Holland had absent-mindedly tucked his thumbs under his trademark Gordon Gekko braces and was currently pushing the elastic outwards in a style reminiscent of the TV comedian, Bobby Ball.
Does he ever take those things off? Jack asked himself as an irreverent image of Holland, tucked up in bed at night, pyjama bottoms held aloft by his braces, popped into his head. He quickly smothered the childish snigger that was brewing before it could reach his lips.
Quinlan waved him over and directed him to take the empty chair next to Holland. “We’re about to kick off so you’d better get a move on,” he whispered.
The mood in the room was sombre, business-like, but then they were here to hunt for a cop killer so it was hardly an occasion for joviality.
Dillon was sitting in the front row, almost directly opposite Tyler. He looked as fresh as a daisy, even though he’d probably had less than half the amount of sleep Jack had. Splendidly turned out as always, he didn’t appear to be any the worse for wear after being whacked with a lead-filled sap the day before. Jack could only marvel at his friend’s recuperative powers, knowing that almost anyone else would have gone sick. It really did confirm the old adage; no sense, no feeling.
The rest of Jack’s team were mingled in amongst Quinlan’s, and – unlike Dillon – they all looked pretty knackered. After speaking to Kelly earlier, Jack knew that most of them hadn’t finished work until well after midnight, and had only managed to grab a few hours of sleep before dragging themselves back in this morning. He’d experienced a little twinge of guilt on hearing that because, while they had all been busy grafting, he had been relaxing at home, enjoying his Indian takeaway, treating himself to a bottle of Peroni, and watching one of his favourite James Bond films on VHS.
After checking his watch, Holland stood up and cleared his throat. “Right, there’s a lot to get through, so let’s crack on.” Conversation amongst the waiting officers had been subdued anyway, but now it petered out until there was absolute silence.
“Yesterday, just after midday, PC Stanley Morrison, a forty year old officer based at Forest Gate police station, was shot dead at the Royal London, killed by a single bullet to the rear of the head. The fatal shot was administered while he was lying face down on a hospital bed with a pillowcase over his head. He had been handcuffed by that stage and posed no threat.”
As he considered his next words, his face visibly clouded with anger. “Make no mistake, this was a cold-blooded execution carried out for the killer’s personal gratification.” Holland paused a moment to let that sink in. “PC Morrison was on duty with PCs Alec O’Brien and Sharon Lassiter, and they were providing a hospital watch on a man called Claude Winston, a drug dealing pimp who’s been on remand at HMP Pentonville since last November, having been charged with the attempted murder of two police officers.”
There was a collective intake of breath from those who were unfamiliar with Winston’s history.
“A joint risk assessment had been carried out by the drug squad, who were producing Winston, and the Duty Officer at Forest Gate, who was providing the staff to watch over him. They concluded that an armed guard was unnecessary. On paper, I cannot fault that decision,” Holland said, but his acerbic tone made it abundantly clear that he didn’t agree with it.
“On January fourth, that’s last Monday, the drug squad produced Winston to Forest Gate on a three day layover. However, before they could interview him, his appendix burst and he was rushed to the Royal London Hospital for surgery.”
“Pity he didn’t croak on the operating table,” Kevin Murray piped up from his second row seat, “or get gunned down by SO19 during the escape like his mate.”
A mumbled chorus of assent echoed around the room, and even Tony Dillon, who couldn’t abide Murray, nodded supportively.
“I agree,” Holland said, holding his hands up to quieten them down, “but unfortunately he didn’t. Winston was discharged yesterday morning, and arrangements were made to transport him back to Pentonville at one o’clock. However, with the help of three associates, two males and a female, he managed to escape in spectacular style less than an hour before he was due to be collected.”
“How did they know Winston was being moved, guv?” Dean Fletcher asked.
“We’re not sure they did know,” Holland said.
Quinlan chimed in with his opinion. “I’m inclined to think they would have waited until he was in the car before springing him if they’d known he was being moved. That’s how I would have done it.”
“Let’s concentrate on the known facts and leave the speculation till later,” Holland said, looking around tetchily. “As I was saying, PCs O’Brien and Lassiter were standing guard outside the room, while PC Morrison sat inside with the prisoner. The suspects, one dressed as a doctor, one as a porter, and one as a nurse, forced them into Winston’s private room at gunpoint. They restrained O’Brien and Lassiter using their own quick-cuffs and then drugged them before shooting Morrison.”
Murray’s hand shot up, interrupting the flow of Holland’s briefing.
“Yes, Kevin?” he said, clearly annoyed at the distraction.
“Boss, have you got any idea why they merely drugged O’Brien and Lassiter but shot Morrison?”
It was actually a reasonable question, Jack thought, which was unusual from Murray. Normally, his contributions were limited to telling crass jokes and making smutty innuendo.
Holland shook his head. “I don’t. We know they could just as easily have sedated him as they did the others because we found a syringe full of what we suspect will turn out to be ketamine on the floor next to the bed. I know DI Dillon has a theory. I suppose now is as good a time as any to share it with you all. Dillon?”
Dillon stood up and looked
