“Good,” Beach said, slipping his NATO riot helmet over his head. “In that case, let’s do it.”
With everyone back in their respective vehicles, the convoy moved off, turning right into Densham Road.
Moments later, it snaked left into Vicarage Lane. The road ahead was straight, except for a slight kink about a third of the way along, which gave the impression that two competing teams of builders had started at either end and then bodged the join in the middle.
Hugging the pavement line so that other traffic could overtake, the motorcade crawled towards the junction with Hurry Close. They were now less than one hundred metres from their destination. Fortunately, traffic was almost non-existent, enabling the line of police vehicles to swerve onto the wrong side of the road for the final approach. The vehicles coasted to a silent halt outside an unobtrusive house that stood virtually opposite the junction with Byford Close.
The station van had long since dropped back and was waiting near the junction with Densham Road. It would only come forward if it was needed for prisoner transport.
The two semi-detached houses that comprised the squat, built in the early fifties from the look of them, boasted a fairly large frontage, with a tarmac driveway big enough to accommodate four or five cars, although only one, a beat-up Ford Escort, occupied it at present.
The police drivers had switched their lights off as soon as they turned into Vicarage Lane and, as a precaution, a complete radio silence was in force as they prepared to exit their vehicles.
The Territorial Support Group officers were dressed in full public order attire, including black, flame-retardant overalls, NATO helmets, and short shields. Having carried out similar raids many times before, they alighted quickly and quietly, immediately taking up positions that had been designated to them in the rushed briefing an hour ago.
The AMIP cars pulled up behind them.
Looking around to see if he could spot his colleagues, Jack was pleased that there was no sign of the eyeball car containing Jarvis and Evans. That demonstrated good fieldcraft on their part.
“I hope that IRV has found George,” Dillon fretted. “Just in case Angela goes out the back when the TSG make entry.”
“It’ll be fine,” Susie reassured him.
The house, like most others in the street, was in total blackness. Up close, it appeared shabby and neglected in comparison to the properties on either side. The walls were pebbledashed a depressingly dull brown; all the upstairs windows had been boarded with ply; the downstairs windows and street door had been secured with thick timber, although a gaping rectangular hole had been chiselled out of the right side of the door in order for the squatters to install a crude locking system of their own.
The muffled sound of repetitive dance music escaped from inside, and the steady boom, boom, boom of a bass drum punctuated the still night air around them.
“It must be a delight living next to this lot,” Tyler remarked, feeling sorry for the neighbours.
The officers stood motionless as they waited for confirmation that the back was covered. They felt exposed, vulnerable; all they could do was hope that no one inside would see them. The boarded-up windows worked in their favour, as did the darkness; things would have been much tougher had the raid been carried out in daylight. Trying to make a discreet approach to a target address wasn’t easy when there was a small crowd of onlookers gathering, shifting from foot to foot and asking each other what was going on.
Finally, after what seemed like minutes but was, in reality, only seconds, George’s taut voice came over the radio in a tinny whisper. “Copeland to Dillon, we’re finally in place, guv. Sorry we took so long but we’ve managed to gain access into the gardens directly behind you. For your info, the target address is in total darkness at the rear.”
“Received, George. Stand by,” Dillon responded. He turned to see if Tyler was going to give him the green light and was rewarded with an affirmative nod.
Dillon crossed the drive in five purposeful strides and gave the TSG lads a thumbs up. He leaned into PS Beach’s ear and spoke quietly. “Time to use the big red key.”
Beach grinned, then turned and patted Ron Stedman on the shoulder. “Go, go, go,” he whispered urgently.
With that, Stedman removed the red ‘Enforcer’ battering ram from his shoulder, where it had rested, and hoisted it into a readiness position. Through the gap in the timber, they could see that the original door was a cheap, mass-produced model. There was a sturdy looking Chubb lock, but it was unlikely to offer much resistance to the kinetic force generated by the heavy ram, especially when it was wielded by someone as proficient as Stedman.
WHACK! WHACK!
The door flew open and Stedman stepped aside as a posse of officers surged into the hallway of the house.
“POLICE! POLICE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”
The ghastly music sounded even louder now that they had gained entry.
PS Brent and his PCs were first through the door, and they veered left, headed straight for the ground floor room from which the hellish racket was coming. The lights were on inside so at least they could see where they were going.
His ears throbbing, Brent’s eyes followed the cable that ran from the sound system sitting on top of an old cupboard against the far wall to the wall socket beneath. Gritting his teeth, he strode across the room and pulled the plug.
The room immediately went silent.
There were two large leather sofas, one on each side of the room, and both were occupied by a couple attempting drunken copulation.
“You can stop all that nonsense immediately, you randy bastards,” Brent ordered, his harsh voice sounding incredibly loud in the sudden silence.
The instructions turned out to be superfluous. On seeing the riot trained police officers standing before them, helmet visors down, shields held at the ready and
