Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  “You’ve signed my fucking death warrant!” Petrov shouted.

  “Much like you did to PC Griffiths,” Colin replied as he shut the hatch and walked slowly down the corridor jangling the cell keys.

  Chapter 39

  March 15th was a murky day.

  The early morning mist had started to lift slowly, and everything was doused in a grey sombre light, the colours muted, the air still and cold.

  Chepstow Street Police Station was larger than average. It was a Sector HQ, sat atop a low hill in the city centre. Surrounding it was the commercial heart, businesses and tower-blocks standing shoulder to shoulder, fighting for space. To the front, there was a large paved concourse leading onto the main road, and a flight of stone steps rising up to its glazed front portico. Stood at the foot of these steps were Colin Peterson and Gary French, each warmly wrapped up against the chilly damp atmosphere.

  “When’s he due?” asked Gary, rubbing his hands together to stimulate the circulation.

  “He ought to be here any minute,” replied Colin.

  “I hear Petrov had second thoughts about turning Queen’s Evidence.”

  “It seems someone let it out of the bag what he was planning to do. I can’t imagine how that happened,” said Colin, feigning surprise. He gave a conspiratorial wink. “I think he thought that if he didn’t go through with it, his colleagues might overlook the fact that he intended to hang them out to dry.”

  “That was a bit naive on his part, wasn’t it, sir?”

  “Yeah, he was clutching at straws. He appears to have decided to go ahead, though, it being the lesser of two evils. If his information is good enough, he’ll get to disappear, BUT, we’re talking double murder. The threshold will be as high as it gets.”

  “You don’t hold out much hope then?” asked Gary as he blew warm air onto his hands.

  “Let’s just see what he has to trade first, eh?”

  “Either way, he has upset a lot of powerful people. Wherever he ends up, he’ll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.” Gary smiled.

  Just at that moment, Superintendent Mitchelson walked through the smoked-glass doors at the front of the police station and strolled towards them.

  “Morning gentlemen. No sign of him yet?”

  Both men shook their heads, but said nothing.

  “You know that CPS are waiting for him inside? You don’t need to stand out here; you can go and join them in the warm.”

  “I thought I’d wait until Petrov arrives,” said Colin.

  “You mean you wanted to check that he’d actually show up,” added Mitchelson.

  All three stood in silence, Gary looking at his feet, avoiding the awkward atmosphere, and Colin looking along the street for the arrival of the prisoner transport.

  ...

  At precisely 08:50 hours, the first set of blue flashing lights could be seen entering onto the main road. There were no sirens, no loud noises, and no fuss. Traffic was light at this time of day.

  The first vehicle to arrive was a marked police car. It silently pulled up in front of DI Peterson, DS French, and the Superintendent, its crew of two AFOs (authorised firearms officers) deploying onto the steps leading up to the police station’s front doors.

  Immediately behind this vehicle was the white prisoner transport van, its doors firmly locked shut, its driver and co-pilot patiently sitting in their seats, waiting. Behind it was a second marked police car, its two AFOs exiting the vehicle and walking slowly towards the rear of the van. All eyes followed them. What were they waiting for? What was the delay? The firearms officers scanned the street, ensuring that it was safe to let the prisoner out of his mobile cell.

  After what seemed like ages, but in reality, amounted to only a few seconds, the rear van doors were opened, and out stepped Petrov, blinking as the harsh light stung his eyes. He wore a grey prison-issue sweatshirt and jogging trousers, and his hands were handcuffed to the front and attached to a civilian prisoner escort officer via a long chain. He stopped on the pavement and looked around him, locking eyes with Colin.

  “You’re going ahead then?” called the DI.

  “I don’t have much choice NOW, do I?” Petrov was bitter and angry, having been backed into a corner by Colin’s reckless actions, his leaking of information onto the street. “At least after today, I’ll never have to see you again,” he spat.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” replied Colin. “Come on; let’s get this thing over with.”

  Everybody turned to walk towards the main entrance, the firearms officers’ eyes locked onto their charge.

  With the exchange of comments, and everyone’s attention being focused on the two men, nobody had noticed the motorcycle pulling up behind the second police car. While the rider sat astride the bike, its engine running, his black helmet visor obscuring his features, the pillion passenger raced across the paved concourse in an attempt to reach the police station’s entrance before the prisoner entourage got there. He too, had a black helmet and visor. His leathers were emblazoned with “Speedy Couriers” insignia, and he carried a large satchel slung over his shoulder.

  As he drew level with the firearms officer guarding the top step, he stopped, turned towards the cluster of people climbing towards him, and drew a sawn-off shotgun from within his holdall.

  Time seemed to stand still. Everything happened at once, but in slow motion.

  The firearms officer, spotting the threat, raised his weapon to his shoulder, pointed it at the man, and screamed, “ARMED POLICE – DROP THE WEAPON.”

  Colin caught a glint of light reflecting off the shotgun as it was drawn, and instinctively ran towards the person holding it.

  Everybody else, having slower reaction speeds, saw the gun and became rooted to the spot staring aghast at what was unfolding before them.

  BANG!

