“Oh – er – right…I’ve got a dozen locals with me,” Copeland informed him,sounding a little flustered, “and the first two Trojan units have arrived. There’s several more on the way. Where do you want them?”
Dillon pulled the map George had found in the getaway car from his inside pocket, where he had placed it for safekeeping. It was surprisingly detailed, and as he ran his eyes over it, he spotted something that he had completely missed the first time around.
“Oh, you stupid, stupid fucker,” he said, slapping his forehead in exasperation.
“What have I done now?” Copeland demanded indignantly.
Dillon was mentally kicking himself for not studying the map properly earlier because the clue he needed was staring him right in the face. There was a freight elevator on the far side of the building, which, according to the map, would bring Winston’s party out close to the spot where the LOS was parked up. He knew that was where they were heading because it was marked with a great big X.
“Not you, George. Me.”
“I don’t understand,” Copeland said, sounding confused.
There was no time to explain so Dillon didn’t bother trying. “Listen carefully,” he said. “Claude Winston’s just escaped from custody. The bastard’s armed, and he’s killed one of the officers guarding him. He’s heading for the freight elevator, which will bring him down near to where the LOS is parked up.”
“What do you want me to do?” George asked, and Dillon could hear the uncertainty in his voice. The Yorkshireman had a lot of sterling qualities, but decision making wasn’t one of them.
“Send three PCs up to me and take the rest – including all the armed support – over to that freight elevator. If you get a wiggle on, there’s a slim chance you’ll be there in time to meet him when the doors open and he steps out of that elevator.”
“I can do that,” George informed him with malevolent glee. “I’ve got six AFOs with me – let’s see if Winston’s still so fucking brave when he’s facing someone who can fire back.” If the vehemence in his voice was anything to go by, it sounded as if the normally placid exhibits officer was actually hoping Winston would be stupid enough to shoot it out with SO19.
“Wait – before you go, let me give you the descriptions of the other suspects,” Dillon said hurriedly.
“No need,” Copeland told him. “Information Room has just circulated them over the radio as an update from Stevie.”
“George – be careful,” Dillon warned. “As far as I know, Winston’s the only one with a gun, but to be on the safe side, you should assume they’re all armed.”
George snorted down the phone at him. “I’m half hoping they’ve all got shooters, truth be told. It’ll give the AFOs an excuse.”
When Dillon hung up, he saw that the Aussie nurse – or rather ward sister – had gone to organise help for the injured PCs.
Looking haggard after his lengthy call to Information Room, Bull turned to Dillon. “What now?” he asked as he pocketed his phone.
◆◆◆
The friendly Cockney porter that Garston had earlier relieved of the wheelchair was standing in the freight elevator when they boarded it. He didn’t recognise them at first because they were wearing masks, but then it dawned on him who they were and he became very chatty, asking far too many questions for Garston’s liking. Thankfully, he didn’t seem remotely concerned by the fact that they were wearing rubber gloves and facemasks, because that would have been awkward to explain.
“This is me stop,” he informed them when the elevator shuddered to a halt on two. He gave them a warm smile as he pushed his gurney out of the lift ahead of him. “‘Ave a nice afternoon,” he chirped in parting.
“And you,” Garston replied, woodenly.
“Bye,” Angela muttered, giving him a little wave.
Errol just grunted. His left ankle was hurting like a bitch and it was starting to swell up, making his foot feel tight in his shoe.
None of them spoke another word until the doors had closed.
“Can’t this fucking thing go any faster?” Winston snapped the moment the lift started moving again. He slammed his massive fist into the side in frustration, making both Errol and Angela flinch away from him.
“Just a few more minutes,” Garston soothed, “and then we’ll be out of here. The getaway car’s waiting outside and it’s ready to go.” Despite his calm exterior, he was absolutely furious. Shooting the cop had been totally unnecessary and utterly stupid, and Winston’s wanton display of aggression had put them all in the frame for murder.
The elevator finally settled on the ground floor and the doors slid open with agonising slowness. The rear exit was only about forty yards away and he could already see grey daylight through it.
“Get a move on,” Winston growled in a voice so gravelly it sounded like he’d been gargling with broken glass.
Garston went out first to check that the coast was clear. A moment later, he signalled it was safe for Errol to push the wheelchair out of the elevator. Almost immediately he regretted having done so as a whole squad of police officers appeared at the other end of the corridor and started charging towards them like a small army storming a castle breach. At least four of them had what looked like chunky assault rifles clasped against their chests.
“There they are,” their leader, a roly-poly shaped man in a tweed jacket, shouted as he pointed his pudgy finger at Garston and the others.
Garston’s stomach constricted. They had been rumbled and the game was up.
Chapter 7
Dillon was torn between going after Winston and remaining where he was to help Steve manage the scene. As the debate raged within his head, he gradually became aware of the clatter of fast-falling footsteps in the corridor outside. Within seconds, people were converging
