“This really was a much better idea than eating lunch in a police canteen,” Kelly said, tucking in with gusto.
Jack smiled indulgently at her. “And you’re much better company than Tony Dillon,” he said, imagining that his friend was, at this very moment, sitting in a stuffy police canteen with Steve Bull, eating crap food and talking shop.
◆◆◆
Bull felt slightly apprehensive as they set off along the corridor towards Winston’s room. Unlike Dillon, he had always preferred cerebral challenges to physical ones; it was one of the main reasons why he’d chosen to pursue a career path as a detective. There was still no sign of the police guard that was meant to be stationed outside the door, and he was becoming increasingly concerned by this.
Dillon instinctively took the lead when they reached Winston’s room, thrusting the door open and rushing in.
What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped.
“What is it?” Bull demanded, anxiously trying to peer over Dillon’s shoulder. As Dillon moved aside, he caught a glimpse of the carnage inside the room.
It was enough.
It was more than enough.
Two cops – a male and a female – were lying face down on the floor with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Both had their eyes were closed, and neither was moving.
A third officer lay motionless on the unmade bed, hands also cuffed behind him. He was completely inert, reminding Bull of a discarded rag doll. A starched, white pillowcase had been pulled over his head, and even from the doorway, Bull could tell that it was stained a deep, wet red. There was a strong, coppery smell in the air, mixed with the residue of cordite to create an unpleasant tang that stung the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. “I think they’re all dead,” he said.
◆◆◆
George Copeland was shivering from the cold as he stood next to the stolen Ford Scorpio. He tried stomping his feet in a vain effort to keep them warm, then rubbed his hands together vigorously and blew into them. He studied the ominous looking clouds above and wondered how long he had until the heavens opened up again. He deeply regretted not bringing his overcoat with him, but then he had expected to go straight into the hospital, not end up hanging around outside like a prize wally.
A dozen local officers had joined him and they were just awaiting the imminent arrival of two Trojan units before deploying into the hospital.
A station van had already collected the driver of the LOS, and he was on his way to the local nick with the probationer, who had volunteered to arrest him, acting as escort.
Two of the local PCs, Nick Bartholomew and Terry Grier, had worked with the AMIP team before, and George was aware that Nick had aspirations to join the department and had recently applied to become a Trainee Detective Constable.
“George,” Nick said, turning to him with a concerned look on his face. “What floor did you say Mr Dillon was going up to?”
Copeland frowned. “The third floor – why?”
“It’s just coming over the radio, there’s been a fatal shooting up on the third floor. The informant’s a ward sister called Mel something-or-other. Hang on mate there’s more coming through now…” Holding the radio to his ear, he listened for a few seconds more. “Shit! It looks like the victims are police officers.”
“Flippin’ heck!” Copeland exclaimed. With a trembling hand, he fished his mobile out of his jacket and hurriedly started dialling Dillon’s number.
Having heard the transmission, several uniformed officers started to rush inside, intent on reaching their stricken colleagues as quickly as they could.
It was noble but stupid.
“Stay where you are,” George bellowed. “No one goes inside until Trojan arrives.”
The uniform lads didn’t look happy, but they grudgingly obeyed his instruction and came back to await armed assistance.
As he listened to the monotonous dialling tone, George became aware of sirens growing louder by the second. Hopefully, this augured the arrival of the Trojan units they were waiting for. “C’mon, boss,” he said, staring imploringly at his mobile, “answer your bloody phone and let us know you’re okay.”
◆◆◆
Dillon felt as though someone had just punched him in the stomach, knocking all the air from his lungs. For a moment, his mind flashed back to that dreadful night on the Central Line platform at Liverpool Street station in early November, where he’d stumbled across the young BTP officer Winston had gunned down while attempting to evade capture.
He waved Bull towards the unmoving man on the bed as he knelt down to check out the two officers on the floor. To his astonishment, they both had strong pulses when he pressed his fingers against the carotid arteries in their necks. “Can you hear me?” he asked the first one. There was no response. Unfortunately, Dillon didn’t have a handcuff key on him, so he couldn’t remove the manacles that were cutting deep, ugly grooves into the constables’ wrists.
Behind him, a sharp intake of breath from Steve Bull caused him to turn his head. When their eyes met, Bull shook his head with grim finality, and the look of revulsion on his friend’s face told him everything he needed to know.
The man on the bed was dead.
Dillon didn’t know the deceased man, but that didn’t make his sense of loss any less profound. He had been a fellow cop, a decent human being whose life had been dedicated to doing good. That it had been so cruelly snuffed out by someone whose very existence was a blight on humanity was a terrible travesty.
Resuming his examination, he gently shook each of the surviving officers by their shoulders, telling them to open their eyes. When that didn’t work, he tried pinching their ear lobes, but even when he squeezed really hard it had absolutely
