“Great. So, they could be two hundred miles away from London in an hour’s time?” Dillon said, thinking that the situation was just going from bad to worse.
Reed nodded again, miserably this time. “I’m afraid so. Look, I do hope Peter’s going to be okay?”
“So do I,” Dillon said, unable to hold the other man’s eye. Knowing Winston’s form as he did, he didn’t rate the pilot’s chances at all.
A concerned looking colleague came over, apologised for interrupting, and handed Cummings a steaming hot mug of tea. Accepting it gratefully, he smiled a thank you at her as she left.
Dillon stood up to leave. “Thanks, you’ve both been a great help,” he said. “Don’t stray too far, we may need to speak to you again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right here if you need me,” Cummings promised, taking a tentative first sip of his tea.
“Likewise,” Reed said, standing up to shake the detective’s hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip, Dillon noticed.
Leaving Cummings to enjoy his brew in peace, Dillon wandered over to Pat Connors, who was on the phone to Information Room, seeking an update on the ASU deployment.
“Any news, Pat?”
Connors shook his head wearily. “Sorry mate, nothing yet.”
Dillon didn’t know what to do next and, as a man of action, he hated this unfamiliar feeling of impotency; it made him feel weak and indecisive. Realistically, though, there was nothing he could do now but wait for Holland to arrive and pray that, by the time he did, there would be some good news to pass on.
This investigation would now become a top priority case for the murder squad detectives. Cop killers automatically jumped to the front of the queue for manpower and resources. It was the same the world over.
He bitterly recalled his parting words to Frank Skinner when they had been sitting outside Winston’s room last week, arguing over whether or not armed support was necessary. I really hope you’re right, Frank, because if you’re not, it won’t be your life on the line when the shooting starts...
A cold stab of guilt pierced his heart as he asked himself the unpalatable question: should he have made more of an effort to get Skinner’s decision overturned.
I guess we will never know, he thought morosely.
He hadn’t seen Skinner or his lackey, Donoghue, yet, but when he did, he planned to vent his considerable displeasure on them.
His phone rang and he answered it anxiously, hoping it would be Jack Tyler.
It wasn’t.
It was Steve Bull, calling to update him that the two officers who’d been guarding Winston had now been removed from the scene and were now undergoing treatment. Alarmingly, neither had regained consciousness yet and blood tests were being rushed through to establish which sedative they had been injected with.
Dillon thanked him and hung up. Thirty seconds later the phone rang again. Hope flared that Tyler was finally responding to the messages he had left.
It was Steve Bull again, calling him back to let him know that DCS Holland had arrived and was at the third-floor crime scene.
“Tell him I’ll come straight down,” Dillon said.
“Mr Holland says for you to remain up there, boss,” Bull said. “He’ll come up as soon as he’s finished down here.”
“Am I in his bad books?” Dillon asked. There was a long, strained silence, and he guessed that Bull was unable to speak freely because of his close proximity to Holland.
“Never mind,” Dillon said, feeling dejected. “I think I can probably work out the answer to that one for myself.”
With that, he hung up.
The control room suddenly felt cloyingly hot. Ignoring the bitter cold, the icy rain, and his throbbing neck, Dillon ventured back outside to get some much-needed fresh air.
The helipad towered above the streets of London and, even in the rain, the view it afforded was incredible. Under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed soaking it up, but today he might just as well have been standing in an unlit coal bunker for all the pleasure it gave him.
With a heartfelt sigh, he pulled out his Job issue Motorola mobile phone and extended the small aerial. He might as well try calling Tyler again, although he wasn’t overly hopeful of getting a response. He dialled the eleven digits from memory and pressed the green button.
“Tony, they’ve found the air ambulance!” Connors shouted from inside the building. His voice was brimming with excitement.
Dillon immediately pocketed his phone and ran back to join his SO19 counterpart. “Where?” he demanded tensely.
“Wasteland near Canning Town. We’ve got ground units inbound as we speak.”
“How did we find it?” Dillon asked. The adrenaline surging through his veins was making him feel jittery like he’d overdosed on caffeine, and it was all he could do to remain still.
“India 99 spotted collision lights flashing on the edge of their horizon. It was too far away for a visual ID, but they were convinced it was another helicopter. They tried to establish radio contact with the unidentified bird but got nothing in response. Naturally, 99 gave chase, but they lost sight of it after a few seconds. By then India 98 was inbound from South London. The bad guys must have heard all this activity going on over the radio and decided to put down.”
Dillon let out a low whistle. “So, they didn’t actually see it land?”
Connors shook his head. “No, but all available ground units were ordered into the area it was last seen in while India 99 continued to search for it from above. They’ve just radioed in to say that they’d spotted the air ambulance in a large area of wasteland in Canning Town.”
“Do they have a visual on the suspects?” Dillon asked, holding his breath and hoping against all the odds that they did.
Connors shook his head again. “No, afraid not.”
“What about the pilot? Is he okay?”
“The local area car should
