A look of despair appeared on Bull’s slender face. “But the DCI wants this stuff completed before he gets back from court,” he protested.
Dillon held up a large hand to stave off any further protest. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take full responsibility for dragging you away.”
Bull groaned inwardly, wondering why Dillon was so desperate to stick his oar into something that no longer concerned him? “Winston’s the drug squad’s problem now,” he argued. “Why are we getting involved?”
“Shame on you, Steve,” Dillon scolded, wagging a righteous finger at him. “You know what that man’s capable of. How could you say such a thing?” During Winston’s arrest at Liverpool Street station in early November, the bastard had shot a BTP officer twice before turning the gun on Dillon. If it hadn’t been for Tyler’s timely intervention, just as Winston pulled the trigger, the conflict might have ended very differently. As it was, even after he’d been disarmed, Winston had put up a hell of a fight before finally being overcome and restrained.
Steve lowered his voice. “Jack won’t thank you for poking your nose in, Tony,” he warned. “Especially after George Holland told him in no uncertain terms that whatever’s going on between Winston and the drug squad is out of AMIP’s hands.”
Dillon knew that Bull was absolutely right and that he ought to leave Skinner and his team to sort Winston out without any interference from him, but he had a really bad feeling about today.
Was he behaving irrationally? Steve obviously seemed to think so; he could tell that from the disapproving way that the team’s most experienced DS was staring at him.
Dillon couldn’t fully articulate why, but he was convinced that Winston would try to escape before the end of the day. After all, what did he have to lose? He was looking at a life sentence, which meant that he would be an old man by the time he was eligible for parole.
Maybe the drug squad officers were alive to this danger; maybe they had ramped up their security procedures accordingly – but then again, with Frank Skinner in charge, could he afford to take that chance?
Surely, having a few extra people around when Winston was moved couldn’t possibly hurt?
As a compromise, Dillon vowed that he’d do his best to keep a really low profile and not piss anyone off.
“Bring the car around to the front,” he said stubbornly. “I’ll drag Georgie Porgie away from the phone and we’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”
Bull knew that there was no point in arguing. Dillon was on a mission, and nothing anyone said was going to sway him. The big man had already crossed to the far end of the room and was looming over George Copeland, waiting impatiently for him to finish a telephone conversation.
Checking that he still had the keys to the Omega in his pocket, Bull grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs, resigned to the fact that Tyler’s enquiries would now have to wait until later. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too much later!
When George Copeland put the phone down, he turned to smile up at Dillon, who was now perched on the desk beside him. He was very much looking forward to his lunch break, which he intended to take in precisely twelve minutes time when the clock struck midday.
“How can I help you, boss?” he beamed.
“Grab your coat, Georgie boy,” Dillon instructed, tersely. “We’re going out.”
George was crestfallen. “What! Aw, c’mon boss, I’ve arranged to take my lunch at twelve o’clock and I’m famished!”
“Never mind, George,” Dillon said, glancing back over his shoulder. “You could do with losing a few pounds.”
“Bloody hell,” Copeland grumbled as he stood up and shoved his chair under his desk. Snatching an emergency cereal bar from his top drawer, he picked up his tweed jacket and followed obediently.
◆◆◆
Helicopter pilot Peter Myers guided the HEMS aircraft into its final approach for a helipad landing on the roof of the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel while his co-pilot, Daniel Reed, sat in the seat beside him, enjoying the ride.
The red Virgin MD902 Explorer Air Ambulance had become a familiar sight above the London skyline since Richard Branson’s Virgin Group had taken over funding the project from Express Newspapers in 1997, and he was incredibly proud to be flying it.
The Helicopter Emergency Medical Service – HEMS – had been formed in 1986 in response to a report by The Royal College of Surgeons documenting the number of unnecessary trauma-related deaths that occurred following accidents, and criticising the poor levels of roadside care that seriously injured patients received in the UK. Originally created to serve the whole of South East England, the inaugural HEMS mission was flown in September 1989, and this involved ferrying human organs from Scotland to London for a surgical transplant. Of course, since then its role had changed drastically, becoming far more hands-on.
Surprisingly, the London Air Ambulance’s arrival hadn’t been heralded as a success by everyone. In 1990 a local newspaper called The East London Advertiser featured an article in which it was branded a ‘disaster for local people’ by Labour Councillor John Biggs, who was quoted to have said, ‘The helicopter takes off and lands with a deafening noise drowning conversation and disturbing the peace of the people in the area.’
Fortunately, despite opposition from some quarters, the HEMS operation had thrived, and with the ongoing help of sponsors and other charitable donations, its team of highly trained doctors and paramedics continued to save lives on a daily basis.
The helicopter was returning from a serious road traffic accident that had occurred in Walthamstow. The casualty was a teenage boy who had been riding a moped in convoy with several of his friends; they had been racing each other along Forest Road, weaving in and out of traffic