  The explosion was deafening, the flash blinding, and the impact immediate, as the shotgun discharged both barrels almost simultaneously.

  Petrov took the full force of both blasts to his chest. As his eyes stared incredulously at the unknown gunman, he was physically lifted clear of the ground, and thrown backwards through the air. His escort, being attached at the wrist, was yanked backwards too, losing his footing and falling to the ground cowering in fear of a second shot. He looked up at his prisoner only to see him on his back, his chest a bloody gory mass of torn flesh. He looked away, gagging.

  BANG - BANG.

  Two more shots rang out in quick succession.

  The gunman spun as the high velocity rounds plugged his chest. He collapsed to the ground, his weapon dropping from his grip and rattling down the granite steps towards the bottom. There was no movement. He was dead, instantly, a pool of blood forming around his inert torso.

  From afar, they could hear the sound of an engine being gunned. The motorbike roared as its rider sped away, weaving from side to side as he attempted to keep control of its powerful engine. He vanished into the distance, nobody being in any position to give chase.

  Above it all, Colin could be heard shouting, “NO, no, no. SHIT!” as he ran towards Petrov.

  The firearms officer who had fired the fatal shots ran towards the gunman. He ripped his crash helmet off and checked for a pulse. There was none. Securing his weapon, he radioed through to the control centre, “Tango-Charlie-Eight-Four. Shots fired Chepstow Street. Two men down, one confirmed dead. Second suspect making off on a motorcycle south along Turner Street. Ambulance required ASAP.”

  Time speeded up again.

  Having heard the gunshots from outside, uniformed officers of all ranks began spewing out of the police station, running in all directions, securing the scene. The calm, quiet street from moments earlier had turned into utter chaos.

  Colin knelt next to Petrov. Gone was his bravado. Gone was his arrogant attitude. In its place was a look of utter despair. Blood trickled from his mouth. He had shrapnel wounds to his face from the blast, and his chest was a mess, pulsing as blood pour
ed from the gaping hole in its centre. As he tried to breathe, as he tried to speak, the blood could be heard gurgling in his throat, filling his lungs, killing him slowly.

  Colin had seen it all before, fellow soldiers dying in just the same way as this. Only that had been Afghanistan. That had been war, not the city streets of Manchester. As he stared emotionlessly at Petrov, Colin whispered, “I guess you’ll not be getting your freedom after all.” Petrov tried to reply, but the gurgling in his throat stopped and he died, staring into Colin’s eyes.

  ...

  As Colin stood up and walked away from Petrov’s dead body, he had a vacant expression on his face. Was he deep in thought, or was it shock? Things had moved too quickly. Too much had happened in too short a time. In a few moments of intense pressure, he had found clarity in his mind. But now, as the adrenalin dissipated, his head was crammed full of questions...

  Was Petrov’s death down to him? He had leaked the time, date, and location of this meeting to Charlie York. Who had he told?

  Or was it down to Matt Carmine? He had leaked the exact same information to the underworld. Maybe it was his fault? Who had his contacts spoken to? But, no, it could not have been him; Colin had not told him the specific details of the scoping interview. He must be in the clear - unless he had found out from another source.

  But what if it was neither of their faults? What if it was a pure coincidence? Maybe a rival gang, or even the Liverpool syndicate, had put out a contract on Petrov to silence him before he said too much? It might be nothing to do with his and Matt’s actions after all.

  Colin was filled with confusion. There were too many possibilities, too many unanswered questions. Either way, he had never expected this sort of an outcome. He had not expected Petrov to be killed. All he had wanted was for the deal to have been scuppered so that Petrov would have to face his murder charges, and for PC Griffiths to receive justice.

  As he began to calm down, his thoughts became clearer. Maybe this outcome was not as bad as it had first seemed. It was quite a tidy ending really. There would be NO deal. Petrov would NOT be getting away with murder. And he would NOT be spending the rest of his life behind bars (at great expense to the tax payers), either. In a way, it was a form of Poetic Justice - justice for Nick Griffiths and Malachi Maclean. After all, if you live by the sword, you’ll die by the sword. Petrov should have expected nothing less.

  But what next? What should he do? Should he confess his part to his superiors? If he did, he would definitely lose his job, and would probably be charged as well. Plus, it might incriminate Matt, he might be prosecuted too.

  Morally, what he had done had been correct; he had done the right thing for the right reasons. Should he just admit his actions and take the consequences? On the other hand, if he said nothing, maybe he would get away with it? With such a neat finish, maybe people would not look too closely into the whys and wherefores?

  The more he thought about the options open to him, the more confused he became. He could see things from both sides. It was as if there were two voices in his head giving conflicting advice. He needed a second point of view, but who could he trust?

  Colin pulled out his mobile phone and left a voicemail message for Matt.

  “Need to talk – URGENT – Petrov is dead!”

  Chapter 40

  Colin had spent much of the day sat in his office in a state of shock and trepidation.

  Part of him was still reeling at having witnessed Petrov’s execution at the hands of the gunman, and part of him was awaiting the inevitable knock at the door as his superiors came to arrest him for passing on the privileged information that may have led to his death.

