Just then, the unmistakable explosion of a gunshot erupted from below, sparking a series of screams from late night commuters caught up in the gunfire.
“Bloody hell!” Dillon spluttered, ducking instinctively. The two detectives exchanged tense looks, and then, as one, they moved towards the down escalator. Almost immediately, another shot rang out, stopping them in their tracks.
Jack was horrified. “Who the hell is he shooting at now?” he asked.
Dillon shrugged. “Perhaps someone asked to see his ticket,” he suggested as the first fleeing commuters appeared below. It was horrible to watch: a bottleneck at the base of the escalators caused an ugly stampede, during which the fittest and fastest thoughtlessly clambered over the slowest and weakest in their haste to reach safety. When the crowd had finally passed, they rushed forward to rescue an elderly man who lay sprawled at the top of the up escalator. He’d been trampled in the rush. Dragging him clear, they hoisted him over the barrier and unceremoniously shoved him towards the shelter of a solid wall.
A middle-aged black man, wearing a blue London Transport blazer, emerged from an office marked ‘PRIVATE’. He surveyed the crouching detectives with disdain. Clifford Henry had worked at Liverpool Street station for twenty-three years, during which time he’d witnessed just about every type of tomfoolery imaginable; much of it committed by normally respectable city gents in expensively tailored suits. He was yet to meet an office worker who could drink two pints of lager without regressing to a state on the evolutionary scale that the average juvenile delinquent would be ashamed of.
Henry was more than a little deaf. He wore cumbersome hearing aids, which he thought were next to useless. The batteries never lasted very long, and he always forgot to carry spares. They had packed up earlier in the shift, which is why he hadn’t heard the shots or the fleeing customer’s screams. “Oi, you two. What d’ya think you’re doing?” he demanded. “If you don’t stop fooling around, I’ll call the police.”
Tyler flashed his warrant card angrily at the man, motioning him back. Henry ignored the dismissal. He strutted over to the two detectives and inspected Jack’s warrant card carefully.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my warrant card,” Jack hissed.
“I’m going to call the police…” Clifford began.
“We are the police,” Jack snapped. “Now go back in your office. There’s a man with a gun down there.”
Henry frowned, wondering if he had heard correctly. “Don’t be so ridiculous,” he said, dismissively. The whole thing sounded utterly preposterous; this was London, not New York. But then, as he thought about it, doubt set in. The man who had just spoken didn’t smell of booze, and he had an aura of authority, not to mention a badge.
Steering him by his arm, Tyler pointed Henry back in the direction he’d come from. “Get back in your office and get all the Central Line trains stopped at once. Whatever happens, make sure none of them stop at this station until I tell you otherwise,” Jack instructed. “Do you understand?”
Henry nodded uncertainly. It was most irregular, but the policeman had said something about a gun. Henry decided to play it safe and do as he’d been told. Just in case. He hurried back to his office, fretting over the delays this would cause to his precious timetable. The station supervisor would blame him for this, no doubt. They always blamed someone. Why couldn’t this have happened on someone else’s shift?
◆◆◆
Bull arrived just as Henry was leaving. “I heard the shots,” he whispered. “Where is he?”
“Down there.” Tyler pointed downwards.
Dillon half stood and risked a glimpse down the escalator.
“Can you see anything?” Jack asked.
A shake of the head answered his question.
“What do we do now, Jack?” Dillon asked, like they were spoilt for choice.
“We can either wait for the cavalry to arrive, and hope they turn up in time to make a difference, or we go in ourselves.”
“We should definitely wait for backup,” Steve Bull advised.
Dillon shook his head. “If a train comes in before the gun nuts get here, then we’ve lost him for good.”
“Agreed,” Tyler said.
“If we go down, how would you play it?”
“Take a platform each, and hope that one of us can sneak around and come up on him from behind while the other one distracts him.”
“That’s it?”
“Can you think of anything better?”
Dillon shook his head.
“I guess that’s it then.”
“I guess it is,” Dillon said, unhappily.
“Don’t do it,” Steve Bull warned. “You’ll get yourselves killed.”
“If we’re going to do this, it’s got to be right now,” Jack said, ignoring Bull.
Shaking his head as if to say, I must be mad, Dillon said, “Okay, let’s get on with it.”
As they moved forward, Dillon held out a hand, stopping Jack. “Look, I’ll walk down the stairs like a normal passenger. You crouch down and ride the descending escalator. That way, if he’s looking, he’ll only see one person coming down. If he challenges me when I reach the bottom, there’s still a chance you can take him out.”
Jack stiffened. “If we’re going to do that, I should be the one to draw his attention.”
Dillon shrugged stoically. “I’m a newly promoted DI, I’m more expendable.”
“That’s bollocks, Dill.”
“Take it or leave it, Jack.”
Tyler could see there was no point in arguing. “All right, but be careful,” he said as he made his way to the far escalator.
“You’re not really going to do this, are you?” Bull asked, looking imploringly from one to the other.
“Yes, we are, so get back to the barriers and don’t let anyone through. The last thing we need now is for some drunken twat to get themselves shot. And call for backup.” Without waiting for a response, Tyler crouched down and stepped onto the descending escalator.
“Be careful,” Bull said as he vanished from view.
Taking a long, deep breath, Dillon set off down the flight of steps between the two escalators.
Bull watched until Dillon’s head disappeared, and then looked around wildly, seeking a
