“No Kevin, just keep your distance and wait for everyone else to catch you up,” Dillon advised, trying to keep the dislike he felt from his voice.
One by one, the other cars called in their locations. The nearest was the one containing Charlie White and George Copeland, which had just turned onto the A13 from Prince Regent Lane and was a mile or so behind the eyeball car.
◆◆◆
When Winston drove straight past the Blackwell Tunnel Southern Approach, they became increasingly confident that he was heading towards his usual pimping ground to start his rounds.
“Passing Burdett Road on our right,” Murray said, giving the latest update.
Grier was becoming worried. “I think we’re on our own,” he said, looking out of the rear window for signs of reinforcements.
“Don’t worry, Terry,” Bartholomew reassured him. “They’ll catch us up soon.”
◆◆◆
“I still can’t see anyone yet,” Grier fretted as they left the A13, fifteen minutes later.
Murray raised the radio to his lips. “We’re turning into Whitechapel High Street,” he informed the team.
“We’re nearly with you,” Charlie White’s voice came back.
“He’s been saying that for the last ten minutes,” Grier complained.
“He’s indicating to turn right into Commercial Street,” Murray said, keeping the commentary going.
As Bartholomew followed the BMW into Commercial Street, the radio slipped off Murray’s knee and fell to the floor. He immediately started fumbling around in the footwell, cursing his driver for taking the corner too fast. Bartholomew was so distracted by the unexpected commotion that he was caught off guard when Winston abruptly jammed his brakes on and pulled over sharply, tucking into a bus stop without signalling. Bartholomew hesitated, stabbing at the brakes indecisively as he debated whether to pull in behind Winston, but then professional instinct kicked back in and he knew they would be blown if he did.
“He’s pulled into the bus stop,” Grier shouted as Murray resurfaced clutching the Cougar radio upside down. “Quick, you’ve got to tell the others.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Murray screamed, almost dropping the radio again. With a shaking hand, he pressed the transmit button. “Murray to all units, he’s stopped suddenly in Commercial Street. We’ve had to drive past or we’d have been blown.”
Bartholomew pulled over further down the road and shot Murray a look of disgust. If this went belly up because Murray had dropped the radio and not warned the others quickly enough, he and Terry would be found guilty by association.
“Don’t worry, we were right behind you and we’ve got him,” Copeland’s calm voice informed them over the radio. George had pulled into the kerb a safe distance behind the BMW. “What do you want us to do, boss?” Copeland asked. “There are five of us here in two cars. Do you want us to try and take him?”
◆◆◆
“No, George. Wait till at least one more car joins you,” Dillon ordered. Although five officers should be more than enough to arrest one suspect, Winston was a huge man, and his research docket had revealed that he had warning signals on the Police National Computer for violence and carrying offensive weapons.
The Omega was now speeding through Stepney on blues and twos, trying to catch up. The remaining two cars were still a little way behind, but neither had lights or sirens fitted, so it was much harder for them to make progress.
Jack’s impatience was getting the better of him “What’s our ETA, Steve?” he shouted in order to be heard above the siren.
“We’re still a few minutes away, boss,” Bull responded, pulling onto the wrong side of the road to overtake a line of slow-moving traffic that was blocking his path.
Dillon turned around to face Tyler, concern plastered across his broad face. “You’re not thinking of telling them to move in before we get there, are you?” he asked.
“No,” Jack said, shaking his head emphatically. “I agree with you. Having read his form, I think we need to have more people there before making our move.”
Dillon seemed relieved to hear that. Facing the front again, he raised the transmitter to his lips. “What’s he doing now, George?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the Yorkshire man replied almost immediately. “He’s just sitting in his car.”
“Do you think he’s stopped to pick someone up?” Jack asked, wondering why Winston had pulled over so randomly.
Dillon shrugged. “Possibly,” he said, raising the radio to his lips again. “We’re just passing Whitechapel hospital, George,” he said into the handset. “We’ll be with you very shortly.”
◆◆◆
In Copeland’s car, neither occupant spoke. All eyes were glued on Winston, who just sat there, twenty yards ahead of them, making no effort to get out of his car. Could he have spotted them tailing him, or was he just performing anti-surveillance techniques out of habit?
In fact, Winston hadn’t spotted them. Nor was he carrying out anti-surveillance techniques. He had stopped so suddenly because he mistakenly thought he’d spotted Fat Sandra going into the Tesco store across the road. When she emerged a few minutes later, he immediately realised that the woman he was looking at was an equally fat, and equally ugly, doppelganger. Cursing her for wasting his precious time, he pulled back out into traffic, cutting up the car behind him, which braked hard and was rear-ended by a van.
With their view initially blocked by the back of the van, and their attention then drawn to the fracas developing between the car owner and van driver as they started blaming each other for the prang, neither Copeland nor White realised that Winston had pulled away.
◆◆◆
Winston quickly spotted a couple of girls plying their trade on a street corner, and another one lingering in a shop doorway. Generally, though, it looked like a very quiet night for the sex trade. “Must be a whore’s convention going on somewhere,” he mused to himself, wondering where all the regulars were. There was no sign of either Tracey or Fat Sandra outside the used car sales lot in Quaker Street. Of course, they could both be off with punters; or maybe
