‘What did you see?’
‘A rifle.’
Isaac phoned Gordon Windsor to update him. Two crime scene investigators arrived soon after, their boss with them.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ Windsor said.
‘I’m sure,’ Constable Albertson said.
‘We have to hold back until Armed Response arrives. We don’t know who’s inside.’
‘Nobody, you know that,’ Windsor said.
‘I don’t want to have to write a report on how you or one of your team were shot,’ Isaac said.
‘Fair enough. We’ll get ourselves organised. It would be best if they didn’t have to smash the door in.’
‘Armed Response won’t care too much for what you want. If there’s to be shooting, they’ll not be too fussy.’
‘Understood. Regrettable, though. We should clear the people out on this floor.’
‘Constable Albertson, up to the task?’
‘Yes, sir. Leave it to me.’
‘And keep it quiet. Those closest to the flat, set up some sort of a barrier as you bring them out, in case there’s some shooting.’
As anxious as Isaac was to enter the flat, it was another thirty-five minutes before the all-clear was given. Armed Response was in place, Sergeant Northam in charge.
A knock on the door, no answer, Northam keeping to one side, protected by body armour. Isaac and the others waited at ground level. The arrival of the police officers with their weapons had increased the number of onlookers, some even leaving the church hall and their food to watch and to offer comments, some congratulatory, some critical, and some racial about the occupants in the block of flats.
‘One more time and we go in,’ Northam said. He hit the door hard with a metal bar. ‘Police, we’re armed. Come out at once with your hands up in the air.’
A break of sixty seconds for a reply. None was forthcoming.
‘Okay, break it down,’ Northam issued the command to one of his men.
The battering ram, known as the enforcer, made short work of the door, one attempt all that was needed before the door opened. Inside, a clear view through to the front window.
Down below, Windsor winced at the amount of evidence that the men would disturb. A formerly pristine crime scene devalued by the tactics of a group of men whose function was to secure the flat, not to concern themselves with where they walked and what they disturbed.
On the twentieth floor, Northam gave another command. ‘Stand back.’
He then called out once again. ‘Police, we’re coming in, and we’re heavily armed. Resistance is not advised, and we will shoot to kill.’
No answer.
‘It’s empty,’ one of the other armed officers said.
‘Okay, maximum care, and keep your weapons ready to shoot.’
At the rear of the flat, the rifle was found on its tripod. No person was discovered. The flat was declared safe.
Chapter 20
A hastily-convened press conference at Challis Street Police Station, and Richard Goddard’s one failing would become apparent. Numerous courses and plenty of practice had convinced him of one thing – he was a lousy public speaker, his monotone voice tiring on the ear, his need to pause, when no words emanated other than ‘Arrgh’ and ‘you know’.
At the back of the room, three cameras were mounted on tripods; at the front, iPhones on record. Goddard rose to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. The recent upsurge in violent crime is of concern to all of us. That is why we are meeting here today. Let me thank Detective Chief Inspector Cook from Homicide for being here, as well as Detective Chief Inspector Oscar Braxton from Serious and Organised Crime Command. They will both make a short speech, after which there will be time for questions. I would ask that you allow them to make their speeches first.’
‘What about Stanislav Ivanov?’ a man in the second row of the assembled media contingent asked.
‘And you are?’ Goddard said.
‘Colin Bartlett, Fox News.’
Isaac cringed. Everyone knew who Bartlett was. The man was the bane of the police force, forever criticising it for its inability to control terrorism. He had been scathing two nights previously on the television about the progress on the Briganti shooting, and now the chief superintendent was trying to control the man by belittling him. It wasn’t going to work, Isaac knew that, and the press conference was a shambles before it had started.
In Russia, a group of men sat around a table in a boardroom, watching a live feed streaming into a laptop and then onto a screen on the wall. At a penthouse in London, two men watched smugly, confident that whatever happened their future was secure. At the Wellington Arms in Bayswater, the television was tuned to the press conference, although it was only the rank and file hoodlums who watched. The three gang leaders that Cojocaru had attempted to bring onto his side were ensconced in the house where Larry had met them previously, but then there had been four; Marcus Hearne now dead and in the mortuary.
‘We’ll answer your questions after DCI Cook and DCI Braxton have spoken.’
Bartlett sat quietly. Isaac knew it would not be for long.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, would you speak?’ Goddard said, directing his request at Isaac.
Isaac, confident in what he wanted to say, approached the lectern. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. The first matter of interest is the attack at the hairdressing salon of Giuseppe Briganti. We have eliminated all those inside of any involvement, and all the bodies have been released to their families.’
‘Why did you hold on to the body of Sal Maynard?’ Bartlett shouted.
Isaac could see that the man had no intention of being quiet.
‘Some discrepancies needed to be resolved.’
‘She was involved with a major crime figure, sleeping with him.’
It
