What she found at the shop was nothing she had imagined or expected…and she thought every victim-based scenario had run through her head.

  ‘Hi Sam. Think so.’ Fred paused. ‘Well, actually not really.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A man’s been knocked down outside the shop. Flattened by a bus. The County Cars are here.’

  Sam was struck by the expression. Only fully paid up members of the old school called road policing vehicles County Cars.

  ‘Thing is,’ Fred continued, ‘he didn’t just run in front of the bus. He was being chased.’

  The last word focused Sam’s mind but she stayed silent, didn’t interrupt.

  ‘He ran out of the multi-storey. Proper terrified. Looked like the devil himself was chasing him. Joyce told me to ring you.’

  An outsider would struggle to understand, but despite the crisis around her in Malvern Avenue, despite Paul Adams, despite the unknown body in the road, Sam still felt the instant jab of curiosity, the urge that was part of her DNA. She inhaled the cigarette she had just lit.

  ‘About time you were stopping again young lady,’ Fred chided.

  ‘Nothing wrong with your ears, Fred.’ Sam shrugged, hating the pricks of guilt and failure. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Just before I rang you.’

  So 10 minutes judging by the voicemail, Sam reckoned.

  ‘How long have the police been there?’

  ‘A while. Didn’t take them long.’

  That makes a change, Sam thought. Response times seemed to be getting worse.

  ‘You’re sure he was being chased? It wasn’t somebody else just running for the bus?’

  Fred’s response was immediate. ‘The bloke came up to me and….’

  ‘Which bloke? Sam interrupted.

  ‘The one who was chasing. Scottish. Big bugger. Not tall but the bodybuilder type. On the juice no doubt.’

  ‘Steroids?’

  ‘Yeah, that was my thinking anyway. He came right up to me. Told me I hadn’t seen anything.’

  ‘Scottish you say?’

  ‘Yeah. Glaswegian. Heard enough of that accent in the Paras to recognise it anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to come and see you.’

  Sam turned and saw a Ford Mondeo pull up behind the ambulance. Superintendent Dick Donaldson stepped out of the car, street light catching the silver braid on the peak of his cap as he adjusted it and walked over to Sam. Donaldson’s slim 6ꞌ foot frame was carried along by shiny black Oxford shoes.

  ‘Fred, I have to dash. I’ll come and see you later.’

  She ended the call.

  ‘Hi Sam. I thought I’d said goodbye to this sort of thing when I left the Met.’

  Dick Donaldson, born and raised on a local council estate, moved away from Seaton St George to go to university as an 18-year-old, a proud first for his family. From there he had joined the Met and only recently returned to Eastern Police on promotion to Superintendent.

  He was a likeable, jovial family man with vast experience, and in the six months since his transfer had already become a favourite of the rank and file.

  ‘I never thought I’d see this in my police career full stop,’ Sam said.

  They fell silent as they looked at the body of Paul Adams. The whimpers beneath him rose and fell on the cold breeze.

  ‘Right let’s get the show on the road Sam. I’m declaring this a major incident and I’m assuming command.’

  Sam nodded. She liked decisive people.

  ‘Is that Ed Whelan over there?’ Donaldson asked. ‘Top bloke. I did my negotiators course with him years ago.’

  Together they walked towards Ed and when they were close, Donaldson stretched out his hand in greeting.

  ‘Ed,’ he said, stretching out his hand. ‘Any contact yet.’

  Ed shook his hand.

  ‘Nothing so far other than a muffled shout from the house.’

  Donaldson turned to Sam.

  ‘Can you get some of your people to set up an intelligence cell.’

  ‘Already done.’

  Dick nodded, smiled, and introduced himself to Gerry Trout.

  ‘I’ll just take this,’ Sam said and answered her phone. ‘Update from the Intelligence Cell,’ she said at the end of the call.

