Ashes to Ashes Page 15

  As it was, they served a very passable steak and mushroom pie.

  We were sitting drinking tea – it was after three in the afternoon by this time – when a woman entered. She was tall, with a rather stately bearing, middle-aged, had mid-brown hair piled into an untidy bun on the top of her head and was wearing a very smart grey linen trouser suit with a matching blouse. A pair of spectacles hung on a pretty beaded chain around her neck. Always eager to file people away as potential characters for my novels – too eager, some people might say – I placed this lady as the super’s wife or something similar. Her manner urgent, she came straight over to where we were sitting.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Janice North,’ Patrick said, politely rising.

  ‘And you’re Ingrid Langley,’ said the DI to me before Patrick could make the introduction. ‘I read your books – when I have the time, that is.’

  ‘Can I get you some tea?’ Patrick enquired.

  ‘I really can’t stay.’ She looked at her watch. ‘OK, five minutes. Do you feel well enough?’ she then asked in her slightly husky voice, gazing at him severely.

  ‘I can probably walk ten yards and back again without keeling over,’ he replied, smiling.

  She beamed at him.

  ‘I have you to thank for acting quickly,’ I said as she seated herself. OK, these two had merely struck up a good friendship.

  ‘Not a man to drink while on the job,’ she observed reflectively.

  ‘I’m worried that he might have hurt someone last night.’

  ‘Oh, no. I have to tell you that I arranged to have him watched when he left the restaurant. You can’t blink when there’s a possible connection with mobsters like Frederick Judd. It soon became obvious that something untoward had happened and Patrick was carefully apprehended.’

  I wondered what the hell they had said to him to get him to go quietly. ‘Your wounded personnel – how are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, as you probably know, they’re both in hospital, Constable Ellis with a shoulder wound and Constable Wright with a flesh wound in her upper arm. Hers isn’t serious. As far as the house goes it would appear that it’s rented, but not seemingly by the people who ran out and got away. We’re still trying to sort that one out.’

  Patrick returned with the tea, placed it before her and said, ‘I’d like to come along tonight.’

  She thanked him, put two heaped spoonfuls of sugar in it and stirred quickly, saying, ‘I’m happy for you to do so. But I must insist that you’re present as an observer only and I rely on an armed support team if needs be. If you wish to carry your handgun, as you’re permitted to for self-defence purposes, that’s fine, but I don’t want you to take part in any armed aspect of the raid. For one thing, it’s unlikely you’re clear of those drugs they gave you. I hope that’s agreeable to you.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Patrick said. He then went on to tell her about his being convinced that the woman he had seen there was Anne Peters, obviously having given the DI full details of the case on which we were working. She made a note of it.

  ‘And your boss?’ I asked.

  ‘In theatre right now, having his appendix removed,’ I was briskly informed. ‘Which means he’ll be even more bloody useless than usual for a while. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  ‘A Routemaster?’ I queried when she was safely out of earshot, taking her tea with her.

  ‘I hear that the new ones are sleek and super-efficient,’ Patrick said, straightfaced. ‘And you were jealous.’

  ‘You didn’t mention me with regard to tonight either,’ I said accusingly, nettled. ‘I’m not an accessory like a handbag.’

  He laughed at me then whispered, ‘A damned fine handbag actually, madam.’

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  At just after eleven that night we found ourselves sitting in an unmarked van parked in a side street of Feltham in the company of sundry large policemen. They were wearing so much kit of various kinds that it was distinctly cosy. If they knew who we were, these two individuals attired in dark blue tracksuits and black trainers, they said nothing. They remained dumb anyway – nerves, perhaps.

  ‘Leave the door ajar, please,’ Patrick said sharply as they reacted to a couple of quiet taps on it and prepared to disembark. We’ve been shut inside a police van once in the past and Patrick was finally forced to shoot the lock off before we suffocated, which had the effect of writing off the entire door. The Met sent SOCA, as it was then, the bill for the vehicle’s repair.

