Percival nodded gravely, accepting there was no room for negotiation. “Very good, sir.”
Holland shook the junior officer’s extended hand, which had a grip that was every bit as weak as his chin. “I’ll let you know how things go here in due course,” he promised.
Once Percival had left them, Holland turned to Speed. “Well, Ray, as the suspects have made good their escape and the hospital’s been reopened to the public, I don’t suppose Charlie Porter still plans to grace us with his presence?”
Speed grinned. “That’s right, sir. He called me a little while ago to say that, as everything is now under control, he was diverting to Whitechapel. I’ll have the dubious honour of briefing him upon my return.”
Holland smiled wryly. “Lucky you,” he said.
◆◆◆
When Errol reached the junction with Commercial Road, he made a left and set off towards his home turf. He knew it was only a matter of time until the dispossessed cabbie flagged down a passing police patrol and reported the carjacking, and he wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the area in which it was taken.
At least the owner wouldn’t be able to phone the theft in as his mobile was currently poking out of a cup holder in the centre console next to Errol. The poor old sod wasn’t having a good day, Errol reflected with a mirthless smile. In that respect, they were kindred spirits.
Despite the rain, the early afternoon traffic was flowing relatively freely for a change, and he didn’t hit a single red light until he reached the intersection where Commercial Road bisected Burdett Road to the left and West India Dock Road to the right.
Willing the lights to change, he kept shooting nervous glances along West India Dock Road towards the imposing redbrick building that was Limehouse police station. He could see there were a half dozen police vehicles parked in the road outside, and the last thing he wanted was for one of them to pull away and notice him. The old J registration cab had no go in it, and he doubted it would be able to outrun a battery-operated mobility scooter, let alone the Old Bill.
Interlocking his fingers, Errol placed both hands atop his bald pate. He screwed his eyes shut and started rocking back and forth in the driver’s seat, releasing his breath in a low moan of anguish and wondering how he had ever allowed himself to get muddled up in something as terrible as this. As soon as he had discovered that nutter Winston was involved, he should have just walked away.
It was all Sonia’s bloody fault – he had only agreed to do this job because the money he was being paid would finance the flash Caribbean beach wedding that she had been dreaming about – nagging him about, more like – for years. If he went away for this, he thought bitterly, he would make sure the ungrateful cow understood that it was all her fault; if she had been content with a simple registry office ceremony like any other girl, he wouldn’t have ended up in this train crash of a situation. But no, Sonia had filled her otherwise empty head with illusions of grandeur, and now, because of his desire to please her, his freedom was on the line.
His head was spinning as he tried to plot his way out of trouble. Trouble was, he was more of a doer than a thinker – all brawn and no brain, as Deontay was fond of reminding him – and his mind remained stubbornly blank.
Errol decided that his first priority was to dispose of the cab, and he knew a patch of wasteland in Canning Town that would be a perfect place to dump it in.
Once the cab was taken care of, his next priority would be to dispose of the gun. That, he decided, would go straight into the Limehouse Basin. Deontay would be pissed; guns were a very tradable commodity on the streets, and he’d made it clear that he wanted the revolver back once the job was done. Errol couldn’t afford to worry about that anymore; the others had probably been nabbed back at the hospital, so now he had to think about saving his own skin and making sure that he didn’t end up standing in the dock with them.
As soon as he got home, he would take all his clothes off and burn them. Once that was done, there would be nothing left to tie him to the botched breakout. None of the others would grass him up, he was reasonably confident of that, and Sonia would alibi him if the Old Bill ever came snooping around. She was a good girl – a bit dim, perhaps, but very loyal – and she would lie for her man, telling the Filth that he’d been at home with her all day.
A sudden blur of movement off to his right caught his eye, and when he turned to check it out, he was surprised to see a mass exodus occurring at Limehouse police station. Officers were running out of the front and jumping into cars as though they were contestants in a race. Engines were starting up, blue lights were flashing, and cars were wheel spinning away from the kerb.
“What the fuck…?”
His heart in his mouth, Errol instinctively slouched down in his seat, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
◆◆◆
“Where the hell is Jack Tyler?” Holland thundered.
Dillon shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, boss. I’ve been on to the Police Room at the Bailey, but apparently, the PCMH finished earlier than anticipated. I’ve spoken to Colin Franklin and Dick Jarvis, but they had lunch over at CP4, while Jack and Kelly went elsewhere. Either they’re somewhere where they can’t get a signal or neither of them has remembered to switch their phones back on since leaving court. Colin said they’re all meeting up again outside the RCJ at a
