“Are there any next of kin here?” Jack asked. He looked around but didn’t see anyone who obviously fit the bill.
Holland shook his head again. “No, they were informed of the press conference but declined to come. I’m glad. I hate having to watch a victim’s loved ones being subjected to all those heartless questions.”
On the stroke of six, the Press Liaison Officer called for everyone’s attention, and the briefing commenced.
Holland looked suitably solemn as he leaned forward to address the cameras, arms resting on the table in front of him, fingers gently interlocked.
“Yesterday afternoon a career criminal called Claude Winston escaped from the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, where he had been receiving treatment for a ruptured appendix. He was assisted by four people, three males and a female. During the escape, Police Constable Stanley Morrison was fatally shot in what can only be described as an abhorrent act of mindless violence. Two of his colleagues were also injured, but they are expected to make a full recovery. Three of the suspects made their escape by hijacking the HEMS ambulance and forcing the pilot, Captain Peter Myers, to fly them to a section of wasteland in Canning Town. However, two of the gang involved were not so lucky. The driver of the getaway car was arrested by detectives at the scene. Another member of the gang fled the building on foot and then carjacked a vehicle at gunpoint.”
Cameras were clicking frantically as he spoke, and the repeated bursts of strobing flashes were giving Jack a headache.
Lucky none of us are epileptic, he thought, squinting against the constant glare.
“The stolen car was subsequently spotted, and armed officers carried out a controlled stop in East India Dock Road, near the slip road that leads to the Blackwall Tunnel Northern Approach. Unfortunately, during the incident that followed, the suspect, who I can now formally name as Errol Heston, a twenty-eight-year-old black male from East London, was shot. Tragically, despite receiving emergency treatment at the scene and undergoing extensive surgery at hospital, Mr Heston passed away as a result of his injuries during the early hours of this morning.”
Tyler studied the gaggle of reporters. Their pens were scribbling so frantically that it wouldn’t have surprised him to see smoke start rising from the paper they were writing on. Unlike most of the others, Terri Miller was holding up a small recorder, and her eyes were aglow as if she sensed another great story was hers for the taking.
Holland paused to draw breath before continuing. “I want to appeal to the public for their urgent help in locating Claude Winston. We know he’s still in London, and we think he will probably be in need of medical assistance. At the time of his escape, he was taking strong antibiotics to battle a post-operative infection, but he fled the hospital without his medication. He also became involved in a physical struggle with officers who tried to detain him at the scene, and it is quite possible some of his stitches will have burst open as a result. If you work in a doctor’s surgery or chemist, and anyone has come in to obtain medical supplies in what you consider to be unusual circumstances, please get in touch with the Incident Room directly, or phone Crimestoppers anonymously. Additionally, I’m confident that someone out there knows where Winston and the two fugitives who helped him are currently holed up, and I appeal directly to these people. Please, help us to recapture this extremely dangerous man and put him back behind bars before he harms anyone else.”
◆◆◆
Jenna Marsh sat in her living room eating her tea from a tray precariously balanced on her lap. She had arrived home from work a few minutes ago, announcing that she was tired, had achy feet and was absolutely famished. Her mother, Violet, had anticipated this, and she had a plate of sausage, mash and baked beans ready and waiting for her ravenous daughter.
As soon as Jenna had kicked off her boots, she had raided the fridge for a cold can of Coke to wash it all down with and then carried the lot into the living room to enjoy her scoff in front of the telly.
Their dog, a little Westie called Basil, was sitting by her feet, hoping to scavenge a few scraps.
“How was it today, love?” her dad asked, switching the TV on and flopping down in his favourite armchair to watch the BBC news at six. It had become a bit of a ritual over the years, all sitting down together for the early evening news, and they still did it whenever they could.
Violet had followed her in from the kitchen and was now relaxing next to Jenna on the sofa with her ever-present bundle of knitting and a nice hot cup of tea.
It never ceased to amaze Jenna how her mum could happily sit there for hours at a time, stitching away like an automaton, making scarves and jumpers that, more often than not, ended up being donated to charity shops.
Jenna shrugged indifferently. “It was okay,” she said, pouring a liberal dose of tomato sauce over her sausages.
The presenter was updating viewers about a story that had broken the previous day in which seven young fishermen were feared drowned after their scallop dredger, The Solway Harvester, had disappeared off the Scottish coast during a force nine gale. Its last contact had been with a sister vessel called Tobrach-N at 17:50 local time, at which point the crew had said they were going to seek shelter from the weather at Ramsey in the Isle of Man. This afternoon, the announcer regretted to inform them, a boat using sonar equipment had found the wreck of The Solway Harvester in about forty feet of water, eleven miles south-east of the Isle of Man. There was no trace of the crew.
“Poor blighters,” her dad said, shaking his head sadly. “What a terrible way to go.” Seafaring
