“In that case,” Flogger told him with renewed confidence, “I think I can help you, but I’ve gotta warn you, I’m gonna ‘ave to call in a favour and it ain’t gonna come cheap.”
Gaston rolled his eyes. Flogger was a greedy git, and he was trying it on because he knew he had Garston backed into a corner. Of course, from his perspective, he would simply see it as good business, an entrepreneur exploiting a client’s need to increase his profit margins. Garston didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?
“Not a problem,” he said through gritted teeth, “as long as you don’t get too greedy and start taking the piss.”
“As if I would!” Flogger had the cheek to sound indignant, as if his professionalism had just been maligned.He quoted a price and added his commission. “Let me know where you’re staying and I’ll get ‘em dropped off to you this evening.”
“No,” Garston said. There was no way he was going to reveal his location to Flogger, just in case he put two and two together and decided to sell the information to the cops. “Let’s meet on neutral ground.”
“Alright, then,” Flogger said, “what about that place we used last week when I gave you the uniforms?”
“That’ll do nicely,” Garston said. “What time?”
“How does seven o’clock tonight sound?”
“Sounds good,” Garston said, and hung up.
◆◆◆
After being removed from the helicopter, Peter Myers had been rushed by ambulance to Newham General Hospital in Prince Regent Lane, Plaistow. He had regained consciousness not long after arrival and, although the subsequent brain scan had been satisfyingly clear, the doctors had decided to keep him in overnight for observations as a precaution.
When he’d been reassessed by the consultant this morning during doctor’s rounds, the consensus had been that he was still suffering from the effects of a severe concussion and wasn’t yet fit enough to be discharged. To Myers’s disappointment, it was now looking like he was going to remain hospitalised for yet another night.
Upon his arrival at the all-male observation ward, Steve Bull dutifully reported to the ward sister, a stern-faced battle axe called Brenda Tierney, and requested access to the patient. During the brief conversation that followed, he found her to be marginally less friendly than a rabid Rottweiler.
Glowering at him with undisguised hostility, Tierney made it abundantly clear that Myers wasn’t well enough to provide a statement yet and it would be better all-round if Bull could come back the following day. Bull flashed her his most charming smile, explained the urgency of the situation, and then insisted on speaking to the pilot there and then. As a compromise, he promised that he wouldn’t stay long. The battle axe had grudgingly relented, but not before making it crystal clear that she didn’t want her patient’s recovery impeded by a drawn-out visit from the police. Vowing to chuck him out after fifteen minutes, regardless of where they were in the proceedings, Tierney stood aside to allow him temporary access to the patient.
Steve Bull found the pilot sitting comfortably in a soft chair beside his bed. He was so engrossed in a newspaper that he didn’t even notice the detective approach. At least three other tabloids were stacked on a table next to his bed, along with a bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water, a box of tissues and the obligatory bag of grapes.
Bull calculated that Myers was in his mid to late thirties. He had a wiry, muscular frame, and Bull’s first impression was that this was a man who took very good care of himself. Myers was taller than Bull had expected, with slender, well-manicured hands and a mop of jet-black hair that showed no sign of greying, unlike Bull’s thatch of brown, which was going greyer by the day. A large gauze strip was plastered across his right cheek, but other than that, Myers appeared in pretty good health.
“Peter Myers?” he asked, producing his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant Steve Bull from the murder squad. If you’re up to it, I was hoping we could have a little chat about your ordeal from yesterday?”
“Yes, of course,” Myers said, lowering the paper. “Pull up a chair.”
Bull purloined a chair from the next bed, which was empty at the moment.
“How are you feeling?”
Myers treated him to a melancholy smile, which accentuated the crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes. “Lucky to be alive.”
“You are lucky. Very lucky,” Bull agreed.
Myer’s demeanour became intensely serious, and the change made him look haggard. “Believe me, I know. The staff here couldn’t really shed any light on what happened, but I’ve been reading all about it in the newspapers. I can’t believe they shot a policeman before hijacking my helicopter. It’s ghastly. Have you caught them yet?”
“No, unfortunately not,” Bull said, shaking his head with regret, “but we’re working flat out and we won’t stop until we do.”
They lapsed into an awkward silence, which Myers filled by pouring himself a large glass of barley water.
“How’s Mike Cummings doing?” he asked a few moments later. “The last time I saw him, he was being pistol-whipped by the man who tried to shoot me.”
“He’s fine. Bit concussed, like yourself.”
Myers smiled. “That’s good to hear. I was really worried about him.”
Bull fidgeted in his chair, unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable. “So, what about you?” he asked. “How badly were you injured?”
“Well, apart from having the headache from hell and this,” he gently tapped the gauze square on the side of his face, “I’m a bit shaken up but otherwise okay”
“What happened there, if you don’t mind me asking,” Bull said, pointing to the injury on the pilot’s face.
Myers grimaced. “When that bastard started shooting at me, a huge shard of plexiglass exploded out of the windscreen and imbedded itself in the side of my face. A couple of inches higher and it would have taken my eye out. It needed several stitches, but I’m told it’ll be fine.”
“I bet you when that happened you
His tone