  ‘House is occupied by Zac Williams, 22 years, and Lucy Spragg aged 19. She’s got no convictions. Williams has form for dishonesty dating back to when he was a juvenile, last arrest two months ago, D and D.’

  If Williams is involved he’s taken one hell of a leap from drunk and disorderly.

  Sam told them Williams was a known cannabis user and that Lucy Spragg had twice made reports of domestic abuse before quickly withdrawing the complaints.

  ‘Williams has a four year-old-son from a previous relationship,’ she said. ‘No landline in the house and unknown whether Williams or Spragg have mobiles.’

  Before Sam could say more, a shout came from No.2.

  ‘What the fuck happens now?’

  The voice was controlled, no overtones of panic or rage.

  ‘This is our in,’ Dick Donaldson said. ‘He obviously wants to speak.

  ‘Ed get your head around what you’re going to say to open a dialogue. Gerry, I want a plan for approaching the house.’

  They both knew what was coming next.

  ‘I want to get a mobile in to him.’

  Chapter 6

  Davy Swan strolled towards the multi-storey, head down, not making eye contact with anyone moving towards the bus and the dead pedestrian. The last thing he wanted was to be remembered and witnesses always remembered runners.

  He had stood and watched the activity for ten minutes. The old man hadn’t approached the police.

  Swan drew on the shaking cigarette until a huge amount of ash dangled from the end. Smoke swirled from his nostrils, a formation of cirrus swirls. He flicked the cigarette away.

  The pulse in his neck bulged and he kept balling his hands into fists, the veins in his forearms rising like a 3D road map.

  Why had the dozy bastard not waited until they were both next to the sliding door? The whole job would have been clean.

  Still, if the old man in the newsagent knew what was good for him, he would keep his mouth shut. And if he didn’t…well needs must.

  Swan walked back up the stairs.

  His passenger was leaning forwards, right arm outstretched, hand pressed against the van for balance, left hand pressing an oily rag against the back of his head.

  Swan didn’t do sympathy even when he wasn’t raging.

  ‘Move away. I’ll back out, then jump in.’

  Swan muttered ‘stupid bastard,’ climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key and reversed out of the bay.

  Stuck in High Street traffic, he had the driver’s window wound down, right elbow sticking out. Blue lights were everywhere, but they weren’t interested in them. Not yet anyway.

  The congestion meant he had time to watch the police activity: people being ushered away, things written on clip-boards. The newsagent was nowhere to be seen. If the police got around to speaking to the old bugger, the two of them would be long gone.

  The police could get a description – years of weights, high protein and steroids made him stick out from the crowd. They may even get the fact that he had a Scottish accent, may even identify him, but so what? Putting him on the street at the same time as the deceased was one thing. Connecting him with the death, something totally different.

  He looked around for CCTV. There were cameras but he’d had the foresight to rip off his ski mask and stuff it into his trouser pocket just before he emerged onto the street.

  Of course he’d tripped over that stupid kid in the buggy, but whether that was enough to identify him…

  The CCTV in the multi storey shouldn’t be a problem as he’d kept his
head down all the time he was walking back to the van, and the van itself had false plates. The best those cameras would show was a faceless man walking back to the van and a masked man chasing the gimp.

  Swan smiled at the bus driver in his uniform sat on the back step of the ambulance, silver foil blanket draped around his shoulders. Thanks to him the fuck up at least had a happy ending.

  Time would tell whether The Man would see it that way.

  Ed squatted behind two firearms officers who were in turn crouched behind two ballistic shields. The mini rugby scrum inched its way towards number 2, the helicopter temporarily ordered away from the scene.

  Ed, wishing he were six inches shorter, could see nothing other than the backs of the officers in front of him. The officers themselves were looking through a letterbox-sized window near the top of the shield.

  I’m getting too old for this, Ed thought, pounding heart thumping against his bulletproof vest.