  ‘Fresh air, thank God,’ I whispered when we were alone – the interior had been filled with the aroma of lightly stewed blokes.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Patrick grinned at me. ‘Observe, what else?’

  We waited for a few minutes, not wishing to be right on their heels, then quietly got out, closing the door. Someone had remained in the driving cab, a precaution no doubt, in case the vehicle was stolen. We had not been invited to attend any briefings so were unsure exactly where we were, but my husband has an instinct for this kind of thing and set off in light drizzle towards a set of traffic lights on a road junction not far away. Before we reached it he turned aside, to the right, down an old lane, a horse-drawn wagon wide, which finished up in quite a large car park, a couple of dozen vehicles there, seemingly reserved for residents of the flats above the shops. Sections were marked off for the use of delivery vehicles. The area was quite well lit and Patrick made for where it was dimmer, perhaps on account of one of the orange lamps having failed. There was no sign of any police activity.

  ‘I think …’ Patrick muttered, setting off towards the main exit of the car park, ‘That the building over there that we can see the rear of, the one which has the floodlit flag pole on its roof,’ he pointed across the car park, ‘is the council offices. It’s situated around a hundred and fifty yards north of the restaurant on the opposite side of the road. Therefore we’re nearer to it than that. I’m assuming there will be road blocks.’

  Judging by the traffic being redirected and the proliferation of flashing blue lights in the misty distance, that was exactly what was happening. We crossed the High Street, having to wait a little while, and, anticipating that pedestrians would also be prevented from proceeding, cut down a side street almost directly opposite. This brought us out in a road parallel to the one we had just crossed where Patrick paused, listening. All I could hear was traffic.

  ‘They must have gone in because they would have done that first,’ Patrick said in an undertone, turning left. ‘Keep close and watch out for any stray mobsters.’

  We saw no one except for a couple of drunks and a woman hurrying along, perhaps going home from a job in a pub or club. Coming to a narrow gap between buildings, Patrick stopped again, sniffing the air.

  ‘Chinese cooking,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Rather good, too.’

  He moved off but I remained where I was and, after a few steps, sensing that I was no longer with him, he turned. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Patrick, I’ve just had this crazy notion that there was nothing wrong with your meal last night.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t.’

  ‘But didn’t the Peters woman see and recognize you?’

  ‘No. After I’d caught a glimpse of her on the way in I sat with my back to the bar.’

  ‘You pretended you were drunk, doped, whatever?’ I exclaimed in a kind of shrieked whisper.

  ‘How else was I going to get Janice to raid the place?’

  Bloody hell.

  The little lane wove this way and that and housed the usual bins, rubbish and other detritus. We finally came to two police officers stationed by a pair of doors that had been forced, the cooking smells gusting from a large louvered vent nearby in the wall. Even in the dim illumination provided by a dirty light over the doors, it was impossible to tell whether this pair had been among those in the van due to all the gear they were loaded down with.

  ‘You can’t go any further
,’ one of them told us. ‘Police investigation.’

  ‘National Crime Agency,’ Patrick informed him. ‘I’m here as an official observer.’

  ‘May I see your ID, sir?’

  Patrick dug his wallet out of his pocket and waved the warrant under the man’s nose. ‘This lady’s my assistant. What’s going on?’

  ‘There seems to be some kind of stalemate.’

  ‘Has anyone left the premises through this back way since you arrived?’

  ‘No, and we positioned ourselves here before the rest went in, here and through the front.’

  ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Be very careful if you detain anyone. They might be.’

  And with that warning, Patrick went to the doors and gently pushed on the one that had suffered the most damage.

  ‘You shouldn’t go in!’ one of the men said fiercely, but under his breath.

  ‘I can hardly observe standing out here,’ was the equally quiet response.

  We went in. It was dark inside but I could just hear distant voices.

