Hard Place (26 page)

Then came the sound of the Merc’s engine roaring as it accelerated to blockade the drive. The Transit had barely travelled fifteen meters when Ratso saw the lights of the Mercedes appear and screech to a stop. He saw armed officers creating a cordon with two of them positioned between the people carrier and the front of the advancing Transit, their shotguns loaded with Hatton rounds, ideal for shooting out tires. The air was now filled with shouts of “Armed police,” mixed with the revving from the vehicle engines and a constant wailing of sirens. As swiftly as he could within the cover of the bushes, Ratso moved closer to the gate, intending to get in behind the Transit to provide cover should any occupant try to leap out.

Ratso could imagine the earthy language and panic in the van at the sudden change of events. What would Danny do? Surrender? Not his style. Open fire? Maybe.

Whatever Danny ordered, the driver suddenly responded by pressing his foot down, gravel spraying out around the tires. The Transit lurched forward between the brick pillars, slamming the front nearside of the Mercedes, the crunching and tearing of metal adding to the confusion of noise. Ratso hoped the two officers carrying shotguns had managed to jump clear. So far they had not fired.

Ratso edged as close as he dared to the entrance on the driver’s side. For a second, from between the foliage, he had seen the profile of the man at the wheel, a look of snarling determination on his face as he had accelerated. Now Ratso brushed aside the greenery, planning to position himself behind the Transit. A glance right showed that the van had failed to shift the front of the Mercedes enough to squeeze between the vehicle and the pillar holding the gate. At that second, a shot rang out, almost certainly of a Hatton round. He heard it smash into the metal of the van rather than thud into the tire as intended.

Ratso felt exposed, fearful of being caught by a ricochet if another round or two were fired but he was determined to open the rear doors of the van.

He edged forward onto the gravel just as the Transit’s reversing lights came on. Too late, Ratso realised that Danny Hogan must have ordered a retreat. The van roared straight back. Standing just four paces behind it, he had no chance of escape, had barely started to run when the rear offside corner struck him, knocking him to the ground just clear of the violently spinning wheels. Stones flew everywhere as the driver raced back a couple more meters before slamming the Transit into forward gear. Ratso rolled off the gravel and lay prone as the blue van thundered past him again.

He heard cursing from inside the van, mixed with shouting from the TFU team as they surrounded the exit. A shot rang out, then another. Ratso knew Hogan sometimes preferred a sawn-off shotgun and that’s what it had sounded like. In his earpiece, Ratso immediately heard “Shots fired!” Hogan had made clear there would be no easy surrender.

As he started to raise his head, another shot rang out but from where and in what direction, Ratso could not tell. The van slammed into the Mercedes even harder the second time. This time the driver had struck the Transit into the lighter back end of the Mercedes. Good thinking, Danny. The noise of breaking glass and torn metal filled the air. The impact had pushed the people carrier sideways, leaving just enough room for the Transit to squeeze by. With a roar of acceleration, it started to race away when there was another shot, which Ratso reckoned was another Hatton round. This time, there was no metallic clang; he hoped that one of the tires had been shredded. If it even made it to the roadblock, the stinger would do the rest. The second Mercedes, filled with another six officers, sped away in pursuit.

At first, Ratso had assumed his injuries were nothing serious, the type of blow any sportsman would quickly shrug off. In the heat of the moment, nothing seemed to matter but catching the gang but now with the action moving on, he realised as he tried to stand that he could not. Instead, he slumped down awkwardly by the verge. As he lay there, Graeme Uden appeared and looked down at him. “You okay?”

“Slight knock. I’ll be fine. You go on. Catch the bastards.”

He heard Uden call for the ambulance that had been on standby. After he had hurried away, Ratso again lifted himself to his knees but rising was impossible as a searing pain ripped through him. Must be worse than I thought, he concluded as he lay still, awaiting help. Then from somewhere quite close by came a moan. He could see nothing but it had to be one of the TFU team.

“I’m coming, mate,” Ratso called out. Uden had obviously been unaware of the officer down, so the man must be off the drive somewhere. In the pitch blackness and ignoring what he now assumed was a dead leg from the Transit slamming into his thigh, Ratso dragged himself forward, clawing his way slowly over the stones.

Almost before he had crossed the gateway, he heard what he took to be the siren of an approaching ambulance. Teeth gritted, he forced himself to go on into the shrubbery on the other side. Again he heard an agonisingly deep groan out of the dark just ahead of him. It spurred him on. From somewhere came another volley of gunshots and more shouting. Danny Hogan was not going quietly.

Silent night, holy night.

The words haunted Ratso as he peered into the dank shrubbery. He struggled forward, his left leg useless and dragging behind him. At last he was onto the soft moss, damp twigs and wet earth under the shrubs. At that moment, the ambulance pulled up outside, the blue lights flashing across the dark green trees. It was then that he saw a slumped figure lying beneath a giant conifer, staring up at the sky. His gun lay useless near his right hand. He felt the wetness of lost blood close to the man’s head. “Hold up, mate. You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is here.” He could now hear the laboured breathing followed by a chilling moan. He clasped the officer’s hand and squeezed. “I’m with you mate. Speak to me, speak to …” Ratso suddenly found he could not finish the sentence as confusion racked his body and his brain blacked out.

