Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(65)
‘What do you think?’ Stevenson said.
Dawn pulled up just sufficiently ahead of the Saab to block any attempt to drive away.
Both officers got out of the car.
While Stevenson went around the rear of the Saab and on to the pavement, Dawn knocked on the driver’s window and motioned for him to wind it down.
Stevenson shone his torch from the other side: four faces, young and white, blinking away from the light, heads down, avoiding his eyes.
‘Now I need you,’ Dawn was telling the driver, ‘to step out of the car.’
No movement.
‘That would be now.’
He swore not quite beneath his breath, loud enough for her to hear, and, with all the disdain he could muster, did as he was told. Early twenties, Dawn thought, if that. Dark hair, curling up against the collar of his leather jacket, perhaps unfashionably long. Not bad-looking, she could see that; a fit-looking bloke and no mistake, but too young. Too young for her, at any rate.
‘Driving licence,’ she said. ‘Any other identification.’
‘What for?’
‘Licence, don’t argue.’
‘We weren’t doin’ nothin’, just talkin’.’
‘Just do as I say.’
His eyes caught hers, decision made. Flung out an arm, catching her high across the face, as he turned and started to run.
Dawn thrust out a leg, tripping him so that he fell, half-fell against the bonnet of the car, rolling awkwardly away, one hand pushing up from the ground till she brought her baton down hard against the bone, the elbow, the crack clear and loud and lost in his scream as she struck him again, a full swing down against the top of his shoulder, the reverberation jarring her own arm, making her fingers tingle.
The moment the driver had tried to make off, all three passengers had bolted from the car, the near-side door slamming against Richie Stevenson’s legs and sending him stumbling back against the privet hedge; Stevenson recovering quickly enough to give chase and bring down the slowest of the runaways with a rugby tackle that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Twickenham or Murrayfield, even if it did tear his trouser leg against the edge of the kerb and badly graze both knees.
‘Okay, you little shit. You’re nicked.’ Just like Life on Mars.
Hugo French stood in the doorway, still with his dressing gown over his pyjamas, soft slippers on his feet. He’d never imagined the police would respond as speedily as they had, half-prepared to be fobbed off with some excuse or other when he’d phoned, but pleased now that he’d gone ahead and everything had panned out the way it seemingly had. A little excitement no bad thing, he supposed, straightening his back automatically as the female officer made her way towards him, the young oaf that she’d dealt with so competently now handcuffed in the back of the police car and, from the sound of it, reinforcements on the way.
Memory not what it was, he’d taken the precaution of jotting down a few things on a scrap of paper, what he’d heard and seen. You never know, he might even be called on to give evidence somewhere down the line. Now wouldn’t that be something, name in the local paper he’d not be surprised. Mary would have liked that, in her quiet way been proud. Not that she’d have said.
‘Mr French?’
He held out his hand.
41
There were more beggars on the street now, Karen thought, as she made her way to work, several sitting crouched up against the walls outside the Tube. Earlier in the year it had been two, then four, then five; this morning, between the edge of Highbury Fields and the station, she’d passed half a dozen. Two women, one of them little more, seemingly, than a girl; four men. Three of the men with mangy dogs beside them, bristle-mouthed, whippet thin, all sheltering, as best they could, from the rain.
Inside the forecourt, two more men, collecting for charity, stood shaking buckets at the incoming travellers: flood disasters here, AIDS sufferers there, poor and disabled everywhere.
Karen fished into her purse for stray coins, slapped her Oyster card down on the reader and joined the throng. The train was crowded, people standing cheek by jowl, but by some good fortune she managed to squeeze into a seat. A few minutes along, they slowed to a halt. Due to a signal failure at King’s Cross, they were being held in a queue. Mutual groans, shaking of heads. The last time this had happened, it had been a good thirty minutes before they moved. No signal that far underground, there was no sense in trying to phone ahead, warning she’d be late. With a scowl, she reached her book from her bag.
Tim Costello was waiting at her office door when she arrived, sporting a new jacket in industrial denim from somewhere like G-Star – a couple of hundred at least, Karen guessed, plus change. Someone with money enough to spare.
‘Want my opinion?’ Karen said, treating him to a quick up-and-down. ‘A little short, maybe, in the sleeves.’
Costello, bless him, essayed a faint blush. ‘This guy,’ he said, ‘Brendan Cullen, brought in a couple of nights back, Kentish Town. Doing smack off the roof of his car right under a bloody street light, if you can believe that.’
‘I can believe anything. But what’s it got to do with us?’
‘When they searched the car they found a 9mm Glock and ammo in the boot, hidden beneath the spare. Intel reckon it’s the one used at Woodford. Double-checking now.’