Now that he was able to fight without the fear of being shot, Tyler moved decisively. Pinning Garston’s head to the floor with the palm of his left hand, he drew back his right fist and smashed it into the side of Garston’s ugly face with everything he had. The blow cannoned Garston’s head into the hard floor beneath it. To be on the safe side, Tyler followed up with a second punch, and this one connected with considerable force. With a low groan, Garson’s eyes fluttered, his body went limp and his arms flopped down beside him.
Tyler spun him over onto his front and then rammed his right arm up behind his back just as Susie produced a pair of quick-cuffs.
“You okay?” he asked her, panting from the struggle. His right hand was throbbing and he flexed it to make sure that no serious damage had been caused.
“Never been better,” she told him, blowing a strand of strawberry blonde hair from her face as she knelt down to apply the handcuffs.
◆◆◆
Now that the dust had settled, Tyler was finally able to catch his breath and take stock of the situation. The boat, the jetty leading to it, and the quay where the fatal shooting had occurred had all been cordoned off and preserved as a crime scene, as had the Astra that Garston had shot up in the car park off Harbour Road.
Winston, Garston, and Kenny Meade – who had been found hiding inside a locker aboard the boat – were all in custody, and the first man to have gone overboard as SO19 boarded The Eclipse had been identified as Craig Masters by a female officer who happened to be a big fan of the show. Holland had been over the moon when Tyler had called him a few minutes ago to inform him that the soap star had been detained.
Meade’s son-in-law, the mindless thug with the pump-action shotgun, had been pronounced dead at the scene, and both the CIB and the IPCC had been informed. With the rain having intensified, a tent had been rushed down to cover the body until it was released by the CSM.
Newman didn’t seem in the slightest bit fazed by what had happened. It was, he had informed Tyler stoically, all part of the job, and he was confident that the subsequent investigation would conclude this was a clean shoot and therefore a lawful killing.
Tony Dillon and Charlie White had driven across from the industrial estate by Rock Channel Quay to the car park in Harbour Road to collect Tyler and Sergeant as their car would have to remain in situ until it had been photographed and examined by the duty SOCO. By the time they arrived, Tyler and Sergeant looked like a pair of drowned rats.
“So, what’s the plan of action?” Dillon asked as soon as Tyler climbed in the back of the car, dripping water all over the seats.
“The plan is to find somewhere quiet where we can dry off and warm ourselves up over a cup of coffee,” Tyler said. “Then I suppose we had all better write up our notes.”
Dillon had already arranged for the prisoners to be taken back to the Met, where they would be interviewed in the morning. The Astra that Tyler and Sergeant had driven down from London would be removed by a full lift and transported to Charlton car pound in due course.
“Any sign of Angela Marley?” Tyler asked.
Charlie White shook his head. “The wee girl seems to have vanished into thin air,” he said. “We’ve circulated her description and the locals are gonna keep looking for her during the night.”
“How did Garston get that great big lump on his head?” Dillon asked. He’d noticed it as he was being placed in the back of a car.
“Bit embarrassing that,” Susie Sergeant said glancing sideways at Tyler.
Dillon’s interest was piqued. “Do tell,” he said eagerly.
“Do you remember the instruction that came out from The Yard a little while ago about officers not carrying torches with more than two batteries while on duty?”
“Aye, what of it?” White asked.
“Well,” she said, savouring the moment, “the boss used one of them to brain Garston with.” She turned to Tyler and winked mischievously. “Can’t wait to see how you’re going to justify that in your notes,” she said with a wicked grin.
Chapter 40
Tuesday 18th January 2000
It was a bitterly cold night in Whitechapel, and it had recently started snowing. A light dusting of powder had already settled on the pavement but, so far, it hadn’t affected the roads and traffic was still flowing freely. For once, the authorities had been ahead of the game and most of the roads in the borough had already been gritted in readiness for the precipitation that was expected to fall over the coming days.
A slim black woman stood alone on the corner of Quaker Street, outside the used car lot. Her ill-fitting Parka was wrapped around her as she huddled against the wire mesh fencing, trying her best to look alluring to passing motorists.
There was hardly anyone around, and the few pedestrians who did cross her path rushed by without giving her a second look. Feeling invisible, she brushed a thin layer of white powder from her shoulders with a gloved hand and stamped her feet to keep warm.
It was getting on for midnight and, thanks to the inclement weather, business had been almost non-existent for the past two hours. She knew it was only going to get worse; as it was, she could hardly even feel her fingers or her toes.
Sometimes, when she was clucking, she was able to take happy thoughts from her past and use them to anchor her to the here and now, but when she tried to
