That was when I used the palm of my hand to smack the gunman on the underside of his nose in a classic martial arts move, and as he stumbled backwards I kneed the bastard hard in the balls.
Finally, he let go of the gun and fell to his knees, but Cleaver Man had recovered and was now almost on me, and I had to dive backwards to get out of his way, landing hard on my shoulder blades. But I had the gun and, turning it round in my hands, I pointed it up at him, holding it two-handed, my finger tensed on the trigger.
He kept coming, raising the cleaver, moving almost in slow motion.
My reaction was a reflex. I didn’t make a conscious decision to pull the trigger. I just did it. Three times in rapid succession, the retorts muffled by the intense buzzing in my ears.
One round struck him in the thigh, taking out a chunk of flesh as it exited and spinning him round wildly so that the next round struck him in the arse. I didn’t see where the third went, but I thought I saw Grimes go down in a heap, just before Cleaver Man dropped his cleaver, which landed blade-first in the filthy linoleum flooring. He then grabbed at his wounded leg with two huge hands and let out an animal howl so loud that it roared through my deafness. He stumbled forward, towards me, and I fired again, a last shot that took him just above the knee in the other leg, and this time he fell hard to the floor.
‘No one move!’ I shouted, swinging the gun from left to right.
Grimes was down and clutching his belly, so I guessed he’d taken a hit there; Cleaver Man was pawing at his legs; and the young guy in the cap, who’d now lost his cap, had one hand on his balls, the other stretched out in front of him in a gesture of surrender, his face crumpled in pain.
I turned the gun on Mitchell, who’d once again reappeared, but this time with his hands in the air, a very sober expression on his face, and his knife nowhere to be seen. ‘OK, mon, OK. Take it easy now.’
Still panting, I stood up, moving the gun round so that it kept everyone covered, my heart hammering in my chest as I began to come to terms with what I’d just done. I’d never fired a gun in anger in my life, but now I’d crossed a line, and there was no going back.
‘I’m not a copper, all right?’ I told Mitchell. ‘I’m not a fucking copper. Do you understand?’
‘Sure, mon. OK. No problem.’
I picked up the holdall. ‘I’m going to walk out of here, and I want that to be the end of it. You’ve got your money, and I’ve got my guns, so we’re both happy. OK?’
‘Sure, mon, sure.’
‘He’s a cop,’ hissed Grimes through gritted teeth, the agony on his long face almost making me feel sorry for him.
‘Shut the fuck up, arsehole!’ yelled Mitchell, who’d clearly had enough of this particular strand of conversation.
Still keeping the gun trained on all of them, I backed out of the room, then as soon as I was out of sight I stuffed the gun in my jeans and ran for it, unlocking the door and feeling a desperate relief as I got back out on the street.
I sprinted all the way back to the car, checking my watch as I did so. Eight minutes. That was how long the whole thing had taken, and now my life had changed dramatically and irreversibly.
‘What’s happened?’ demanded Tommy as I jumped in the passenger side and threw the holdall in the back, narrowly missing Tommy Junior.
‘Just drive. Now.’
The engine was already running and he pulled away in a screech of tyres. ‘Talk to me, Sean,’ he said as we turned on to the Barking Road, heading back into town. ‘What happened in there?’
‘We had a disagreement,’ I said at last, the adrenalin still pumping through me. ‘I got the guns but one of them accused me of being an undercover copper, things got a bit heated, so I shot him. And one of his mates.’ As I spoke the words, the whole thing seemed utterly surreal. I still couldn’t believe I’d done it.
Tommy’s eyes widened. ‘Not Mitchell. Tell me you didn’t shoot that loon Mitchell.’
‘No, he’s still standing. Don’t worry.’
‘And the blokes you shot. Are they dead?’
I shook my head. ‘They’ll need patching up, though.’
For a couple of seconds Tommy didn’t say anything, and I wondered if I’d blown it. But then he hit the steering wheel and burst into a fit of loud, throaty laughter. ‘Christ, Sean, you’re like some sort of ice man! I can’t believe you popped two of Mitchell’s people. Wolfe’ll be tearing his hair out!’
He clapped me on the shoulder, staring at me with an expression that looked dangerously close to admiration. And I knew then that, although it might have cost me my career, at least now I was one of them.
Eight
It was at exactly 1.15 p.m., and with the images of the Night Creeper’s brutal murders still fresh in her mind, that Tina took her seat in the interview room with DCI MacLeod to begin the final stage of Andrew Kent’s questioning.
Kent clearly sensed that something was wrong because he looked nervously from one officer to the other and kept licking his lips. Jacobs, his brief, just looked impatient.
Tina made the necessary introductions for the camera, then stared hard at Kent, wondering what it was like to have such a base disregard for human life. He’d inflicted unquantifiable levels of pain and misery, not only on his victims, but on their families and friends too. She hated him then. Hated every single fibre of his being because, sitting there acting innocent, he reminded her of everything that had gone wrong in her own life as a result of someone like him.
Steadying herself, and conscious of MacLeod waiting for her to begin, she finally spoke. ‘We’ve found a number of home videos on your computer, Mr Kent, that depict the murder of several of the Night Creeper’s victims.’
Kent looked stunned. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t have anything like that on my computer.’
‘As your lawyer, I’m advising you not to say anything else, Mr Kent,’ said Jacobs, who also looked shocked. ‘Not until we’ve spoken about this.’ He turned to Tina. ‘I need a few moments alone with my client, officers.’
But Kent didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring at Tina and MacLeod. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly. I don’t have any graphic videos on my laptop. Did you find this stuff on a computer in my flat?’
‘I think we need time alone,’ said Jacobs firmly, putting a hand on his arm.
Kent pulled away and leaned across the desk, getting close enough to Tina that she could smell the sourness of his sweat. ‘Someone’s setting me up,’ he pleaded, getting louder. ‘They’ve got to be. I don’t know why, but someone’s setting me up.’
‘Calm down, Mr Kent,’ said MacLeod, speaking for the first time.
‘What computer did you find? Just tell me that. Because I’ve got a Dell Inspiron. That’s my one. I promise.’
MacLeod told him it was an Apple Mac and Kent continued with his frenzied denials: he’d never even owned an Apple Mac, let alone put graphic videos on one.
Tina sat back and watched him. She’d been on no end of training courses over the years on body language, in which she’d been taught to spot the tell-tale signs of a liar: lack of hand movements, defensive posture, failure to make eye contact. But Kent was exhibiting none of these.
Tina forced down the shred of doubt she was feeling. He was obviously just an incredible actor, as were a small but not insignificant minority of criminals. With a quick glance at MacLeod, who gave her a barely perceptible nod, she looked her suspect right in the eye, and charged him with murder.
Kent leaped to his feet and shouted that he was innocent, his face stretched into an expression of dismay and righteous anger. ‘Can’t you understand that? I’m innocent!’
‘Sit down,’ demanded Jacobs, grabbing him by the arm.
Kent angrily swatted his hand aside and stared again at Tina, his eyes wide in the kind of little-boy-lost impression that might have worked before she knew what type of man he was. ‘Please. .’ he whispered.
‘Do what your lawyer says and sit down, Mr Kent,’ she told him. ‘You’ll get your opportunity to put your side
