I trotted over the raised section of the towpath and tucked myself in beside some bushes on the reverse slope, where I could keep an eye on the gate. Ahead, the two-storey-high brick and crinkly tin box of the supermarket stretched out along the towpath like a 1950s American caravan that had really let itself go. Its aluminium cladding managed to be an even duller grey than the sky. There was a scattering of uninspired tags sprayed on the walls, and I couldn’t help thinking that more graffiti could only improve its looks.
I glanced back at the bridge and was pleased to see that the armed response officers were hidden from view. Armed police tend to cause consternation when they turn up at anywhere that’s not an obvious terrorist target.
‘I have eyeball on both subjects,’ said Guleed over the radio. Oh, ‘they’ve got Island Delight.’ There was a pause. ‘It would be suspicious if I didn’t put things in my basket.’
‘Grab some biscuits, then,’ I said, because the stake-out bag in the Asbo was getting bare dry. And then I thought of the canal. ‘And some bananas.’
‘Fair trade or ordinary?’ said Guleed loudly, and then softer. ‘Heather is checking her purse – I think money must be short.’
It started to drizzle and I started to wish I’d worn my hoody over my kit. I looked over at the humpback bridge and saw Nightingale standing by the parapet. In his good suit. And he should have stood out, but with a city gent’s black umbrella unfurled over his head, he was strangely too incongruous to look out of place. A man gazing over the cemetery opposite and contemplating the infinite.
‘We’re in position,’ he said over the radio.
‘Good,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘We have all the access points covered – everybody needs to hold position until I say so. I don’t suppose Thomas has a plan for when they come back out.’
‘Assuming they return through the back gate,’ said Nightingale.
We probably should have set up Bronze, Silver and Gold command levels but since Nightingale would have been the obvious senior officer and we needed him to get up close and personal with the suspect, we opted to do without. This is what’s known as operational flexibility, and definitely not making it up as you go along.
‘When they emerge, and assuming that nobody else is in the way, we’ll let them walk ten feet or so in my direction before Peter leaves cover. Guleed takes position at the gate, joins Peter as he passes, Uniform 235 –’ the TSG mob in the car park – ‘move to create a perimeter, likewise Trojan One –’ the armed response officers – ‘stop up the towpath at the bridge end. When we’re ready, Peter calls out to get Francisca’s attention – while she’s distracted, I come down from my position and attempt to subdue her. Peter will assist me while Sahra captures Francisca’s friend.’
Everybody else would move in to secure the area.
We had contingency plans for if they didn’t come via the back gate, in which case we all pull back and let Guleed and some hastily de-uniformed TSG maintain surveillance until such time as they returned to the narrowboat.
But they came out the back gate and at first everything went according to plan.
‘Francisca, Heather!’ I called. ‘Wait up!’
Looking back, I think using Francisca’s name was probably a mistake. We learnt later that she’d hidden her real name from any casual acquaintances she and Heather had met on the journey down. Me knowing her name immediately marked me as official and/or potentially hostile.
Still, using people’s real names as a de-escalation tactic had been ingrained into me in training, and it’s such an obvious move. People hesitate when they hear their name – they take time to process whether or not you’re friend or foe. That’s the theory, anyway.
They’d been just where Nightingale had wanted them, beyond the stop-and-shop mooring and the tarnished silver bulk of the Sainsbury’s, and a couple of metres short of the steep climb to the top of the humpback bridge. I was three metres behind them, with Guleed a couple of metres behind me, doing a convincing ‘I’m an ordinary member of the public coming back from the shops’ impression. Helped by the Sainsbury’s bags she was carrying.
Heather and Francisca were dragging the – now obviously overstuffed – shopping trolley between them, each with one hand on the handle.
Francisca said something that made Heather laugh.
I called their names. Like I said – possibly a mistake.
They stopped and turned to look at me. Heather looked puzzled, but Francisca recognised me at once. She jumped forwards, lifting into the air and arching towards me as if she’d bounced off a trampoline. Obviously Caroline had not been the only practitioner to invent almost-flying.
As she flew towards me, wings of fire sprang from her back and white light blazed behind her head. Her face was contorted into an angry snarl and her eyes blazed – literally.
But I’ve been trained. Better, I’ve been trained by the man who held the rearguard at Ettersberg. And, practically without thought, I brought my staff up and raised a shield.
I felt the smooth rich honey hum of the staff as it gave up its power, but even so I staggered back when she collided with my shield. There was an almost comical look of surprise on her face, but then she scowled and the wings swept around to try and engulf me.
I shifted the focus of the shield, swinging it round and down like an invisible fly swatter. Francisca gave a satisfyingly un-angelic squawk as she was flipped onto her back. Light flared in her hand and suddenly the burning spear was there. The tip was too bright to look at, but even as Francisca used the butt to lever herself upright, I could see Nightingale closing the distance behind her.
She must have sensed him, because while she was still on her knees she swung the spear in an arc at my face.
The spear cut through my shield as if it wasn’t there. I desperately threw myself backwards, and even so the burning tip passed close enough for me to feel heat – real heat this time.
I fell onto my back and rolled – expecting the spear point to kill me any moment. But as I came up I saw Francisca had turned to engage Nightingale. He didn’t bother with a shield, but ducked under the wing aimed at him. His left hand thrust out and, with a sound like cloth being torn, a section of Francisca’s burning wing was wrenched loose.
She bellowed in pain, but didn’t even hesitate before whirling to swing her remaining wing at Nightingale. He dodged, but it was a feint and she thrust her spear at his chest. I saw him make a chopping motion with his left hand and the spear deflected down into the towpath. There was a bang and a geyser of pulverised concrete fountained out of the ground. Nightingale rolled to the side, perilously close to the edge of the canal.
Further up, I could see Guleed dragging Heather away. The woman was kicking and screaming, but Guleed was ignoring the blows landing around her face and shoulders. Her priority was to get the member of the public away from the mad fight in front of them. Two TSG officers were dashing down from the inlet bridge to help.
Francisca reared up and spread her wings – the damaged one repairing as I watched. But I didn’t watch too long. First I lobbed a glitter bomb at Francisca’s feet and popped a blinder in front of her face to distract her. She shrieked in pain as the lux variant went off like an industrial-strength flashbulb, and Nightingale used the distraction to shift away from the canal. The glitter bomb exploded in a rush of freezing air but Francisca seemed to dance over the shock wave, and I threw myself aside as a wing swept towards me. I saw her look over to where Guleed and the two TSG officers were bodily carrying her friend away.
She started towards them, but Nightingale cut her off. His shield splashed with fire as Francisca’s wings tried to bat him out of the way. She hesitated a moment, spear upraised, and then she turned and ran.