“That’s for Colin Franklin, you bastard,” he said through gritted teeth.
Dillon realised that several huge lumps of Winston’s hair had come away in his hand. With a grimace, he cast them into the track and began to brush his hands.
“What did I just fucking say to you?” Jack snarled.
“It was an accident. He slipped.”
“This isn’t the bad old days, Dill. No one cares how good your motives are anymore. In the current climate if you put a foot out of line the brass won’t think twice about putting you up before a discipline board.”
“Does that include you?”
Tyler was shocked. “Of course not,” he said defensively.
“It was an accident,” Dillon repeated.
Tyler nodded; left it at that.
After searching Winston for additional weapons, they cuffed him and placed him in the recovery position, then returned to the injured Transport cop. They found a bandage in the first aid kit on his utility belt and tried to stem the bleeding with it. As Jack stood up to go and summon help, he heard the unmistakable sound of men in combat boots running. Moments later a host of heavily armed SO19 officers, toting an arsenal of MP5 machine guns and Glock pistols, burst onto the platform, fanning out as they went.
“Armed police! Nobody move!” Their leader shouted, as enough hardware to start a small war was levelled at Jack and Dillon.
◆◆◆
As they left the platform, now clustered with emergency personnel, Steve Bull appeared at their side, his slender face fraught with worry. He handed them each a polystyrene cup containing coffee, which he’d purloined from a shop in the concourse.
“Any news on Colin, yet?” Jack asked.
“Nothing,” Bull said, miserably.
There was a sudden flurry of activity behind them, on the platform where the BTP officer – they’d learned his name was Jenkins – lay. He had been there for over twenty minutes now, while the trauma team stabilised him. The area was off limits to non-essential personnel, which Tyler and Dillon were both now considered. Finally, something was happening.
They watched in strained silence as the ambulance crew carefully removed the injured transport cop from the platform. The Helicopter Emergency Medical Service doctor in attendance was a gunshot trauma specialist. He fastidiously supervised the paramedics as they held the various tubes and bottles in place during the difficult trip up the escalator.
Another ambulance crew had already removed Winston from the scene, with a strong police guard in attendance. He was still unconscious. The doctor had given him a brief examination, concluding that his nose, jaw and right cheekbones were all badly fractured. “He might not win any beauty contests for a while, but he should make a full recovery,” he had informed them in a matter of fact tone.
“Pity,” Dillon had responded, spitting the word out like venom.
A BTP Inspector, accompanying the injured officer, veered off from the stretcher party and approached them. “Chief Inspector Tyler?” he enquired in a strong Mancunian accent, his eyes flitting nervously from one to the other.
Jack acknowledged the man with a nod, his mind elsewhere. He desperately needed to get back above ground level, to find out how Franklin was doing. He had just finished handing the scene over to BTP CID; the necessary delay had been as agonising to him as any torture an inquisitor could have devised. Surely someone knew something by now, and if so, why hadn’t they got word to Tyler?
“That’s me. This is DI Dillon.”
“I’m Inspector Dalton, BTP. I just wanted to thank you for looking after Constable Jenkins. He’s been shot twice, but thankfully both bullets seem to have missed his vitals. The doctor thinks one’s still lodged in the shoulder, though, because there’s no exit wound for it.” The BTP Inspector seemed at a loss as to what else to say and the silence quickly became strained. “Just thought you’d want to know,” he finally said. Dalton was clearly shaken by the senseless wounding of one of his men.
Tyler knew exactly how he felt. Welcome to the club, old son. Jack kept the thought to himself.
The Inspector shook their hands formally, thanking them once again. With a final nod of the head, he rushed off to re-join the paramedics, who were now halfway up the escalator, intent on supervising Jenkins’ removal to hospital.
Jack took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. “I think I need something a little bit stronger,” he remarked wearily.
“Yeah, me too,” Dillon said, taking the unwanted cup from him.
“Come on. Let’s get back to work,” Tyler sighed.
According to the electronic clock mounted on the station wall, its red digits glowing brightly against a black background, the time was now 23:00hrs.
It had been one of the longest, most stressful days Jack could ever remember working, and it was far from over.
CHAPTER 15
Emerging from the main entrance, Tyler spotted Steve Bull down by their car. He nudged Dillon’s arm, pointed, and rushed down the steps, cutting through a string of uniforms surging the other way.
Winston’s BMW had been cordoned off, and a City officer was standing guard. The road outside the station, already narrowed by roadworks, had been rendered completely impassable by abandoned police vehicles and ambulances. The glass-fronted buildings surrounding the station reflected the sea of pulsating blue light brilliantly.
Bull had his back towards them, and he was talking on the car radio.
“Is there any news on Colin Franklin yet?” Tyler asked as they reached the car.
“I’ve just spoken directly to the Yard.” Bull’s face was unreadable, but the strain in his voice was immediately evident.
“And?” Tony Dillon demanded, anxiously.
Steve
