Kevin Martin, reactions dulled by a considerable amount of wine and spirits the night before, to say nothing of some quite energetic sex with his half-brother’s wife, had barely time to swing his feet round towards the floor before two pairs of hands seized hold of him and pushed him the rest of the way, face squashed sideways against the carpet. Fay Martin, leaning back against the headboard as she reached for her cigarettes, seemed as much concerned that she had snagged one of her nails as anything else.
Jason Richards had been on his way back from the bathroom, woken as usual by the need to pee, when the first police vehicles arrived; minicab for the woman who lived opposite, he thought, early shift at the hospital, but then when he glanced out through the blinds he knew it was something else.
Trousers, shirt, jacket, shoes: Walther PPK from the wardrobe shelf.
‘Here,’ he said, tossing his mobile to the startled Italian waiter with whom he’d spent the night. ‘Gordon Dooley, the number’s in there. Dooley. Tell him to scarper.’
And he was gone.
Out through the side door of the kitchen into the adjoining garage, out again from there into the rear garden, two shapes ahead of him crouching, waiting; one foot up on the dustbin and he was over the side wall and running; only a weak trellis between the next pair of gardens and he crashed through it, vaulting a low brick wall to the rear and then past a garden shed and a greenhouse into a narrow passage between the backs of two houses and out on to the adjacent street.
Empty.
Cars parked close at either side.
There was a children’s playground at the far end and beyond that a high-rise that was a warren of stairwells and walkways, a good quarter of the places squatted or empty.
He was running, keeping low, close alongside one of the lines of parked cars, when the first officer appeared suddenly ahead of him, just three car lengths away, arms spread, blocking his path.
No time to change direction, Richards decided to go through him, straight-arming him in the chest, following up with his shoulder, the officer — young, Asian — grabbing hold of Richards by the back of his jacket, the momentum sending them both sprawling across the pavement, stumbling up by way of some garden railings, a privet hedge, the officer with his arm now around Richards’ neck and squeezing hard, Richards choking, reaching into his pocket for the Walther and swinging it round into the policeman’s face — once, twice — hard enough to open the skin above the cheek, below the eye, the grip loosening but not failing; one more blow with the pistol against the side of the head behind the ear and the officer’s legs gave beneath him, his fingers closing nonetheless on Richards’ collar and dragging him down, the pair of them on their knees — all of this happening in moments, seconds, sounds of pursuit ever closer, gaining — ‘Leggo, you stupid fuck!’ — no let-up in the officer’s grip, Richards pressed the muzzle of the gun against his shoulder and fired.
Shock lancing across the policeman’s eyes.
Richards scrambling to his feet and running.
Ahead, a police vehicle swerved broadside across the road, cannoned against two parked cars and swung to a halt, doors opening, armed officers in helmets, full protective clothing, jumping out, the wheels still spinning.
The first of them dropped into a firing position at the pavement’s edge, shouted a warning.
Headlong towards him, Richards raised his weapon, pointing.
The marksman called a second warning, then dropped him with a single shot to the chest that seemed — surely an illusion? — to lift him off the ground, legs bicycling in the air, before he dropped down, seconds from dying if not already dead, blood beginning to trickle slowly from beneath the body, filigreeing its way along the cracks between the paving stones and down towards the gutter.
It was to Mike Ramsden’s great disappointment that his own involvement was less dramatic. Having pulled strings in order to nab his target, Mad Mike Carter, he was disappointed to find Carter in shorts and singlet, sitting cross-legged on the mat in the basement he’d adapted into a home gymnasium, sweaty and smiling after the first half-hour of his regular early-morning workout.
‘Didn’t have to come through the front door like a fuckin’ train, you know? Could’ve rung the fuckin’ bell.’ Rising, he threw the towel from round his neck towards Ramsden. ‘Here. Put in a bit of time, why don’t you? Looks like you could fuckin’ use it.’
He was still laughing as, arms pulled sharply back, the cuffs were snapped shut behind him.
Alerted by the phone call, Gordon Dooley made his getaway minutes before the police arrived; avoiding a roadblock by driving across two suburban gardens, scattering shrubs and rose bushes like some profligate guerrilla gardener, before accelerating over the centre of a roundabout and away, leaving two pursuing vehicles in his wake. One of the police helicopters picked him out, fifteen minutes later, his distinctive Porsche Cayenne SUV heading east along the M26 at upwards of one hundred miles an hour.
Time, just, to close the motorway at exit 4 and channel him south along the A228 towards Leybourne and West Malling, where, this time, the roadblock was more comprehensive, helicopter hovering low now overhead.
No fool, Dooley slowed, stopped, stepped carefully from the car, hands raised, and began to walk towards a phalanx of armed officers. Following instructions, he lay face down in the centre of the road, arms stretched wide, legs apart.
Almost a full sweep.
Almost.
When the SOCA officers, supported by others from SO 19 and the Major Crime Investigation team of the local Surrey force, arrived at Anton Kosach’s residence, the bird, as the saying goes, had flown.
All that awaited Charlie Frost and his team, alone in that sprawl of a house and grounds, were Letitia and her son; Danya still in his bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and posters of animated superheroes, Letitia in a white towelling dressing gown, sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a cup of lemon and ginger tea.
When asked about her husband’s whereabouts, she shrugged. ‘How the fuck should I know? Maybe he went out for a pint of milk.’
It was all Frost, normally the most self-contained of men, could do to stop himself slapping her round the face.
56
The operation, as a whole, was deemed a success. Was paraded as such to the press, the media generally.
?100 million, it had a nice ring to it.
People remembered.
Burcher, the public face of policing on this occasion, stood before the cameras and talked of assiduously accumulated intelligence, meticulous planning, acts of individual bravery.
‘This operation has laid bare, once and for all, the link between drugs and violence which lies at the very heart of the Class A drug industry in this country.’
Drugs and violence. Reminders were provided of what had happened in Camden, at Stansted. Photographs, video. Viewers may find some of these images disturbing.
‘The unfortunate shooting by a police marksman of an armed member of the gang, who had previously shot and wounded a police officer and was seeking to evade arrest, has been referred, as a matter of course, to the Police Complaints Authority. The wounded officer is happily expected to make a full recovery.’
Karen left the official piss-up early, found Ramsden in the adjacent car park, leaning against somebody’s Toyota Land Cruiser, kids’ car seats in the back, enjoying a cigarette.
