A battered nondescript van was driven into the estate and parked up at the base of Winston’s block, and the rest of the team strategically positioned themselves to cover the estate’s three exits. They communicated via Cougar radios, using an encrypted radio channel specially designated to their team.
Kelly Flowers had drawn the short straw, and from her cramped position in the back of the ‘nondy’ she was watching the communal entrance to the block like a hawk. The first-floor balcony had a large overhang, making it virtually impossible to see Winston’s door, but it didn’t really matter; the communal entrance was the only way out. As long as they kept eyeball on that, they should pick him up, sooner or later.
At least the torrential rain that had been lashing the capital for most of the afternoon had subsided; now there was nothing more than a minor drizzle to contend with, and even that was clearing. As long as the van’s blacked out rear windows didn’t steam up too much, she would be fine. “Control from Kelly,” she whispered into her Cougar, “I’m in position and have eyeball on the stairwell leading to the target address. For your info, there’s no sign of the subject’s vehicle outside the block.”
“Received, Kelly. We’ll get someone to have a gander.” Dillon’s voice came back.
Colin Franklin was one of several P9 surveillance trained DC’s on Tyler’s team. Wearing a pair of dirty coveralls and a dark bandanna, he sauntered through the estate in search of the BMW.
A few minutes later he reported back that it was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, there were no lights on inside the address, which was sealed up tighter then Fort Knox: The street door itself was made of solid metal. There was a heavy-duty iron grill covering it and another one over the kitchen window. Even a door-busters team, equipped with thermal lances and other high-tech cutting tools, would take time to gain entry. To make matters worse, a group of black teenagers, looking sinister in their Echo and McKenzie hoodies, were congregating in the stairwell that led up to Winston’s flat. Some of them would undoubtedly be on Winston’s payroll.
Franklin had drawn hostile stares as he wandered around the estate, and he had promptly been ordered to withdraw. Under the circumstances, they could do no more without the risk of showing out. Hoping it wouldn’t take too long, but knowing that it probably would, the team settled down and prepared to play the waiting game.
◆◆◆
By nine-thirty the initial excitement had long since turned to boredom. Fatigue was setting in as the effects of working two ridiculously long days started to take their toll.
The Omega was tucked away in the corner of a small car park at the side of a Presbyterian Church opposite the estate. Traffic was light, and their position provided a good, albeit angled, view of the estate’s main entrance.
Dillon had just returned from a nearby McDonald’s. His arms were laden with an assortment of burgers, fries, and shakes, which he quickly shared out.
He had showered and changed into his spare suit before leaving Arbour Square, and now that he no longer smelled like a rotting corpse his mood had improved.
“No change.” Kelly’s voice crackled over the radio, giving the latest update.
“Poor cow,” Dillon said, unwrapping the first of his two burgers. “She must be breaking her neck for a leak by now.”
“She’s got a plastic container and a funnel for emergencies,” Jack said.
Steve Bull grimaced. “That’s really not an image I wanted to have of Kelly.”
“How long are you going to give it, Jack?” Dillon asked; at least Jack thought that was what he said, but with so much food in his mouth it was hard to be sure.
“If there’s no activity by midnight I’ll knock it on the head.”
“Do we even know if he’s in there?” Steve asked. “The lights were off when Colin did the walkthrough.”
“The lights could have been off because he was sleeping, or maybe the lights were actually on but he’s got heavy blackout drapes up,” Jack said.
Bull fidgeted in his seat. “We could do a quick drive through the estate to see if the car’s turned up,” he suggested. Having dozed for nearly two hours, his batteries had recharged a little and he was ready for action again.
“Let’s just hold our position and wait for him to come out,” Jack said.
“If he doesn’t show his face tonight, are we going to get a warrant and do the flat in the morning?”
“I think we should get a warrant, but we’ll keep it in our back pocket for now. It’ll be better if we nick him on the street. That way, he won’t realise that we know where he lives, and I won’t get a hard time from the drug squad for burning their snout.”
”Logical,” Dillon said, like he was Spock, except that Spock didn’t normally talk with his mouth full.
“But he’s not likely to give his real address once he’s in custody, so when we go and search his flat it’ll be pretty obvious that someone’s tipped us off.”
“Also logical,” Dillon allowed, slurping noisily from his strawberry milkshake.
“I’m sure we can come up with some plausible bullshit to hoodwink him once he’s in the bin,” Jack said, “but even if we don’t, at least any evidence inside the flat will be saved.” The murder weapon and the victim’s underwear were still adrift. Retrieving them would provide irrefutable proof of Winston’s guilt. “If he doesn’t appear by midnight, I think it’s safe to assume he isn’t coming out tonight. If we reach that point, I’ll arrange for the night duty HAT to cover the address for