Brighton & Hove, Sussex, England

It was late afternoon on Christmas Day before Ratso started fully to understand where he was and why. Having been admitted to the A&E Department at the Royal Sussex County Hospital on Eastern Road in Brighton, he gradually became aware that he was in a private room with an officer outside the door. His mouth was dry and his throat felt swollen, as if someone had forcibly shoved a large cucumber down it. He could not see the rest of his body, nor be sure what was still part of him and in what condition.

A nurse came in and wished him merry Christmas with the news that sorry, he had missed out on the turkey and trimmings over five hours before. Somehow he was able to mutter that at least he’d be able to catch a repeat of Morecambe and Wise on peak-time TV. Ratso was unsure whether he really cared about the turkey and Christmas pudding anyway. His head was pounding and his whole body seemed to ache. “Now you’re awake,” the cheerful-looking nurse continued, “I’ll get Dr. Hudson to drop by.”

In the next few minutes, Ratso tried to work out what he could remember of the previous evening. The nurse returned with a young doctor, who pulled up a chair to seat himself close to Ratso. “How are you feeling Mr Holtom?”

“I’m not sure which parts hurt the most.” Ratso tried to turn his head to look at the doctor but found he could not.

“You’ve been heavily sedated. Overnight, you’ve had a naso-gastric tube from your nose to the stomach but that was taken out a short while ago. Your neck is in a collar, just a precaution.”

“I’m not paralysed, am I?”

The doctor leaned forward. “You are one lucky man.”

“Well thanks for that but it doesn’t exactly feel that way. As far as I remember, I was struck on my thigh. Got a dead leg.”

“Yes, you certainly had that. When you see your thigh, you’ll find it black and blue. But that wasn’t the problem. A dead leg, as you call it, soon recovers. When you were brought in, you were pretty much out of it and nobody had seen what happened to you. It’s easier if we know what happened.”

Ratso tried unsuccessfully to change position. “So?”

“The A&E team checked pretty much everything. That’s why you are in a neck collar, just in case of any injury there. But their thoroughness revealed the problem.”

“I was struck by a Ford Transit when it suddenly reversed into me.”

Dr. Hudson looked thoughtful. “That figures. You received a severe injury to your spleen. There was massive internal bleeding that the A&E doctor fortunately picked up.” He stared at Ratso hard. “I was called in to decide what should be done. I’m sorry to say your spleen was damaged beyond repair. I had to carry out a splenectomy—remove it. Sometimes we can repair it but not this time.”

“Is that … very bad?”

The doctor shook his head. “Your life will continue pretty well without it. You’re more vulnerable to bacterial infections but don’t lose sleep over that.”

“Can I have some water, please? My throat’s giving out.” The young nurse tilted a small quantity of water into his mouth. It tasted like nectar, soothing the burning pain that made swallowing agony. “Oh God! I remember now. There was another person I was trying to help. I found him under a tree. Is he okay?”

“That’s where the ambulance crew found you, lying flat-out unconscious beside him.”

Ratso felt responsible for whatever had gone wrong. “Did he make it?”

“He’s fine. Better shape than you. He was struck by a bullet in the chest from point-blank range but his ceramic plating saved him.”

“But he was unable to speak, as I recall.”

Dr Hudson smiled knowingly. “The impact knocked him backward. He hit his head on the trunk of a tree. That pretty much put him out. The ambulance crew reported he was drifting in and out of consciousness. You though were out cold.”

“I’m glad for him. Danny Hogan’s a right bastard. He’d have shot to kill given the chance. When do I get released?”

“We’ll decide tomorrow. We need to keep you under observation.” He paused as the nurse checked Ratso’s blood pressure.

“And the gang? Did you hear?”

“All arrested at the roadblock. Two gunmen were slightly injured trying to make a run for it. A load of shots fired but no other police had to be admitted.”

Despite the throbbing in his head, Ratso managed to nod just slightly.

“We can get some food sent in anytime if you wish.” Ratso declined but instead requested his phone to make a few calls. The doctor looked reluctant but before he could protest there was a tap on the door and Wensley Hughes’ head appeared. To Ratso, lying flat out, he looked enormously lean and tall until he sat beside the bed. He introduced himself to Dr Hudson, who excused himself for the moment.

The AC said nothing till both doctor and nurse had left. “Great job. Merry Christmas, too.” He handed over what was obviously a bottle in a red bag with cord handles. “That’s for another day. Anyway, how are you feeling?”

“Glad you came, sir. Good of you to spoil your Christmas Day for me.”

“Truth be told, I’m quite glad to escape the in-laws for a few hours. My wife’s sister never stops talking.”

