“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need it as a chat-up line, what with being a helicopter pilot,” Bull said, smiling back.
Myers leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though he were about to let Bull in on a closely guarded secret. “Sounds sexy, I know, but really I’m just a glorified chauffeur.” He sat back in his chair and tapped his cheek. “But with this – well it’s the badge of a man who’s seen frontline action, and I’ll wear it with pride.”
His laugh was surprisingly carefree, but it didn’t fool Bull; he’d dealt with enough trauma victims over the years to recognise that the banter was merely a smokescreen to disguise how chewed up the pilot felt inside.
Bull glanced over at the nursing station and was unsettled to see the battle axe staring back at him. Quickly averting his gaze, he checked his watch and realised that nearly five minutes of his allotted time had already passed.
“What can you tell me about the hijack?” he asked, getting down to business. He could almost feel Tierney’s beady little eyes burning into the back of his head, but there was no way he was going to risk a second look.
Myers’ shoulders slumped as though he’d just received a terminal diagnosis. He took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “Mike and I were heading for the crew room when three black people came barging out. Their leader was a fearsome looking brute of a man. I’m a bit of a short-arse at five foot nine, but Mike’s nearly six foot tall and he towered over him. He was built like a tree trunk, and he had dead eyes that seemed to suck in light and reflect nothing back…” Myers voice tapered off as he replayed the incident in his head.
“Go on,” Bull coaxed him after a moment’s silence.
“…When he looked at me, I felt like he had already made up his mind to kill me and was looking forward to it. He…” Myers choked, cleared his throat and then licked his lips. “Sorry. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks that were blowing in the wind. I remember he was virtually doubled over with pain, clutching his stomach like he’d been shot. In fact, at one point, I thought I glimpsed blood on his fingers, but that could just have been my imagination.”
Steve Bull furiously scribbled notes in his daybook; acutely aware that his writing – not terribly easy to understand at the best of times – rapidly deteriorated whenever he started rushing. He hoped he’d be able to decipher it all later and wouldn’t be left with reams of embarrassing gobbledygook.
At some point in the future, Myers was probably going to have to attend an ID parade to try and pick out his attackers from a line-up. In accordance with Code D of PACE, a witness’s first description had to be served on the suspect’s solicitors before a parade could be held, and the sooner it was recorded, the more credence it was likely to be given, which was why Steve Bull had brought along three First Description Booklets. He only hoped he would have time to fill them in before Brenda the battle axe turfed him out.
Myers had stopped speaking again and he was clearly struggling to go on. After a moment, he reached for his glass with trembling hands and gulped down several mouthfuls of barley water. “Sorry,” he said again, “my mouth’s suddenly gone as dry as a bone.”
“Take your time,” Bull encouraged softly. “I know it’s hard, but you’re doing really well.”
“It’s very kind of you to be so gracious,” Myers said. “However, truth be told, I suspect I’m not doing very well at all.” With a wan smile, he raised the glass to his lips and drained the remainder of its content.
“At first, I thought the chap who was supporting him was a doctor,” he continued a moment later. “He wore greens and a path lab coat, and he even had a hospital nametag pinned to his chest. There was a slim woman with them. She was dressed as a nurse. Sorry, I couldn’t make out her face as she had a surgical mask on, and I’m embarrassed to say that all I remember about her was that she had nice legs.”
“Do you think you would be able to recognise the two men again?” Bull asked.
Myers nodded emphatically. “Couldn’t forget their ugly mugs if I tried, especially not the Neanderthal with the dreadlocks.”
“So, what happened next?” Bull asked, waving for Myers to continue with his account.
Myers thought for a moment, then picked up the story where he’d left off. “Mike challenged them. Next thing I know, a gun’s being rammed into the poor sod’s face and I’m being forced to airlift them from the building.”
“Can you describe the gun? “Bull asked.
Myers shrugged. “Not really. It was black, and it had a long barrel. I think it was similar to what they used in the old cowboy films, where bullets are inserted into the round bit in the middle, not into the handle like the more modern weapons the police carry.”
“You took them to some wasteland in Canning Town,” Steve said. “Can you remember anything they said during the journey that might help us to work out where they went afterwards or what they plan to do next?”
Myers considered this carefully. “While I was running the pre-flight checks, I became conscious of the doctor making a call on his mobile. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because of the noise from the rotors, but after we took off I heard him telling his associates that someone was going to meet them and they were going to spend a couple of days at his house until he could sort out getting the big man out
