“I’m not happy either,” Jack said, “but we’re not paid to be happy, we’re paid to catch villains. Feel free to tell them I said that, and give me a call when everyone’s in place.” With that, he hung up.
◆◆◆
Apart from the control car, which contained Dillon and Charlie White, each of the other four cars had three people in them. That gave Dillon twelve officers to cover fourteen houses. It wasn’t ideal, but it was doable. Once everyone had been briefed, those that needed to pop into the public house to use the toilet did so, and then they all set off for Mackerel Hill, some four miles away.
Charlie White had suggested holding the briefing inside the pub over a ‘wee dram’, which had been well received by everyone apart from Dillon, who had pointed out that as they were on duty it would be a contravention of the licencing regs. “Not the best suggestion you’ve ever come up with,” he’d told Charlie once they were alone.
The small convoy turned right out of the pub into Church Lane, heading west until they reached Coldharbour Lane. They then turned onto the A268 and followed it all the way to Mackerel Hill, arriving some seven minutes later.
The two hamlets were relatively close together, and before long everyone was in place. They were using encrypted Cougar radios to communicate, but there had only been enough to issue one per vehicle. One by one, the four cars radioed in to say they were on plot and about to deploy their crews on foot. Thankfully, the rain had eased off to nothing more than an annoying drizzle, but the wind had picked up and it wasn’t going to be fun, having to stand in the open for God knew how long.
It had been decided that the drivers should retain the Cougars, and everyone else would have to communicate with the control car by mobile phone. Of course, as soon as they were in a position to have eyeball on the relevant addresses, they realised that the same poor signal issue that had affected Garston’s phone also applied to them, and there were going to be long periods in which some of them had no signal at all.
Dillon phoned the office to let Tyler know they were all in position and as ready as they would ever be.
“We’re on plot so get Reggie to send his text,” he said, “and let’s hope, for the sake of the poor buggers stuck out there in the cold, that it reaches Garson sooner rather than later.”
“Okay,” Jack said, “tell the troops that he’s sending it right now.”
◆◆◆
Garston was sitting in the kitchen, finishing off the last of the stodgy food that Angela had prepared them for their evening meal. She was a rubbish cook but it was better than nothing. Wiping his mouth along the back of his hand, Garston glanced over at the sink, where the whore was standing with her back to him, washing up the pots she had used to prepare the tasteless gruel he had just finished consuming. He had grown to like her less and less during the past few days, and he couldn’t wait to get back to London and be rid of her.
It was getting on for eight-forty-five, and he was growing restless. He had expected to receive an update from Meade by now, and he was wondering how much longer to give it before putting in a call.
As he stared at his phone, sitting on the table in front of him, the screen lit up and there was a soft ‘ping’ signifying an incoming message. Hoping it was from the fisherman, he picked his phone up and read it.
A frown marred his forehead.
‘Think I dropped my flat key outside the front door when I left this morning. Can you check for me? Rodent.’
Garston tossed the phone back on the table. Rodent was a pathetic waste of space. He had only taken the simpleton on as a favour to his brother, who was currently locked up for running drugs. The boy was a retard who would probably forget his balls if they weren’t in a bag. Garston couldn’t be bothered to go outside and start foraging around in the dark, where it was cold and wet. He would have a look later, when they left – if he remembered.
The phone rang, making him jump. If it was Rodent calling to confirm he’d received the text he would not be impressed.
“What?” he demanded, answering without bothering to check the Caller ID.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Meade taunted. “What’s-a-matter? Wrong time of the month?” The fisherman cackled at his own joke.
“I’m assuming that you have something worthwhile to say and haven’t called just to annoy me?” Garston snapped.
“Keep yer knickers on,” Meade told him, the outbreak of humour over. “A car’s coming to pick you up at eleven o’clock sharp. Be ready.”
Garston’s eyes narrowed. “What type of car? And who will be driving it?” he demanded.
“A car with four wheels and an engine,” Meade replied, sarcastically. “You don’t need to know the driver’s details. He’ll knock on yer door when he arrives. Don’t keep him waiting.”
“That’s not good enough –” Garston objected, but Meade had already hung up.
“Motherfucker,” he cursed, throwing the phone down onto the wooden table.
Angela looked over her shoulder, alarmed by his raised voice.
“What you looking at?” he shouted, seeing an outlet for his anger.
“Nothing,” she said, quickly looking away.
◆◆◆
An agonisingly slow hour had passed since Reggie had sent the text message. That equated to sixty minutes or 3,600 seconds, and Jack Tyler felt as though he had been staring at the clock on the office wall for every painful one of them.
Depressingly, there hadn’t been any response from Garston.
“Do you want me to try again?” Reggie offered, but his face told Jack that he didn’t think there was any point in doing so.
They were sitting in the main office
