The three detectives sprung out of the Omega as one, just in time to catch a last fleeting glimpse of Claude Winston’s giant bulk as he disappeared into the station.
“Don’t take any chances, you two. Remember, he’s got a gun and he likes shooting policemen,” Jack warned them as they sprinted up the steps after him.
CHAPTER 13
All three detectives were acutely aware of how vulnerable they were as they entered the station. Jack paused in the foyer to scan the massive concourse below, his mind in overdrive as he tried to cobble together a cohesive plan of attack.
Below, the concourse’s perimeter was littered with various shops and eateries including WH Smith, Tie Rack, and the Upper Crust bakery. Winston could have ducked into any of them. He could also be hiding in the photo booth that stood next to a small cluster of ATMs. Jack scanned a long line of main platforms spanning virtually the entire length of the concourse. These all had ticket collectors stationed at the entrances, and Jack doubted Winston could have got in there unchallenged. At the other end of the concourse, a wide metal staircase ascended to street level. If Winston could reach that, or the London Underground entrance located at its base, he would have a very good chance of evading capture. There were probably other exits, too, that he couldn’t see from where he was standing.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the concourse was still relatively busy, with plenty of people milling around.
Winston was nowhere to be seen.
“Where the hell has he gone?” Jack demanded.
“Dunno,” Dillon said, his eyes darting in every direction.
“Should we split up?” Bull asked.
“No, we stay together,” Jack replied without hesitation. Under the circumstances, he felt there was greater safety in numbers. As he spoke, Steve tugged sharply at his sleeve and pointed off to their right, towards a small scattering of shops on the upper level. “I think I just caught a glimpse of him over there,” he said, breathlessly.
Jack scanned the area Steve had just indicated, but there was no sign of their quarry. He now had to make a very difficult choice: hold his current position on the high ground, where he had a good all-round view, or check out the possible that Steve had put up? Nodding for his colleagues to follow him, he set off at a brisk pace. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he warned.
A garbled announcement over the public speaker system advised stragglers that the next Stansted Express was about to depart from platform seven. Down below, people started moving in that direction.
“Are you sure you saw him, Stevie?” Dillon asked, studying the people heading for platform seven in case Winston was among them.
“I think so,” Bull replied, but there was an element of doubt in his voice now. Suddenly, no more than ten yards ahead of them, Winston’s great bulk emerged from behind a pillar. He had his back towards them and was heading for the far staircase, which led down to the concourse below. Jack signalled for Dillon and Steve to fan out, so they could take him in a pincer movement.
As he reached Ponti’s restaurant, three males emerged, blocking Jack’s path. All had dirty, braided hair, CND badges, and identical Green Peace T-shirts. One had a stack of protest posters crammed under his arm. They reeked of alcohol. “Excuse me, lads,” he said, as he tried to squeeze past them.
Dillon was less polite. “Move it,” he demanded, manhandling their leader out of the way.
As the detectives continued along the upper landing, one of the Soapy types called out, “Fascist pig! That was police brutality!” His comrades slapped him on the back and cheered his stand against the government bullyboys. Winston must have heard this because he immediately broke into a run.
“Shit!” Jack growled, following suit.
As he reached the staircase, Winston cannoned into a drunk coming the other way. The inebriated man staggered backwards, reeling from the impact. His half-eaten cheeseburger fell to the floor; his milkshake exploded over his chest. With a vicious snarl, Winston shoved him aside and descended the stairs towards the main concourse.
“He’s heading towards the underground system,” Tyler shouted.
The drunk was ineffectually dabbing his shirt with a napkin as they filed past him.
As Tyler descended the steps, he tried not to contemplate the consequences of Winston opening fire inside the station.
They ran the length of the concourse, zigzagging through a scattering of bored looking commuters who were patiently awaiting boarding calls for their trains.
“Winston, stop!” Jack shouted in vain.
There was no sign of him when they reached the barrier a few seconds later. “Okay, we’ll have to spread out inside,” Jack said, breathing heavily. It went against the grain, but they had no choice now. “You two check out the Circle line platforms, I’ll try the Central Line, but don’t approach him on your own if you see him. I don’t want any dead heroes on my hands.” He’d almost made the mistake of saying, ‘any more dead heroes.’
Once they cleared the turnstiles, Dillon headed straight for the Circle line’s eastbound platform, thinking that this was the most likely route the drug dealer would have taken. When he drew a blank, he swore in frustration and doubled back to find Tyler.
Bull made his way over the bridge that to the Circle’s westbound platform and the exit into Old Broad Street. He felt isolated and vulnerable without a weapon of his own, and while he desperately wanted to find Winston, a part of him was hoping that he wouldn’t.
Jack paused when he reached the top of the escalators that led down to the Central Line and cocked his head, trying to analyse the muffled sounds drifting up from below. Was the faint commotion he could hear a fight, or simply some boisterous late-night revellers enjoying themselves? He was still trying to decide when Dillon
