Quinlan’s jaw set determinedly as he looked around the room making eye contact with as many detectives as he could. “If anyone you speak to even remotely resembles the mysterious doctor or nurse, have their phones straight off them and get a statement from them outlining their movements for yesterday. Don’t take any shit; if anyone fails to cooperate fully, nick them on suspicion of being involved. I want the word getting out that we’re not messing about.”
Jack was impressed. Andy wasn’t normally the pushy type, but this morning he was coming over as a real ball-breaker.
Quinlan held up an A4 sized manila file. “The Intel Cell has put together a detailed list of the people we want seen and the questions we want asked. After the briefing, you’ll be divided into teams, and I want all these people blitzed today. Susie, anything from you?”
Susie Sergeant had been appointed as Case Officer for the investigation, and when she stood up her green eyes smouldered with a desire for justice. “Our job is to uphold the law, which means remaining professional and impartial even though the people we’re hunting have killed one of our own. That said, we need to let them know that our gang is bigger than theirs, so as the gov’nor has already indicated, we will be imposing a zero-tolerance policy when we engage these people. We’re not taking any lip; we’re not being fobbed off. We need to get information, and they need to know that we are going to keep cranking up the pressure until we get it. Once the briefing’s over, grab a quick brew from the canteen and then come straight back up to the office to collect your respective taskings from me.”
Quinlan thanked her, and then, as promised, he took questions from the assembled officers, starting with the man who had raised his hand earlier, an officer who had been seconded in from Forest Gate. Unbelievably, all he’d wanted to know was what the operation was called and, more importantly, the overtime code.
“It’s Operation Alabama,” Quinlan informed him. All murder investigations were recorded on HOLMES – Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – and the machine-generated random titles for each account that was opened. Last year it had been English towns and cities; this year it looked like they were going with North American towns and cities. “You don’t need a code, just put that down.”
When the Q&A session finished, he gave them fifteen minutes to grab a drink and pop to the loo.
“One last thing,” Holland bellowed as the assembled officers started to rise. They all sank back into their chairs and the room became quiet again. “The people we’re after are extremely dangerous, so take proper precautions out there today. Take your personal protection equipment with you. Wear your Met-vests. Make sure you have fully charged radios and phones, and please make sure that you update DS Sergeant or the Intel Cell when you arrive and when you leave each address so that we know you’re safe. The last thing we want is for anyone else to be harmed, and we need to keep track of where everyone is so that we can send help if it’s required.”
Chapter 14
It was almost 10 a.m. when Winston finally awoke. Garston had been checking in on him every half hour since seven, but he had decided not to wake his uncle, figuring that the more rest he had, the better he would feel. Besides, Claude was a lot easier to handle when he was comatose.
Angela should have been sharing the work, but she was still fast asleep in the lounge, and when he’d left the room a few moments ago she had been laying on the sofa with her mouth and legs both open in a most unladylike fashion.
Much to his irritation, the hooker had been prone to outbursts of gibberish in her sleep, and at various stages throughout the night, she had suddenly sat bolt upright, shouted out something unintelligible, pulled a distressed face and then flopped back down again to continue her restless slumber. He had lost track of the times she had disturbed him by doing that.
Rodent had been out most of the night, selling drugs, and hadn’t returned until just after 3 a.m. Slinking into the cramped living room as quietly as he could, he had uncomplainingly curled up on the floor in a sleeping bag he had put aside before going out.
While he hadn’t been noisy, he had been gassy, and the room soon grew thick with the rancid smell of his farts.
By default, Garston had been left with the lumpy armchair and, as a result, his back was now in agony from where a protruding spring had been poking into it all night.
With the flat’s central heating system up the spout and his winter jacket left in the getaway car, Garston had been forced to requisition one of Rodent’s tatty old coats to use as a makeshift blanket. Unfortunately, the flimsy garment had proven woefully inadequate, offering next to no protection against the bitter cold that had seeped into his bones throughout the night.
“What time is it?” Winston asked, looking around the room in confusion. He tried to sit up but immediately winced in pain.
“Let me help you,” Garston offered, but as he moved forward to assist, Winston shrugged him off angrily.
“I can manage,” he snapped, struggling himself up into a sitting position. He glared at Garston as though the pain was his fault.
“This place is a shithole,” Winston complained after taking in his surroundings properly for the first time since they had arrived the previous day. “And it’s freezing cold.” He pulled the blanket up under his chin and hugged his arms across it. “I’d be warmer in fucking Siberia.”
Garston shrugged. I wish you were in Siberia, he thought.
“Best I could do in the circumstances,” he
