Dillon and Ray Speed had spoken briefly on the phone, and they had agreed that their number one priority was setting up an exclusion zone around the hospital’s perimeter with armed officers stationed at each of the exits. Until the building was in total lockdown there was no point in even thinking about going after the suspects.
Dillon’s stomach churned at the thought. God, the media’s going to love this.
The last time that he had gone up against Winston, the Central Line at Liverpool Street underground station had ended up being closed for several hours. This time, a major London hospital was going to suffer the same fate. While closing a train station had left a few night-time travellers disgruntled because their journeys had been interrupted, the implications of shutting down the Royal London were too horrific to even consider. Important surgical procedures might be delayed or even cancelled, and how would the busy A&E department, which was always stretched to the very limit, be affected?
Perhaps a better plan would be to order a withdrawal and let Winston out of the building; the risk of collateral damage if they tackled him inside the hospital was staggeringly high. Hopefully, there would be well thought out contingency plans in place for just such a scenario, and these would be implemented shortly, relieving Dillon of the burden of having to make such a troubling decision.
Bartholomew rushed over, holding his radio up. It provided a welcome distraction from the tumultuous thoughts crashing around inside Dillon’s aching head. Hopefully, Nick was about to announce the imminent arrival of the skipper who was going to deal with the CS discharge.
“It’s just come over the PR that Terry’s chasing the one that got away in Cavell Street,” he said, excitedly.
“Is back up on its way to him?” Dillon asked. At the back of his mind, there was a nagging fear that Winston might not have been the only one who was armed.
Bartholomew nodded and then winced at the pain the movement had caused him. “There are multiple units converging on his position as we speak. Don’t worry, boss, Terry does decathlons for a hobby. The bastard won’t outrun him.”
◆◆◆
When Terry Grier’s urgent assistance call came out over their car’s Main-Set, DS Susan Sergeant and DC Kevin Murray were driving along Commercial Road on their way back to AMIP HQ at Arbour Square, having spent most of the morning at a case conference with Senior Treasury Counsel at Inner Temple.
“That’s just down the road from here,” Susie said, pulling the car into the kerb opposite Watney Market so that they could get their bearings. “I think it’s that side road up on the left,” she said a moment later, gently raising the clutch to allow the Astra to creep forward so that she could get a better view.
As they drew closer, Murray pointed a skinny forefinger at a sign on the corner of the road. “Cavell Street,” he read. “You’re right.”
“I usually am,” Susie replied with a tongue in cheek grin.
Murray licked his lips in anticipation, reminding Susie of a reptile – or at least what a reptile would look like if it was capable of growing a goatee. “The lid must be chasing that bloke right towards us.”
As she steered the car into Cavell Street, both officers instinctively released their seatbelts so that they could jump out quickly if the need arose.
Susie normally wore trouser suits and flat shoes to work, but she had uncharacteristically dressed in a skirt and heels today, wanting to make a good impression at the case conference. She was now ruing the decision, wishing that she had stuck to her normal attire. “It’s Sod’s Law that the one day of the year I wear a bloody skirt and high heels, I’ll end up having to chase a suspect,” she complained in her soft Irish lilt.
Murray grinned. “Tell you what, you stick to driving and leave any running to me.”
Susie glanced sideways at the skinny man sitting next to her, wondering if she had misheard him. With his smoking, drinking and poor diet, Murray was hardly the epitome of health and fitness. Even in heels, she could probably outrun him comfortably.
There was a harsh crackle of static and then a transmission came over the Main-Set. “MP to 167 Hotel Tango, please keep the commentary going…”
Operators at Information Room always seemed so incredibly calm and composed, Susie thought. Of course, it could all be a front; for all she knew, they could all be running around NSY like a bunch of headless chickens.
There was more static. “MP from 167, we’re now in Stepney Way, heading towards Sidney Street…” The chasing officer was breathing hard, but he sounded focused, and he was still clearly going strong.
“Shit!” Susan cursed, gunning the accelerator. The foot chase had veered off to their right well before reaching their position and it was now heading away from them.
◆◆◆
Errol Heston had failed to put any distance between himself and the young policeman who was breathing down his neck, and fatigue was now setting in. His legs had grown so heavy that he could hardly lift them and his searing lungs felt ready to explode.
Knowing he couldn’t keep this gruelling pace up for much longer, he thought about pulling the revolver on his pursuer, just to put the frighteners on him. The problem with doing that was if he fired the gun – if he literally just let off a warning shot in the air like they did in the movies – the police would twist it into something far more sinister and he would end up being charged with attempted murder. As it was, just carrying a loaded shooter would get him banged up for five years.
He could hear multiple sirens in the distance, and they were getting louder by the second. It seemed as though they were converging on him from every direction. He risked a glance over his shoulder and was horrified to see that the lanky cop was now