  Thinking, I’m sure, that as we could see nothing, not even a glimmer of light, there must be at least one door between us and what was happening, Patrick switched on his tiny torch. This revealed large cardboard boxes, spare chairs and so forth untidily stacked everywhere: a store room. Taking great care not to dislodge anything, we made our way across the room, which appeared to be around fifteen feet square, towards a door on the far side. I noticed that Patrick had not drawn his Glock, something he would have done normally under such circumstances. My Smith and Wesson was in my hand, in my pocket.

  ‘Hide!’ Patrick suddenly hissed.

  Moments later, the door burst open and light flooded in. From my prone position behind a stack of boxes I saw several regulation boots go by through a small gap at floor level. Judging by the noise they were making they went right out into the street.

  ‘Anyone come this way?’ a woman’s voice, not Janice’s, demanded to know.

  ‘Only a couple from the NCA,’ was the reply. ‘We checked – they’re on the line.’

  ‘We haven’t seen them.’

  ‘Probably changed their minds and went out another way. No sign of the boss?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How the hell did you manage to screw that one up? How can you lose track of a DI?’

  ‘Apparently she was giving orders outside one minute and disappeared the next.’

  The trio – I counted six boots – returned and left the storeroom. I waited for a few seconds and then, hearing movement from Patrick, emerged. They had left the door ajar.

  ‘They’ve lost Janice?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘I have a very nasty feeling about this,’ Patrick muttered. ‘Time to stop hiding.’

  We went through the doorway into a short corridor. To the left was the kitchen where around a dozen frightened Chinese, some in chef’s whites, the rest obviously waiters, had been herded into a corner and were being watched over by a single police officer. He had his back to us and didn’t notice our presence. Noting this, Patrick went back to the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket.

  The corridor opened out into the restaurant. It was an assault to the eyes: scarlet, gold, dragons, tassels, gongs, fountains, the lot. There were plenty of people here, and several uniformed police grouped around six or seven sullen-looking individuals I immediately tagged as ‘yobs’. On the other side of the room were a few couples who were probably customers, again in a corner, who looked as though they were mumbling their grievances about their ruined evening to one another. As we walked forward three men, I guessed CID officers, came down a wide staircase, followed by five members of an armed support group carrying semi-automatic machine guns.

  ‘Who are you?’ enquired the man who was walking slightly in front of the others, stopping in his tracks as he reached floor level.

  ‘Gillard,’ Patrick answered. ‘NCA. Who are you?’

  ‘DS Holberton. In the absence of the DI I’m in charge.’

  ‘Where is DI North?’

  ‘We don’t know. She must have disappeared seconds after she gave the order to enter the building.’

  ‘Have you searched upstairs?’

  ‘There’s a problem: I’m worried that she’s being held up there.’

  ‘How would anyone have got her upstairs without you seeing what was happening?’

  ‘There might be other entrances.’

  Visibly, Patrick clung on to his temper. ‘What’s up there?’

  ‘More seating, three doors off, no sign of anyone.’

  We went closer to enable the conversation to take place quietly.

  Patrick asked, ‘Did you go into the rooms?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have done.’ Softly, Patrick continued, ‘DS Holberton, have you had any experience of this kind of thing?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘I have. Would you be offended if I offered a little advice?’

  ‘I’ll use it if I think it’s useful.’

  ‘Good man. First of all, go and talk to those henchmen over there and see if anyone’s willing to help the law in exchange for a sympathetic hearing at the nick.’

  Holberton hesitated for a moment then went across. We shadowed him, but gave him room to move. It soon became obvious that one of the six men was endeavouring to conceal himself behind the man standing next to him.

  ‘I know that man,’ Patrick said to Holberton. ‘I suggest you talk to him first.’

  ‘Bring him out,’ the DS ordered. ‘As you know him you’d better talk to him, Gillard.’

  This individual manifestly did not want to talk to anybody.

  ‘Will, old son,’ Patrick said chummily. ‘Remember the last time we met and some pals of yours were trying to gun us down in a garage in East London?’

