Lola screamed, lowered her skirt and covered her breasts with her hands. She didn’t show them to anyone who wasn’t paying for the privilege.
The man who had been pumping away on top of her sprang to his feet, naked as a newborn.
Brent grimaced at the sight. “Cover that bloody thing up before I arrest you for possessing an offensive weapon,” he shouted at the tattooed man, whose manhood was so hard that it had turned purple.
The couple on the other couch was far slower to respond, but the reason for this instantly became obvious when an officer shook the man lying on top of the prostitute and discovered that he was fast asleep. The girl pinned underneath him seemed quite relieved when he was unceremoniously dragged into a sitting position, allowing her to wriggle free.
Now that entry had been gained, the TSG officers scattered in all directions, securing every room in the premises. Shouts reverberated throughout the building as officers banged loudly on locked doors, demanding that they be opened up quickly. The alternative to rapid compliance, they warned, was to have the locks forced open by a pair of size twelve keys.
A naked man with the numbers 18 tattooed into the base of his shaven skull was dragged, screaming and swearing, from the downstairs toilet, where he had been taking a leak.
The numbers signified his membership to Combat 18, a violent neo-Nazi group that had chosen its name in honour of Adolf Hitler. The number 1 represented the first letter of the alphabet: A for Adolf, and the number 8 represented the eighth letter of the alphabet: H for Hitler.
The far-right extremist was taken into a vacant downstairs room and ordered to sit in a chair. Clad in nothing but a stained pair of shreddies, he did as he was told, looking bleary-eyed and confused from all the drugs and alcohol he had consumed during the last few hours.
While Brent and his officers had deployed across the ground floor, Beach had led his crew straight upstairs.
Considering that they didn’t know the exact layout of the house, which caused some minor confusion in the first crucial seconds of the raid, he still managed to get his officers into most rooms inside of a minute.
Only three of the eight bedrooms failed to respond.
On Beach’s instruction, these were forced open.
One of the rooms was clearly unoccupied, much to the disappointment of the officer who had just booted in the door, but the second contained a slim white male in his middle thirties who was spooning a dark-skinned woman on a tatty double bed that had definitely seen better days. The woman was so completely spaced out that she hardly even noticed the violent entry, but the man was up in an instant. Naked as the day he was born, he grabbed a clear bag of white powder from the bedside table next to him and made a dash for the en-suite loo, clearly intent on flushing the incriminating drugs away.
A Parteiadler tattoo – the German eagle sitting atop a wreath containing a Swastika that had become the emblem of the Nazi party – spanned his entire back, with the wingtips reaching from shoulder to shoulder. Staring at the tattooed man in disgust, PC Stedman sent him flying across the room before he could pull the chain and dispose of the evidence. His colleague, PC Smith, casually strolled over to the bowl and peered in. “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” he enquired aloud.
As the unfortunate skinhead staggered up from the floor, clutching his stomach and complaining about police brutality, he was met by a satisfied smirk that spoiled his entire day.
Fishing the bag of cocaine out of the bowl with a coat hanger, PC Jay Smith raised his visor and said with great pleasure: “You’re nicked sunshine.”
Downstairs, Dillon had sneaked into the venue on the tail of the last officer. He knew he ought to have waited outside, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was no way he was going to miss out on all the action.
“Copeland to Dillon. Guv, we’ve got someone coming out of a back window, top floor, furthest window on the right.” George’s voice announced over the radio as the final bedroom door was kicked open.
As Dillon ran up the stairs towards the room in question, he heard an officer shouting for the suspect to stop.
Predictably, the runner ignored the order. Several officers stampeded down the stairs, intent on giving chase through the gardens. They nearly knocked Dillon over in the process.
“Bloody suits! You were meant to wait outside until you were called forward,” one of them called over his shoulder.
Dillon ignored the rebuke. “George, tell me you’ve caught the bastard!” he yelled into the handset. “George!” he said again, annoyed by the lack of response. Cursing profoundly, Dillon followed the small group of officers into the rear garden.
“Have you got the suspect?” Dillon demanded when he caught them up.
“Sorry, boss, whoever it was shot over the fence like a whippet. I didn’t have a chance.” PC Reeve apologised sheepishly. He was out of breath and covered in mud, where he’d slipped in one of the garden’s flowerbeds.
Dillon shook his head in disappointment, then patted the TSG officer on the shoulder.
“Never mind, you did your best,” he told the older man.
“I know, Sir. But it wasn’t good enough, was it?” PC Reeve said, disappointed.
“DI Dillon from DC Copeland, receiving, over,” George transmitted.
“Yeah, go ahead, George,” Dillon replied, trying not to sound too pissed off.
“Sorry about the delay, boss, but we got the fucker, two gardens down.” Copeland couldn’t keep the pleasure from his voice.
“Well done, George,” Dillon beamed. “Is it Angela?” He crossed his fingers, hoping the answer would be a resounding ‘YES’.
“Negative, boss. Just some Asian twat who says he ran because he’s wanted on a warrant.”
“Received,” Dillon acknowledged glumly. “Do a namecheck to confirm he’s wanted, and then take him straight