“That would do anybody’s head in.”

“Congratulations. I’ve spoken to Chief Inspector Uden and to the assistant chief constable. Everybody’s well pleased. Shame two of you were injured but with Hogan’s mob all armed, it could have been a great deal worse.”

“Uden did a good job.”

“Maybe but your two-pronged plan worked a dream … and we nabbed Jerry Hogan in Merton before he had a chance to empty his Christmas stocking. Sgt Watson has been busy.” Ratso managed a quiet smile at the thought of the overtime Tosh would be receiving. “We also recovered thirty-two kilos of cocaine from the safe and a load more.” Hughes leaned forward and rested his hand on Ratso’s left shoulder. “Besides that, I read the report. The other prong of your plan worked a charm.”

“Has Tare’s house been searched yet?” Ratso wanted to relive every moment of it but now was not the moment.

“Before we get to that, Todd, I want to repeat that your plan was first-class.”

“Thanks. We were lucky. So much could have gone wrong.”

Hughes’ tone was dismissive. “No plan is foolproof. But this one worked exceptionally well. It cut through the problems. Razor sharp.” He leaned forward again and clasped Ratso’s arm. “It may be time for you to put in for promotion. Think about it.”

Ratso nodded appreciatively. “And the search?”

“Besides more drugs stashed away, nothing useful found yet. Your two sergeants, Strang and Watson, are coming down to go over the place with a full team. I’ve no problem with Watson working in the house.”

“Sir, I’d like to be there.”

“That’s for the doctors, not me.”

“The important thing is Tare’s contacts. Of course we want to nail the riff-raff pushers but we must identify who controls and supplies Tare.” He lay silent, exhausted by talking and frustrated at being out of the loop. After a long silence during which Hughes went to the window and then returned to the chair, Ratso spoke again. “Sir, you remember the initials of the mystery man are probably JF. I had an idea I need to check online.”

“The bed rest and sedation has done you good, then.” Wensley Hughes’ chuckle was deep and mellow.

Ratso tried to laugh along but the pain made it short-lived. “It came to me when I was hidden in the bushes.”

He saw the AC fumble in his pocket and produce his Blackberry. “What was your idea?”

“Arkwright, Fenwick and Stubbs. The brothers are Terry and Adrian but I want to know Adrian’s full name.”

Hughes set to work at once scrolling through pages of fodder before he found the simple web page for the firm. “Adrian Fenwick. That’s all.”

Ratso was disappointed. “Two brothers dividing the role as Zandro’s sidekicks makes huge sense. Nothing we’ve established from watching Terry links him with any other key figure. Observations this past week have shown zilch out of the ordinary. Superficially, Terry Fenwick is a boring man with a predictable lifestyle. But he must communicate with Zandro somehow. We need to look at his business partners, the people he sees daily.” The two men sat in silence for a few moments. “I’ve an idea, sir. Suppose Adrian Fenwick is not his full name. It could be he just chooses to be known as Adrian.”

Hughes started tapping away, his thin fingers nimbly flitting over the keys. “I’m checking the Law Society—the Roll of Solicitors.” Ratso watched impatiently, frustrated that he could do nothing. “You wanted a letter J, did you say?” Hughes looked up. “What about Adrian Julian Fenwick, then?” The AC suddenly looked even younger than usual, his eyes twinkling in pleasure.

“There’s millions of JFs but I’d bet he’s our man. It fits so neatly. Yet he doesn’t use the name Julian publicly as a solicitor. Can you get someone working on his birth certificate, sir?”

The AC scribbled a note. “Anything else?”

“The shipyard. Any news? Bob Whewell from the IMB warned me yesterday that his information was the Nomora is cleared to sail any time.”

Hughes smiled. “The ship can’t sail without us knowing. We can track every move.”

“But the bridge? Micky Quigley’s cabin? Did someone get aboard and get the bugs placed?”

“Not possible.” Hughes helped himself to an apple before continuing. “If that’s what those boys say, you can stake your life there was no chance.”

Ratso could only agree but he still looked disappointed. “I was supposed to be phoning someone about seeing her over Christmas. She won’t know where I am or what’s happened.”

“Neil Shalford’s woman, eh?” The words were accompanied by a sly grin that grew bigger when Hughes saw the defensive look on Ratso’s face. “Planning to comfort her again, were you?” He got no denial. “I’m glad to see that good old-fashioned chivalry isn’t dead.” He grinned again. “What’s her number?”

There was a pause. “No idea, sir. I need my own phone for that.” He also wanted to call Kirsty-Ann but he was not volunteering that.

“I’ll make sure you get it before I leave.” Ratso watched the tall figure stretch, his fingers nearly touching the ceiling. “I must be off. We’re playing charades tonight—a Christmas tradition in the wife’s family.” Hughes pulled a face that spread to Ratso’s.

“And my phone, please.” Even as he said it, he wondered how it would be when he got through to Charlene and Kirsty-Ann. Very different reactions, he guessed.