  ‘No,’ said Will Gibbs.

  ‘In fact, we wrote down your surname. Gibbs, wasn’t it?’

  No reaction.

  With a little bit of mime asking for permission to take Will aside, Patrick, without waiting for any kind of reaction, led the man away over to a window recess. I tagged along.

  ‘Listen,’ he was saying in an undertone as I caught up, ‘the DI appears to have gone missing. If you tell me where she’s likely to be I shall look upon you most favourably and put in good words on your behalf. Is she anywhere upstairs?’

  The man licked his lips nervously. ‘And if I don’t talk?’

  ‘I don’t like being shot at. I shall find you, even if you’re sent to prison for twenty years after this fiasco of yours, and wring your bloody neck.’

  ‘Fiasco?’ Gibbs said, puzzled. He had probably been brought to mind of a shot being put into the ground an inch or so from his toes.

  ‘Fiasco. It means a total cock-up. We know who all those in charge are. Jinty O’Connor for a start – and I really do owe him – plus a woman who’s been calling herself Anne Peters. They’ve left a trail of murders behind them – killings that yobs for hire like you will get the blame for. Where’s the DI?’

  Will was shredding his lips with stained teeth now.

  ‘Is she upstairs?’

  ‘No,’ was the muttered reply.

  Patrick swung round. ‘Storm those rooms upstairs!’

  Holberton and the armed contingent thundered off.

  Patrick turned his attention back to Gibbs. ‘Where then?’

  ‘You will put in a word for me, won’t you? I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘It was a plan they made at the last minute – someone saw the police coming. Watch for the one who gives orders, they said, grab them and use whoever it is as a hostage. God knows why they thought it would achieve anything – O’Connor’s mad.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘They’ll be waiting in a car somewhere – until the fuss dies down.’

  ‘What sort of car?’

  ‘Peters’s car. It�
�s a silver Jag.’

  ‘Is O’Connor with them?’

  ‘I haven’t clapped eyes on him in weeks.’

  ‘So who’s “they”?’

  ‘Her and her boyfriend. Don’t know his name. He doesn’t speak to the likes of me.’

  Patrick clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘All sorted,’ he said to me cheerily, making sure those around could hear, and then jerked his head in the direction we had entered.

  When we were walking back along the lane at the rear and had past the two standing guard who were trying to look vigilant, Patrick said, ‘My prime aim is to make sure the DI isn’t harmed. But nothing is certain. First, though, we must locate this vehicle.’ In the light from a street lamp in the nearby road, he turned. ‘If we’d brought the cavalry there may have been a nasty stand-off with Janice getting shot out of sheer spite or by accident.’

  I reckoned there were still far too many ‘mights’ and ‘maybes’.

  ‘Nothing’s certain in war,’ Patrick added, as if guessing my thoughts.

  TWELVE

  A group of young men, together with a few other people, were hanging around at the junction with the High Street, watching what was going on. Not much was. They gave every appearance of being law-abiding, and when Patrick appeared in their midst looked rather alarmed.

  ‘Undercover cops,’ he said very quietly to them. ‘We’re looking for a silver Jag. Seen one?’

  They hadn’t.

  ‘May we borrow a couple of your baseball caps? I promise you’ll get them back.’

  Very reluctantly, two were handed over.

  ‘We’ll still look like cops in these blue outfits,’ I mumbled as we were walking away.

  ‘No, put it on back to front, like the lads did.’

  ‘Where to?’ I asked, removing it and ramming it backwards on my head – it was too big for me and smelt of greasy takeaways, but there was no time to make adjustments or be fussy.

  ‘The car park we came through. The likelihood of the Jag being there depends on whether Peters was acting a bit thick when she came to the rectory, or if she really is.’

  ‘The oracle says she has plenty of native cunning but isn’t all that intelligent.’

  ‘My feelings precisely.’