  The vest was one of a number of things in the ‘Go Bag’ that lived in the boot of his car. Alongside the body armour it contained his ballistic helmet, a woolly hat, pads, post-it notes, pens, cans of pop, energy bars, a packet of cigarettes and matches. Ed had never smoked in his life but could imagine nothing more frustrating than a ‘jumper’ saying they’d come down in exchange for a cigarette – only for nobody at the scene to have one.

  He exhaled loudly. The heavy, pimped, open-faced helmet pushed his neck into his shoulders and his heart continued to pound.

  Ed had been stabbed in a surprise attack. That was one thing. Walking towards a firearm that had already been discharged at human targets was something totally different.

  He felt like a nervous public speaker: dry mouth, furry tongue, inner cheeks stuffed with cotton wool.

  Would he even be able to shout when the time came?

  Progress was slow, a hold-your-breath, close your eyes pause after each step, the wait for the crack of a discharged firearm.

  It was no more than thirty metres to the point where everybody agreed was close enough to shout, but every forward shuffle ramped up the danger.

  Nothing prepares you for this. Training’s great, but this is real.

  The two firearm officers stopped. The one on Ed’s right pushed her left arm backwards and tapped his leg.

  That was his cue to start speaking, the reason the helicopter had been temporarily stood down.

  Ed inhaled long and slow, ran his tongue around his lips and forced himself to forget the dryness in his mouth. Say the wrong thing now and it wasn’t just his life he was endangering.

  Another deep breath.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouted, keeping his head well below the top of the shields.

  They all waited…a ‘time stood still’ moment where no one was overplaying the danger. They were staring down its throat.

  He held his breath and forced his legs to stiffen against the shakes trying to burst from his body.

  Nothing.

  Another long, slow inhalation of air. He could hear the deep breathing of the firearms pair in front of him and he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know everyone behind him was rigid with tension.

  ‘My name’s Ed,’ he shouted. ‘Can we talk?’

  Nothing.

  ‘We couldn’t hear what you were shouting. We just want to talk.’

  Ed felt two rapid taps on his left thigh, the agreed signal for movement in the house.

  He couldn’t see the net curtains twitching, but he heard a male voice. ‘I said, what the fuck happens now?’

  ‘Look we have a problem here?’ Ed shouted. ‘Can we talk about it?’

  Ed and the AFOs thought they waited over ten seconds for a reply. They waited less than five but five seconds is a long time when you are facing a gun.

  ‘Yeah,’ came the reply.

  Never assume and never lie…two of the basics of hostage negotiating.

  ‘What do I call you?’ shouted Ed.

  ‘Zac.’

  Another deep breath.

  Use his name as often as possible. Show him he’s a person.

  ‘Zac, my name’s Ed. Is there a phone number I can call you on?’

  Silence.

  Ed and his colleagues held their breath, wondering where the gun was, whether they were in the sights of someone who had already killed, someone who in reality had nothing to lose.

  ‘No.’

  You haven’t got a phone, or you don’t want to give me the number?

  ‘Will you allow the uniform officers to bring a phone to your doorstep.’

  Another two, three seconds of slow-motion silence.

  ‘You bring it. You’ve got ten minutes.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Okay, one more thing Zac. Can I check on the injured child before I go for the phone?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Be quick.’

  The athletic looking man was about three metres away from Paul Adams and the youngster.

  ‘Can I check on the other injured?’

  ‘No.’

  Bent over and shuffling forwards is difficult; bent over going backwards is even harder.

  Ed grabbed the utilities belts of the two firearms officers and guided them. None of the trio wanted to fall over the bodies in the street.

  Ed patted their backs when they reached Paul Adams, dropped to his knees, and slowly turned around. There was no need to check if Paul had a pulse. The lifeless eyes staring at him told him everything he needed to know.

  Ed blinked away tears and gently rolled Paul to the side. The youngster was breathing but barely conscious.

  Ed picked him up, the child’s hair, face and Spiderman suit covered in blood and brains, turned to face the backs of his colleagues and began the slow shuffle to the inner cordon.

