‘The squatter woman,’ yelled York frantically, ‘where did she go?’
Following the clerk’s outstretched finger, York sprinted for the door and out into the car park, Newport hot on his heels.
‘Guv, what’s going on?’ he heard his partner say.
He spotted the woman at the end of the damp lot, heading out towards the road. She was on foot.
‘Hey!’ he called out.
The woman stopped and turned, frowning.
‘Hold up.’
She suddenly looked wary.
‘What’s your name, Miss?’ York asked.
‘What's yours?’ she countered.
‘Oh, of course,’ he muttered breathlessly. He pulled out his wallet and flashed his credentials. ‘DCI Nicolas York.’
‘Ah, the rude one.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You the one who told me to zip it?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Your name?’
‘Angelina,’ said the woman sceptically. ‘What’s it to you?’
Newport loitered in the background waiting for development.
‘You want to come back inside, Angelina? I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘What for?’
‘I want to talk to you. Can’t let a charming personality like yours come into my life and not take advantage.’
‘Oh that’s a shame, you sarcastic prick,’ smiled Angelina. ‘For a minute there I thought you gave a shit.’
‘Angelina, I heard you talking about squatters. I want to hear it.’
‘DCI? Don’t you like, deal with like, killings and stuff?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Like I said to that lad in there, I don’t know nothing really. All I wanted to do was give the address and have someone come and have a butcher’s. Not much to ask, is it?’
‘It’s not,’ York agreed.
‘I don’t want them to get settled. Few strange noises at night but that’s all they done.’
‘How long have they been there, Angelina, a week, two weeks?’
‘Something like that. Last time it happened I had to move. Coppers wouldn’t do nothing. That’s why I came down here.’
The sky began to grumble again. More rain?
‘Inside,’ he urged, moving closer, ‘you said someone else turned up tonight. How’d you know?’
Angelina stared at him like he was stupid. ‘How’d you reckon? I saw him.’
York went to say something else but stopped.
Newport waited.
Angelina said, ‘You want me to tell you what I saw? Easy. He was going into the house when I was going out. I saw him over the fence.’
He glanced over his shoulder. Newport was checking her watch.
‘Angelina…’ he pressed.
‘What do you want me to say? Tall, white, dark hair. And he had these cold eyes, looked right through me. Gave me a bloody chill. Handsome, though. I remember him because he looked like he’d been running, all sweaty and that. But he couldn’t have been because he was wearing jeans. No one runs in jeans, do they? Mind you he was wearing a sweater. This bulky green thing with a hood.’
22
Clocks had ticked past midnight. Rain had stopped. Mist remained dominant. An unnatural quiet hovered over the residential street, a macabre, almost sinister noiselessness.
No one spoke.
From the staging area, a tactical unit parked a hundred feet from the house, York and Doug Player silently viewed a plan of the street. Player had been in charge of CO19 Special Firearms Command for as long as York could remember. He liked him. Hair severely graded down, shoulders like engine pistons, the forty-something bulldog resembled a machine; no-nonsense, no bravado, just precise and efficient. Each member of his unit was likewise. York knew some of them well. They lived for this.
In the background, Newport and Mason donned stab-proof vests and were waiting patiently for Player to give the nod. His unit was patterned strategically along the street, obscured in the convenient mist.
The only reason Mason was here was to take the credit if the raid was successful. If they captured the suspect it wouldn’t take long for the street to turn into a media catalogue, and Mason was a public relations guru. York had no qualms with that; credit could gladly be hers.
Masked behind a row of conifers, the target house was still. No one had gone in or out since they’d been watching. If anybody was inside, they were keeping quiet.
Doug Player gave the signal.
York stood enthralled as the shadowy forms emerged from their positions in perfect unity and advanced on the terraced house. From the back, Doug Player co-ordinated via a headset, talking his guys through it. The indiscernible unit reached the house, waited, instructed to listen for internal sounds. Whispers came back over the radio: it was quiet inside the house. Through the uncurtained windows only empty and bare rooms were visible. Same thing at the rear.
The team leader, a snappy character with cropped red hair, asked Player if they were certain this was the right house. Player assured him it was.
‘Okay, take it down, Williams,’ he instructed.
From where York was standing, he heard the crunch as the Enforcer, a huge battering ram, slammed into the front door of the house, tortured hinges screeching in agony. Over the static came the muffled sounds of the unit filtering into the premises, clearing rooms. After what seemed like an eternity, Williams emerged from the front of the house and jogged towards them, eddies of mist swirling in his wake.
‘No one’s in there,’ he reported to Player.
‘Shit!’ spat York as Mason and Newport joined them. ‘You certain?’
‘Went over it twice, sir,’ Williams assured him. ‘But I’d recommend you get CSU down here. There is something you’re going to need to see.’
*
Inside the house smelt fusty, unused, but certain factors begged the contra. Footprints in the dust, an open kitchen window, drip patterns in the sink, all indicated recent activity.
With no electricity provider to the property, Will Graham and his team had set up bright battery-powered lamps to work under. Jonathan Wheeler had arrived too, chewing on a huge
