The most significant observation to come out of the recce was that the shaven-headed guy was lugging around a pump-action shotgun, not a Pick Axe handle. This obviously raised the threat level substantially. They already knew that Winston had a handgun, but going up against a pump gun raised the ante even higher.
Newman had liaised with his Sussex counterparts to request that specialist ballistic injury trained paramedics be dispatched to the scene. He had also requested the attendance of local units to assist with road closures, not that there seemed to be any traffic on the highway at the moment.
It had reached a point in the proceedings where Tyler felt they couldn’t hold off any longer and the SFO’s needed to move in now, before the boat could set sail.
A soon as Tyler finished giving Newman his final instructions, he rushed back to the Astra and flopped down in the passenger seat. Closing the door to keep out the cold, he opened the Geographia at the page for Rye Harbour and spread it across his knees. Yanking his mobile out of his pocket, he hurriedly dialled Dillon’s number. “Dill, where are you and Whitey now?” he asked the moment his friend answered.
“Er,” Dillon said, “Not sure. Where are we now?” he casually asked his driver.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Seriously! You’re telling me you don’t know where you are? What would you do if Winston jumped out in front of you right now with a gun?”
“We’d run the fucker over, wouldn’t we Charlie?”
“Aye, guv,” White confirmed jovially. “I’d quite happily squash that pile of human shite.”
Anger crept into Tyler’s voice. “Dill, stop clowning around and tell me where the fuck you are.”
Dillon became serious. “We’re just driving past the spot where we saw you parked up earlier, opposite the Heritage Centre.”
“Which direction are you heading in?” Tyler asked, running his finger down the page to pinpoint their current location on the map.
“We’re driving in the same direction as the last time you saw us,” Dillon said. “Why?”
“Listen carefully, we’ve found the boat. It’s moored along Harbour Road. SO19 will be going in imminently, but I need you two fuckwits to get your arses over to Rock Channel Quay urgently. It’s not far from where you are so I’ll talk you in.”
Dillon was all business now, his earlier frivolity forgotten. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Any second now, you’ll come to a junction on your right called St. Margaret’s Terrace. Turn into that. After about fifty yards, it leads into Rock Channel Quay. I want you to follow the road around to the left. About seventy five yards or so after the bend, you’ll see a big blue crane on the opposite shore. Beneath it, there’s a line of about thirty boats all moored against the quay. The Eclipse is one of those. She’s the fifteenth one along if you take the first boat as being the one nearest the crane.”
“Okay,” Dillon said, “we’re just turning into St. Margaret’s Terrace now.”
Jack remained on the line until his colleagues had the crane and the line of boats he’d described in their sights.
“We’re here, and we can see one boat with its lights on. I take it that’s our target?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Jack confirmed.
“What do you want us to do?” Dillon asked.
“The SFOs are about to move in. I want you to make sure the opposite bank is covered in case anyone jumps in the water and tries to swim across. Thinking about it, you’d better call up another car to back you up, just in case they all go overboard.”
Dillon was dismissive of this. “I can’t really see anyone choosing to get wet,” he said. “Trust me when I say it’s no fun.” Dillon had wound up taking an unexpected dip in the Thames the previous November, during the hunt for the New Ripper.
“Yeah, well, better to be safe than sorry,” Jack told him. “Listen, Newman’s calling me so I’ve gotta go. The fireworks should be starting any minute now.”
“Wish them luck from me,” Dillon said wistfully.
◆◆◆
“A section, on me,” Tim Newman whispered into his throat mike as he advanced towards the boat, weapon raised. Moving in single file, with the practiced ease of a well-drilled unit, they set off from the car park and padded stealthily towards the blue crane and the moorings that lay beyond.
He had divided his team into two elements, with him leading the frontal assault and his second in command, PC Louise Richmond, bringing the other half in from a side angle to create a pincer movement that would give both detachments clear lines of fire when they engaged the suspects.
“B section, on me,” he heard her say through his earpiece
PC Collier had been sent back to act as their scout and to guide the two sections into their target. He had just radioed in to say that all three men had just gone up onto the deck of the boat, leaving the jetty and abutting quay temporarily empty.
Knowing they probably wouldn’t get a better chance to close the distance without being seen, Newman had given the order to move in.
They covered the ground quickly, moving past the row of parked cars, and then the crane, and finally the old church mini-van. Crouching down, they then negotiated a stretch of open grassland and stopped by the thick bushes that led out onto the quay.
“A section now at the halfway point,” Newman announced. “Can we have an update on the target please, eyeball?”
“Thequay’s still clear,” Collier calmly informed him. “We have four males on the boat deck and one inside the wheelhouse.”
“That’s all received. Status report, please, Louise?”
“B section is at the quayside, awaiting instructions,” she replied almost immediately.
Although she didn’t have the benefit of his previous military experience, Newman had found Louise Richmond to be a remarkably cool customer; she was acutely aware of her working environment, tactically astute and virtually unflappable, even when
