Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(91)

‘And what if you meet Lesley?’ I asked.

‘Then that will be one less problem to worry about, won’t it?’ she said.

‘Make sure she fucking wears her Metvest,’ said Gold leader when we outlined the plan.

Stephanopoulos, who claimed to have stashed her Metvest in her wife’s henhouse the day she made inspector, nonetheless promised not to get stabbed. I donned my magic hoody and dashed around through the hospital grounds so I could loiter suspiciously on the corner of Little Britain and keep the entrance ramp in view.

It was a bright day with scattered clouds and the air was still and warm. Stephanopoulos wore the jacket over one shoulder to sell the illusion, and to disguise the fact that it was too small for her. And to hide the X26 taser she was carrying in her left hand.

I still couldn’t see the van but I knew its exact position halfway down the ramp. I reckoned if I vaulted the safety rail further up, where the drop was less than a metre, I could get there in less than twenty seconds.

‘I’m approaching the van,’ said Stephanopoulos.

I’ve been told that in the old days undercover officers had to try and disguise the fact that they were using a radio. But now you just wear headphones and carry a phone in your hand. This explains why the next thing she said was, ‘Just as long as we don’t have asparagus again.’ A pause. ‘Because I hate asparagus.’

‘I’ve always said you were wasted on the police,’ said Seawoll.

‘I’m having a look through the front window,’ said Stephanopoulos in a low voice. ‘I can see something in the back and she’s sitting low on her suspension.’ And then much louder, ‘How many times do I have to tell you: the goat is not allowed in the house.’

Nightingale told me to saunter up the entrance to the ramp while he went to the top of the pedestrian access stairs on the other side of the park, so he could cover Stephanopoulos’ exit.

I was halfway across the road when a spotter reported that a mint coloured Fiesta was heading up Long Lane and was indicating for a left turn – meaning it might be heading for the car park. I said I’d keep an eye out.

I was almost across when Stephanopoulos said, ‘Oh shit. Chorley just came out of the underground bit.’

There was a bit of loud breathing and then Stephanopoulos said she was hidden behind a different van but she could probably get a shot with her taser as Chorley went past.

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Nightingale.

‘Wait for him to pass and get the fuck out of the way,’ said Seawoll.

‘Peter,’ said Nightingale, ‘turn the car away.’

I looked over and saw the Fiesta, mint coloured as advertised, turning out of Long Lane and making an obvious beeline for the entrance at the top of the ramp. I stepped quickly out in front of it and held up my hand in that gesture all police hope is authoritative enough to halt over a tonne of moving metal.

The trick is to always be ready to dive out of the way.

The driver was a white woman in her mid-twenties; white blouse, lightweight navy suit jacket, brown hair.

I made a friendly fending-off gesture, but the woman’s expression gave her away.

I’d know that look of exasperation anywhere – even when it’s not on the right face.

‘Lesley’s in the Fiesta,’ I said over the Airwave.

She’d been slowing to negotiate the ramp, but as soon as she saw me Lesley floored it. I threw a car killer into the bonnet and the engine died. But she had too much momentum and I had to vault the safety rail to avoid getting run down.

‘Pillock!’ I heard her shouting as she went past.

I made what they call a tactical assessment.

I could see the van a third of the way around and down the ramp. Because the ramp formed almost a complete circle I had sight of Nightingale to my right as he went for the pedestrian staircase less than forty metres away. I watched as he jumped over the railing and dropped down onto one of the landings below. I decided that my job, as usual, was Lesley, and took after the Fiesta as it rolled down the ramp.

The ramp was built for carriages and drays drawn by huge Clydesdale draught horses, and so was cobbled for traction and maximum tripping and leg-breaking potential. Still, I went flat out on the basis that I really didn’t want to be tag-teamed by Lesley and Chorley together.

I was good enough by then to throw car killers about without sanding my Airwave, so I was still online to hear one of the spotters yell something unintelligible and Seawoll order the containment teams to set up a safety perimeter. This was the appropriate Falcon response plan in action – the TSG keeps the public out of harm’s way while we lucky few go toe to toe with the Faceless Man.

And not forgetting his sidekick – the mutable Lesley.

The Fiesta pulled up by the van and Lesley tumbled out, still wearing her fake face.

She pulled her hand back into a fist when she saw me, but I was already casting a nice reliable impello palma even as I closed the distance between us. The spell knocked her on her back, but she rolled, did something that I didn’t recognise, and a viciously bright flash in front of my face blinded me. I went crashing down to the cobbles. All I could see was a bruise-coloured blotch in front of my eyes. But, figuring that lying on the cobbles was not conducive to my health, I scrambled off to my right where I knew there were parked cars. After banging my face on somebody’s hatchback, I found the gap between cars and slotted myself in.