‘ Oh, just like that? We’ve got over three thousand photos of that fat bastard, most of ‘em feedin’ his face.’
‘ Just do it, Joe. It’s important.’
‘ Gotcha. No problemo.’
‘ What’s Corelli been up to?’ Donaldson asked.
Chrissy flushed the toilet and re-entered the room looking dopey, bedraggled and completely fuckable. Kovaks watched her slide in next to him.
‘ Nothing unusual,’ he answered, as Chrissy cuddled up and squeezed him. ‘Business, eating, fishing, eating, et cetera, et cetera… not always in that order.’
‘ Look, Joe, we really need to know who this hit man is. The British cops want to get him before he leaves the country. What I’m saying is, if the prints don’t come back positive, this may be serious enough to approach Whisper.’
‘ Whoa! That’s a big step — a decision for the Director to make.’
‘ Two dozen people are dead. A busload of little kids. I’d say we need to pull out the stops, wouldn’t you? Plus, getting this bastard could lead us right up Corelli’s ass.’
‘ Leave it with me, Kar!.’
‘ The fax is on its way.’
‘ So am I.’ Kovaks hung up and yawned hugely. Reluctantly he prised Chrissy away from his lower body. ‘Got to go, sweetie. Sorry.’
‘ Fuckin’ Fibbies,’ she murmured. ‘Hate ‘em.’ She turned over and snuggled back down into the bed.
‘ I can’t make the decision for you,’ Dave August sighed. ‘No one said it would be easy… and I can’t authorise a firearms team to turn out anyway. You’ll have to go through the proper channels on this, otherwise things will start to stink even worse than they do already.’
‘ What do you mean?’
‘ You know exactly what I mean.’
‘ So I’ll have to go creeping to that bastard Crosby for authorisation?’
‘ No — you’ll have to put a reasoned argument to him and then, if he’s satisfied, he’ll give you the go-ahead to use a team.’
‘ You’re no use whatsoever.’
She slammed the phone down, fuming, but knowing he was correct.
In Britain it wasn’t as easy as in the United States, or anywhere else come to that, to deploy an armed police team. There had to be good reasons for it and the authorisation had to be made by an officer of at least the rank of Assistant Chief Constable. A Chief Constable, being of higher rank, could give the authorisation but procedure and protocol meant that, in practice, this would only be done if an ACC wasn’t on duty. In this case an ACC was on duty. Jack Crosby.
Feeling nauseated, Karen dialled Crosby’s number. Despite her pleas, he refused the request.
She wasn’t surprised — it was fairly flimsy. Yet there was just the vaguest possibility that the man they were hunting might be at the address.
She frowned and pondered for a while.
The perfect compromise came to her in a flash.
After three phone calls she summoned McClure and Donaldson back into her office.
From inside a nondescript car parked at the end of the avenue, the two detectives watched the man drive past in his Audi. He parked in the driveway of his house and let himself in through the front door. He looked prosperous, not dangerous, but he lived alone — that much they had gleaned — and any man who lived alone in such a house (detached, four bedrooms, double garage) must have some questions to answer.
They gave him ten seconds before speaking on the radio.
‘ He’s in — let’s go,’ said McClure.
Two vehicles screeched round the corner past them.
The first, a dark blue Support Unit personnel carrier, had darkened windows and steel grilles which protected the headlights, radiator and windscreen. It was a riot bus and looked like it meant business.
The second was an unmarked Rover 620i with two uniformed officers on board.
The carrier accelerated down the avenue and skidded to an impressive halt outside the house. Within seconds all the occupants had debussed in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre and were sprinting up the driveway.
Ten Constables, one Sergeant — not one under six feet tall. Each wore a specially designed riot helmet with the visor down, dark-blue flame-retardant overalls, leather belt, padded gloves, shin-guards, steel toe-capped boots and a Kevlar bullet-proof vest. All but two were equipped with short round riot shields for extra protection.
Four men peeled off and raced down the side of the house to the rear.
The remaining seven, including the Sergeant, communicating by hand signals only, went wordlessly to the front door.
The two officers in the Rover got out at a more leisurely pace and took up a position which put their car between themselves and the house. Each held a ballistic shield in front of him.
The Support Unit Constables without the shields held a ‘door opener’ between them which was designed to be able to lever open any type of domestic door. They slotted the edge of the instrument into the narrow crack between the frame of the front door and the lock and heaved down together. The wood frame splintered and cracked immediately. The lock gave next. With the invaluable assistance of a size-ten boot, the door finally flew open — an operation that had lasted all of twelve seconds.
They stepped aside to allow their colleagues to pass.
‘ We’re in,’ the Sergeant said into the radio which was fitted in his helmet.
Cops with shields poured into the house.
‘ We’re down the hallway. No sign yet.’
It was just before 6.35 p.m. When he came home, the owner of the house had gone straight to the lounge at the rear and switched on the TV quite loudly to catch a repeat of the news headlines.
He heard nothing — until the policeman’s foot connected with the door.
Puzzled, he stepped into the hallway and into the middle of a nightmare. Around him surged what looked like an army from a science-fiction movie.
‘ Subject in sight,’ shouted the Sergeant into his radio.
The man heard a voice from under a helmet scream, ‘Come here, you bastard!’ a moment before the mass of law and order drove him bodily through to the kitchen.
It was like being struck by an express train.
He smashed his head against the sink as he thudded down onto the tiled floor with the combined weight of three officers — almost forty stones — on top of him.
Head spinning, fearing death, short of breath, totally unable to comprehend the situation, he didn’t need to be told not to try anything stupid.
‘ Subject overpowered and detained. No one hurt,’ breathed the Sergeant into his radio.
Hinksman returned to his hotel room that evening, depositing a plastic carrier bag on the bed. He switched on the portable TV which was on the dressing table. It was badly tuned and the picture disappeared occasionally to be replaced by static for a moment or two. Karen Wilde was being interviewed by BBC North-West about the progress of the M6 bomb investigation. It was a live interview taking place on the steps of Preston police station.
Hinksman admired her looks and confidence and the way she handled herself. Very impressive.
Yes, she said, the IRA had been eliminated. Yes, they were following up many leads. There could be some truth in the rumour that it was a gangland killing; police were keeping an open mind. No, there had been no positive identification of the bodies in the car which was carrying the bomb. Yes, the bomb could have gone off accidentally, that was always possible. Over sixty detectives were now working full-time on the investigation. Finally (a withering look at the reporter here), yes, the officer who had assaulted their colleague was to face disciplinary proceedings, although no criminal charges were to be brought. Then: thank you and good night. Karen Wilde was a busy woman with work to get back to.
