“Wait there,” Dillon bellowed at them all, holding up a restraining hand to prevent anyone from entering.
After telling Steve Bull to supervise the removal of the injured officers, Dillon stepped outside and ushered the three local officers – two of whom he was pleased to see were familiar faces – to one side. Having just run up three flights in heavy Met-vests, the poor bastards were all panting rather loudly.
“I don’t get it, boss,” Nick Bartholomew said by way of greeting. His cheeks were rosy red and a thin sheen had broken out across his forehead. “I thought Winston was banged up on remand. What the hell is he doing here?”
Nick had been on a temporary secondment to AMIP during the night that Winston had been arrested, and he remembered all too well the mayhem that had occurred during the lengthy chase.
“Don’t ask,” Dillon said with a grimace, and then turned to a slim PC whose baby face bore the pockmarks of a recent outbreak of acne. The poor boy didn’t look old enough to shave yet, let alone go out on patrol, and from the pristine look of him, Dillon guessed that he was a brand-new probationer fresh out of Hendon.
“Young man,” Dillon said, pointing at him with a sausage sized finger.
The startled constable flinched and swallowed nervously.
“Yes, sir?” he replied in a high-pitched squeak that made Dillon question whether his voice had broken.
“I need you to stay here with DS Bull and guard the crime scene. Until a log arrives, record everything in your notebook.”
“Yes sir,” the boy responded timidly.
“Nick, get me to the freight elevator as quickly as you can. That’s where Winston was heading for.”
Bartholomew nodded. “Okay, boss. Follow me,” and with that, he set off at a brisk trot, keeping an ear glued to his radio as he ran.
The Yard was now monitoring and recording Whitechapel division’s radio channel, and they had linked it to the Force Main-Set so that officers responding from adjoining areas could also follow the incident. There was plenty of chatter going on, but nothing to suggest the officers downstairs had engaged the suspects yet.
◆◆◆
“Get back in the lift,” Garston said, frantically waving the others back the way they had just come.
“Now what?” Winston remonstrated with his usual belligerence.
“HURRY!” Garston screamed as the horde of cops swarmed towards them. As he watched, two of the lead shots fanned out from the others and dropped to their knees. At the same time, they raised their carbines and took aim. “STOP! ARMED POLICE!” they shouted in unison.
Garston ignored them; he knew they wouldn’t open fire unless the fugitives pointed their weapons at them or at any passing civilians.
Because of the dodgy wheel, Errol was struggling to manoeuvre the wheelchair around, so Garston helped him manhandle it back into the elevator, with Winston still facing forward, towards their pursuers.
As soon as they were all back in the lift, Angela started pressing random buttons in the hope of finding the one that would make the doors close.
Garston swatted her hand aside and pressed ‘CLOSE’, and the doors immediately started to move inwards.
Several of the cops broke into an all-out sprint, hoping to bridge the gap before the doors could shut.
“That’s it, pigs! Rush to your death,” Winston screamed.
To Garston’s horror, the man in the wheelchair cackled maniacally and began to raise his gun at the advancing officers. He wondered if his uncle was suicidal; if the idiot started taking pot-shots at the police, it would give them the excuse they needed to open fire.
“NO!” he yelled, placing a restraining hand on his uncle’s arm.
Winston’s dreadlock covered head swivelled in his direction, and the eyes were like burning orbs. If hatred was electricity, he would have been able to power the National Grid with that stare. He knew he needed to explain his intervention, but he couldn’t say anything that might make him look weak.
“You need to save your bullets, Claude,” Garston hurriedly said, hoping that would appease his uncle. “We might need them later.”
The thick metal doors closed with a dull thud a nanosecond before the outstretched hand of the nearest policeman reached them. From the relative safety of the freight lift, they heard a frustrated officer shouting at his colleagues to find him something to prise them open with. Thankfully, as the lift began its climb, the clamour below quickly diminished.
Doing his best not to wilt under Winston’s withering gaze, Garston leaned back against the cold metal wall and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Suddenly, Winston grabbed hold of his arm and yanked it down until they were at eye level. His warm breath was rancid. “Now what do we do, boy?” he demanded, spraying spit all over his nephew’s face.
Garston was taken aback by the raw malevolence. “Relax, Claude,” he spluttered. “I - I’ll get you out of here, I promise.” He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but right then he would have said anything to placate his lunatic relative.
Without warning, Winston jammed the barrel of the gun into Garston’s stomach. “You’d fucking well better,” he raged. “Nephew or not, if you screw this up, I swear I’ll put a hole in you.”
Recoiling in shock, Garston pulled his arm free and stood up straight. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. To hide his shame, he turned and faced the doors. As he stood there with his back to the others, he could feel Angela and Errol’s questioning gaze drilling into the back of his head.
Garston’s hand was shaking as he reached into his pocket for the map he’d bought along. Thankfully, he’d had the foresight to mark up an alternative escape route in case things went wrong and the main
