something out, I promise.’
Gillian ignored the outstretched fingers. She knew that if she yielded she would suffer. Firstly at Saltash’s hands, then at McNamara’s. That would not happen. She had to break free, one way or another. She had boiled over, put up with enough degradation. Her eyes searched the room and alighted on the portable TV set in one corner. She stepped across to it, unplugged it and lifted it as high as possible in her hands. She staggered across to Saltash who could not fathom out what was happening until it dawned on him in the split second before the TV crashed down onto his head. Everything went blank — with just a pinpoint of light at the middle of it. Then the light disappeared too. Saltash’s TV set had been turned off.
She picked up his car keys and ran.
The two detectives consulted the address they had on their piece of paper and realised they had taken a wrong turning, were on the wrong floor, going in the wrong direction. Seymour tutted as though it was Lucy’s fault. A great deal of self-control ensured she held back from punching him very hard.
They about-turned as a black woman appeared at the foot of a flight of stairs which led up to the next landing. The woman saw them, spun away and walked quickly down the concrete corridor. Neither of the detectives got a good look at her or thought anything of it, but made their way upstairs.
When they found the flat door open and the body of a man laid out on the carpet with a Sony portable smashed over his head and a pool of hot blood spreading slowly across the carpet, they were advanced enough in their deductive powers to put two and two together.
As fast as his bulky frame would allow, Seymour raced after the black woman whom they had good reason to believe was Gillian Sharrock, prostitute, with three convictions for soliciting and one for GBH, and also the person responsible for breaking a perfectly good TV set on some poor dead bastard’s head.
She had disappeared into the rain.
The incident room was in darkness. The slide projector whirred, a slide clattered into place and the photograph of a man was thrown up onto the white screen at the far end. Slightly out of focus initially, the operator DI Gallagher — brought the man up sharp and clear using the remote button.
The photo was obviously one taken covertly, probably from a pinhole camera in a button or maybe a briefcase. It showed a man sitting at a bar. It was good quality, demonstrating how much surveillance equipment had improved recently.
‘ Target One: Terry Anderson, also known as Terence Andrews, Tel Anderson,’ said Gallagher, consulting his notes. ‘Aged twenty-three, last known address believed to be a flat in Lancaster on St George’s Quay. He is a fully paid-up member of the travelling fraternity — a gypo in other words, if you’ll excuse me being non-PC.’
A titter went round the assembled group of detectives, which included Henry Christie.
‘ Works as a car-dealer and property-repairer, cash only, therefore no company records. Drives a Shogun and seems to have money to throw around. Has previous for armed robbery, bogus official jobs and a lot of violence. Tough individual. Known to carry firearms and is wanted for shooting at police officers in Lincolnshire a few months ago when he was disturbed on a burglary. Very nasty individual indeed. Lives off the proceeds of crime. All the details are in this folder.
‘ Henry — your team are responsible for him… we’ll go into the details of the operation shortly. We believe he leads the gang who’ve been robbing the newsagents throughout the area and we have informant intelligence to that effect. He’s the one who wields the shotgun, and he’s the one, we believe, who blew our colleague away.’
Gallagher paused and allowed everyone to remember Anderson’s face. ‘Target Two…’ Gallagher pressed another button. Another face appeared on the screen.
Henry smiled with undisguised satisfaction. Transferred, albeit temporarily, with the speed of light, and now given the responsibility of leading the team tasked to bring in the gang leader. He couldn’t credit his good fortune! Back in a fully operational role, straight into the bosom of the NWOCS whose members greeted him like a long-lost brother. And straight away, without any animosity from anyone, in a position to make a name for himself. Absolutely wonderful!
He wondered how Morton had twisted FB’s arm to allow this to happen so quickly.
He treated himself to a quick look at Siobhan Robson, sat next to him. She caught the look and her mouth fluttered a brief smile which Henry saw in the light of the projector. She looked forwards again. Henry’s eyes closed tight and briefly in an expression of heavenly lust, then he tried to concentrate on Target Three, having completely missed Target Two. He was exquisitely aware that Siobhan’s right thigh was touching, nay, actually resting against his left one. Totally innocent, he knew, but it still sent a tremor of excitement through him.
Pull yourself together, you idiot. You’ve got form for adultery and you weren’t very good at it then, he remonstrated internally. And a girl like Siobhan is hardly likely to be interested in an old buffoon like you.
He cleared his throat, sat upright and put a gap between their thighs. Until her leg, not his, closed the gap.
This time he ignored it — ish.
Target Four was being introduced by Gallagher.
The bloke on the screen now, in Henry’s estimation, was a particularly sour-faced git. Another gypsy, as were all the men. Henry was sharply reminded of Shane Mulcahy. Both their features were quite similar. Shane was made to look like a choirboy, however, when Gallagher read out Number Four’s antecedents.
The four men — youths really — were a very bad bunch of people and Henry could readily believe they had turned from pure terrifying violence to killing in a moment. They all had the capability. It had only been a matter of time before the robberies became killing zones.
After the presentation the lights came back on.
Tony Morton took the floor. ‘Now you know who we want to arrest. And please — don’t let there be any cock-ups on this at all. No heroics, no gun battles, no shooting — just in and out and get’ em. Grab them before they have a chance to fart. We don’t want any dead heroes like Geoff Driffield, who was trying to prove something to himself and the rest of the world.’
He took a breath. His eyes surveyed the faces of the detectives in front of him. ‘And that’s all I have to say. DI Gallagher will talk you through the operation itself. So… good luck.’
He stepped smartly off the platform and left the room, Gallagher taking his place. The latter checked his watch. ‘In a few minutes, a firearms team will be coming to join us, together with some Support Unit personnel. There’s no point in progressing this until they arrive, so I suggest you hang loose and be back here for three-fifteen prompt.’
‘ Tell me about Geoff Driffield.’
They were in the canteen which, apart from a couple of traffic wardens taking a mid-afternoon break from harrying motorists, was deserted. They were sat next to a window which gave a good view of Blackpool, the Tower in particular. They faced each other, hunched over cups of tea, in postures which were almost intimate. Anyone watching them would see they were easy in each other’s company.
Siobhan sighed and collected her thoughts. At length she said, ‘Driffield was always pushing for a result. He wanted glory all the time, and he wanted it all for himself. He must have cultivated some good snouts, and obviously he came up trumps with this gang — but then he didn’t share it with anyone, poor stupid sod.’
‘ But going it alone? Crazy, even for a glory boy, isn’t it?’
Siobhan turned the cup on the saucer and stared into it.
Henry looked at the top on her head. He could see the shiny hair right down to the roots. It was healthy and he wanted to touch it. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘I think it’s exactly what he wanted to do. In the past he’d had some good results going it alone, but he’d taken some stupid risks. I think that lying in wait for an armed gang was just a natural progression for him. He wasn’t a team-player, and on a squad like this, you need team players. You need to support each other, in more ways than one…’ Her brown eyes rose to meet Henry’s. They seemed to dance for him, a sort of seductive lambada.
‘ What happened on Saturday night, then?’ he asked with difficulty.
‘ Geoff came on before anyone else and took off without leaving any details of where he would be. Next thing we knew, we were being contacted by your lot — we were on a surveillance job in Bury — and we got the news.’