  There was a light, “tap, tap, tap,” on the doorframe. Here they come, Colin thought to himself as he looked towards the noise. But instead of Anti-Corruption officers, DC Ryan was blocking the doorway, a look of concern on his face.

  “You OK, sir?” he asked.

  Colin shrugged, unsure how to respond. He was clearly not doing very well, what with his close call with death, and the emotional struggles with his conscience.

  “They did some checks on the gunman,” continued Ryan. “He was a Mark Reilly from Toxteth, Liverpool. Aged 25. Had a whole list of previous, mostly related to supplying drugs. It’s believed he had links to a number of drug gangs all over Merseyside.”

  “Any links to Petrov?” Colin asked, half-heartedly.

  “Nothing recorded, but I reckon he was working for the same group that Petrov was going to inform on. They must have silenced him before he could talk.”

  Colin nodded in agreement. It seemed the most likely hypothesis. He just hoped that nobody would look too deeply into how they had become aware of Petrov’s intentions.

  “It must have been a lucky guess as to where and when to assassinate him. Either that or they were watching the police station and followed him,” said Ryan. After a pause, he added, “Maybe we’ve got a leak somewhere?” He was smiling as if he was making a joke. He did not really believe that one of his colleagues would be passing information to the gangs.

  Colin smiled too, playing along with the joke, but deep inside, he was worried. If a junior detective could spot that there might have been a potential informant in their midst (even though he was only joking about the possibility), then what hope had he got once the killing was investigated by the professionals?

  “Anyway, it’s not our problem anymore,” Ryan said. “It’s been passed onto the NCA (National Crime Agency) as they were already looking into the Liverpool gang’s activities.”

  Colin’s heart sank. Had his transgressions been discovered earlier, it might have been possible to keep them in-house. He would still have been disciplined, but it would have been kept within the realm of his own police force. Now that an external agency had control over the investigation, he felt doomed. It was only a matter of time before they came looking for him.

  “Oh, by the way, sir,” Ryan said, “the getaway motorbike was discovered a few miles away, burnt-out. There were no signs of its rider, but I doubt anyone will try too hard to find him. They did us a favour really, by eliminating Petrov.”

  Trying to change the direction of the conversation slightly, Colin asked, “Have we had any forensic results back yet? We need to tie up any loose ends.”

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter now, sir, but the blood samples on Petrov’s knife were a confirmed DNA match to PC Griffiths. That was definitely the weapon used to stab him, and it was found in Petrov’s possession, not that we can charge him as he’s dead.”

  “Cheers for that, DC Ryan. Can you write it up and add it to the file please?”

  Ryan left the room to do as he was instructed.

  ...

  Half an hour later, Doug Johnson stepped through Colin’s doorway.

  “Bloody hell, Colin, are you alright? You look like shit!” he said.

  “Not as bad as you do, Doug. You look worried to death.”

  “I’ve just got the results back from the techies who were looking into the mobile phone found on Petrov.” He looked stressed. There were deep furrows etched across his forehead. “There’s something you need to see. Something doesn’t add up.” He shut the office door and took a seat.

  “As you know, we’ve gone through all of the unknown phone numbers and texts, and we’ve worked through the phone’s call history.” Doug paused. “There were certain text messages, from an unregistered number, warning Petrov that the police were hunting for Maclean. It gave advance notice that we were about to raid his home address. Later, other messages from the same source warned Petrov that we were about to raid the industrial estate, and that he ought to get out, shortly before the operation commenced.”

  “So you’re saying that we’ve got a leak at our end?” clarified Colin.

  “It certainly looks like it.”

  Colin took a long slow breath as he considered this surprise announcement. Whoever had been tipping-off Petrov had to be a part of his team. But w
ho?

  “Who would have had access to that sort of information?” asked Doug.

  “All of my team knew what was going on, ahead of time, but it wouldn’t have been any of them, they’re tight - I trust them all.”

  “Could it have been a leak from the uniformed officers?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. They wouldn’t have been given the details until the last moment.”

  Colin was confused and becoming more stressed by the minute.

  Doug looked pensive. “This might help. There’s more... The mobile phone that sent the messages comes back to a pay-as-you-go bought locally. There’s no registered user, obviously, but we pinged it - it’s still live, still switched on, and it’s located somewhere in this building.”

  Colin thought that it made sense. If the person leaking the information was a police officer from his department, then it stood to reason that they might still have the phone on them.

  “We also checked another unknown landline number that might be related. There was only the one call with a duration of a couple of seconds, so I’m assuming it was picked up and immediately disconnected. But the number was traced to the Superintendent’s office.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Colin was shocked, and yet, not surprised in the least. He never had trusted Mitchelson. But he could not go around accusing him of something as serious as this without proof. “You’re suggesting that Mitchelson is the leak? But why? Why would he pass information? It doesn’t make sense.” Colin did not want to believe what he was hearing. “Well, there’s one sure-fire way of finding out. Have you actually called the mobile?”

  “No, not yet,” replied Doug.

  “Have you got all of your findings recorded officially, so far?” Doug waved a wad of papers in the air as he nodded. “And if I call this number, can the techies trace and record the call?”