  The other man in the middle of the road wasn’t moving, wasn’t making a sound.

  Once they were inside the inner cordon and out of sight of number 2, the paramedics rushed to take the youngster from Ed’s arms.

  Ed removed his helmet, bent forward, placed his shaking hands on his knees and gulped in air.

  Gerry Trout, the firearms commander, debriefed his personnel. Sam rushed to Ed.

  ‘Jesus Ed you okay?’

  She bent down so her head was level with his, relief etched on her face. ‘My heart was in my mouth.’

  Ed took a few more deep breaths before standing, before speaking. ‘I’m fine. How’s the bairn?’ He loosened his vest.

  ‘Deep flesh wound by the looks. He’s lost a lot of blood but he should recover…’

  She paused and moved closer to Ed as the helicopter came back overhead.

  ‘Physically that is…mentally? Who knows?’

  Even in the poor lighting Sam could see the blood on Ed’s hands and chest.

  ‘You should get cleaned up.’

  ‘I’m fine for now.’

  Dick Donaldson walked over. ‘You okay Ed?’

  Ed nodded.

  ‘Great job. I’m sorry you’re going to have to do it again.’

  Ed nodded again and ran his tongue around his lips. ‘Shit happens. We ready to go?’

  Donaldson put his hand in his overcoat pocket and took out a basic mobile. ‘Just been dropped off by Comms.’

  Ed took the mobile, turned to face the inner cordon. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘I’ve called out two more negotiators,’ Donaldson said. ‘Once the phone’s delivered another negotiator can take over if you’d prefer. You’ve already done enough.’

  The three of them walked towards Gerry Trout.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve started talking to him. Let’s leave it like that.’

  The tactics were the same. Ed bent down, shuffling behind the two firearms officers and their ballistic shields.

  The difference this time was that he was going all the way to the door.

  Thirty metres from the house and with the helicopter again out of sight and hearing Ed shouted. ‘Zac. It’s Ed. Can you hear me?’

  �
��Yes.’

  ‘We are coming to the door with the phone. Is that okay?’

  Silence. Was he playing with them? Would he shoot?

  Then the voice, a single word. ‘Yes.’

  Ed closed his eyes, breathed out the fear and signalled to the AFO’s with the pre-arranged tap on their backs he was ready to move.

  They had already begun shuffling forward when the AFOs’ radios crackled.

  ‘Tango 3.’

  A firearms officer speaking on the dedicated channel.

  ‘Tango 3 go ahead,’ said Control Room.

  ‘Curtains moving in Window 1.’

  The front bedroom window of 2 Malvern Close had been designated window 1 in the firearms plan.

  ‘No visual on any persons.’

  Ed and the two AFOs paused as planned behind their shields at the path leading to the house.

  Ed reached into his inside coat pocket, took out the phone and tapped the backs of the AFOs again.

  They had already calculated the length of the path in metres. The video stream from the helicopter had shown there was no debris on the path or in the small garden other than some broken glass. Tripping up was not an option.

  Glass crunched under the boots of the AFOs as they shuffled onto the path, the only sound other than their collective breathing.

  The plan was simple. Veer left immediately, minimising the shooter’s angle of fire.

  They reached the corner of the house and got close enough to the door for Ed to slide the phone under the shields and onto the step.

  They backed away and carefully inched their way to the inner cordon.

  ‘Tango 3,’ crackled the radios, ‘Tango 3. Front door opening. Standby, standby.’

  The helicopter beamed live feed into the control room. Everyone at the scene held their radios to their ears.

  ‘Tango 3. Door ajar. Stand by…Stand by…What the fuck?’

  Chapter 7

  Fred Thompson walked downstairs into the shop in response to the constant knocking. At first he and Joyce thought it was kids, the usual feral gang that hung around the High Street with the sole objective of making peoples’ lives a misery, but the knocking went on too long. The little shits would have got bored and looked for a new victim.