“The family in number 25 refuse to leave, sir.”
Allen’s voice rose.” Refuse? Who said they had a choice? Get them out. I don’t care how, but get them out.”
Ingram delegated this task to a uniformed constable, then looked up as a police car, flanked by two police motorbikes, screeched up with the rifles and handguns from County HQ armoury.
“Right, Sergeant. Issue the guns,” ordered Allen. “And make sure our marksmen are positioned exactly where I indicated. And emphasize that they are not, repeat not, to fire a single round unless they have my explicit authorisation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Ingram. He handed out the Smith and Wesson specials to the five police marksmen, keeping a Ruger. 222 rifle for himself. Ammunition was carefully counted out, allocated, and signed for. He made sure they all knew their locations, repeated Allen’s instructions, then sent them out to take up position.
Ingram’s own position was in the top room of a house across the street. From this vantage point his telescopic sight could shrink the distance across the road and the garden and let him look directly into the top back room of number 57, where Eustace was holding his hostages.
Allen had arranged for the street lamps to be turned off and for batteries of spot lamps to be directed to the back of the hostage house. If Eustace looked out he would only be able to see the blinding glare and the darkness beyond. He checked with his radio that the marksmen were all in position and again reminded them they were only to fire on his express command.
He turned his head impatiently as a black van edged its way along the cleared side street. The uniformed man whose job it was to turn back traffic had waved the van on. Didn’t the fool have the sense to check with him first? The van pulled in to the kerb and an officious looking swine strode out. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” snapped Allen. “Who are you?”
“Detective Inspector Emms, Communications. What’s the situation?”
“The situation,” said Allen, ‘is that we have a police killer armed with a shotgun holding a woman and two children hostage in the top back room of that house over there. He’s threatening to kill them all if we don’t meet his demands — a Concorde to take him to Rio or some such rubbish.”
“Have you made contact with him?”
“Only through the loud hailer. He won’t let us get near.”
“You’ve got to make voice contact,” said Emms. “You’ve got to establish rapport.”
“You’re not teaching a bunch of bloody rookies,” snarled Allen. “I know what we ought to do. At the moment we can’t do it.”
Emms looked up to trace the direction of the overhead phone lines. “There’s a phone in the house. I can wire you into it. If he picks up the receiver, he’ll be directly through to you.”
“The phone is downstairs. Our man is upstairs. I can’t see him trotting down just to see who’s ringing him, but wire it in anyway.”
“Right,” said Emms, pleased to have the chance to show off his expertise. He disappeared into the back of his van.
Allen’s walkie-talkie paged him. “Reporter from the Denton Echo would like to talk to you, Inspector.” Allen’s first thought was to tell the man to go to hell, but, on reflection, it wouldn’t do him any harm to get his name in the papers. “Send him over,” he said.
The communications expert emerged from the van. In his hand he held a telephone on a long length of cable which trailed behind him. “It’s ringing,” he announced proudly, offering the handset to Allen.
“When I want you to ring him, I’ll bloody well tell you,” said Allen, snatching the phone. He listened. The ringing tone, on and on and on. He looked for someone to take the phone over. “You… Constable!”
PC Collier came forward. Allen pushed the phone at him. “Listen to this. It’s ringing in the house. I don’t suppose he’ll answer, but if he does, keep him talking and let me know immediately.”
A man in a duffle coat ran down the street toward him. “Mr. Allen? My name’s Lane chief reporter Denton Echo. What’s the story?”
“The man with the gun is Eustace, Stanley Eustace, but I don’t want his name published. There are other, more serious, charges pending.”
The reporter lifted his pencil from the page. “What charges?”
“Strictly off the record, Mr. Lane, the charge will be the murder of Police Constable David Shelby, but that is not for publication at this stage.”
Lane nodded. Nothing linking the armed man with any other of fences could be printed as it could prejudice the chances of a fair trial. “Who are the hostages?”
“Mrs. Mary Bright, thirty-four, separated from her husband, and her two children, Bobby, seven, and Scott, eight.” Allen looked over Lane’s shoulder to Collier, still holding the phone tightly to his ear. “We’ve got a direct line through to the house. It’s ringing, but he won’t answer. I’ll try the loud hailer again in a minute.”
Allen squinted as car headlights hit his face and another car pulled up. Parley Street was starting to look like a public car park. He was about to yell for it to be moved on when he saw Mullett climbing out.
Mullett marched briskly over. He nodded to Allen, then raised an inquiring eyebrow at the reporter.
“Mr. Lane, chief reporter, Demon Echo,” Allen told him.
Mullett clicked on his professional smile. “Mullett two Ts and two ‘t’s Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Demon Division.” While the reporter was writing that down he asked, “How do you intend to play this, Inspector?”
“As long as the hostages are in no danger, sir, we’re prepared to sit tight and hang it out. We hope to commence a dialogue with Eustace soon, when I’ll try and get him to release the children. Our aim is for a peaceful conclusion.” Allen said this loudly for the reporter’s benefit and was pleased to see his words being taken down verbatim.
“It might be better,” Mullett told the reporter, ‘if you put that down as if I had said it. It’s my directive, and Mr. Allen is acting in accordance with it.” Allen fumed inwardly.
“He’s still not answering the phone, Inspector,” said Collier, whose ear was starting to ache.
“Quiet everyone,” called Allen. “I’m going to try and make contact.” He thumbed the switch and raised the loud hailer to his mouth. His amplified, metallic voice reverberated over the back gardens. “Eustace. This is Detective Inspector Allen. I’d like to talk to you.”
From his vantage point in the opposite house, Ingram, squinting through the telescopic sight, saw movement inside the room. He clicked on his radio and reported to Allen. “He’s coming to the window, sir.”
A terrified woman was pushed to the window. She turned her head away from the blinding glare of the lights. Eustace was well behind her, his arm crooking her neck, the shotgun in his free hand. Ingram shifted the sight slightly to the left and the crosspiece was dead centre of Eustace’s forehead. “There’s enough showing, sir. I think I can get him.”
“No, Sergeant,” snapped Allen. “There will be no shooting. Confirm.”
“Confirmed, sir. No shooting.” Ingram sounded disappointed.
“Listen to me,” shouted Eustace in the darkness, his voice shaking. “I’m only going to say this once. You’ve got thirty minutes. I want a car with a full tank, I want it left outside, then you all piss off.”
“Release the woman and the kids, Stan, then we can talk about it.”
“No. They come with me. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
Allen took a chance. He raised the loud hailer to his mouth and, as he talked, started to walk toward the house. He wanted to be able to talk without shouting. The loud hailer was forming a barrier between them. “Do you want any food, Stan? We can have it sent in. In fact…” A shot blasted out and pellets splattered high on the far wall. The woman screamed. The children inside the room started crying.
“No farther, Mr. Allen. I’m cornered and I’m desperate and I’ve got nothing to lose. Just get me the car and stop ringing that bloody phone.”