‘Boss, as I warned you, the situation has developed!’ Anakin said excitedly, half shouting.
‘Give me some details, Andy?’
He went out onto the landing and closed Bruno’s door.
‘That Liam Morrisey. He’s in his wife’s house in Hadden Avenue and he’s not coming out. He’s threatening to kill himself.’
‘Is his wife with him? Kerry, is that her name?’
‘Yes, Kerry. No, she got out, and has her two kids with her. She’s gone to her mother’s place in Hollingbury.’
‘So what exactly is the situation?’
‘Morrisey. Liam Morrisey. He’s in there and not coming out.’
Grace was rapidly thinking this through. ‘Morrisey’s in her house, on his own, no one else is in there — not his wife or kids?’
‘That’s right, Roy. Oh God, it’s a siege!’
‘Andy, just calm down, this is not a siege, OK?’
‘It is! He won’t come out. He’s locked himself inside and won’t come out.’
‘How does that make it a siege, Andy? Has he got a gun? Is he threatening to fire at your officers?’
‘No, chief, no threat — not yet, anyhow.’
‘So in what way, exactly, does this make it a siege?’
‘That’s what it is, Roy! He won’t come out, he’s locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy? I mean — what if he kills himself?’
‘I’ll have to take him off my Christmas card list.’
‘That’s really not funny.’
‘Listen to me very carefully, Andy. I want you to get the unit from the Public Order Team to go into the house. Can you see him?’
‘Yes-yes.’ Anakin’s voice was sounding even more tense. ‘I can see him, upstairs, looking out through the window!’
‘Right,’ Grace said, his patience running on empty. ‘This is what you are going to do. You’re going to put the front door in and show Liam Morrisey the back of a cell door within the next thirty minutes, do you understand?’
‘What do you mean, Roy? How, why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I’ll tell you exactly why, Andy, OK? You’re going to do it because I’m telling you to do it. This is our town, we’re the cops and tonight I’m the fucking sheriff.’
An hour later Grace was out in the garden, in the darkness, waiting for Humphrey to finish doing his business, when his job phone pinged with a text. He looked down at the screen. It was from Andy Anakin. The message was short and meek.
One in custody.
29
Tuesday 2 October
PC Holly Little, nicknamed the Pocket Rocket because of her small stature and cluttered kit of gadgets and protection that made her look like a walking machine, was partnered on B-Section with John Alldridge, a six-foot-four, eighteen-stone rugby forward, fondly known as the Gentle Giant. They were two hours into their shift, cruising around the city of Brighton and Hove, hunting as they called it. Windswept rain lashed down, which meant most of the city’s scrotes would be tucked away inside their lairs, staying dry. Good old PC Rain doing its stuff. Although it made for a boring morning for the two Response officers itching for some action.
All they’d had was a call to a domestic at the eastern end of the city in Kemp Town, which they had just left. Two gay women were slugging it out, but by the time they’d arrived at the scene there were already three other cars — with crews as bored as they were — in attendance.
‘Bloody Q,’ Alldridge said to his colleague, who was driving.
No police officer ever said the word ‘quiet’ intentionally. It was a jinx. They were heading along the seafront, passing Brighton Palace Pier to their left and the angry grey sea around it.
‘Back to base and grab a coffee?’ Holly suggested.
Just as Alldridge said, ‘Good plan,’ the driver of a beaten-up Astra heading past in the opposite direction suddenly drew Holly’s attention. ‘That looked like Leetham Greene!’ she said. ‘Little shitbag’s got a ban. I nicked him for driving while disqualified just a couple of months ago!’
Looking swiftly over his shoulder, John Alldridge clocked the registration and tapped it into the computer. Moments later it came up as registered to Leetham Greene, flagged as untaxed and uninsured. ‘Spin her round,’ he said, leaning forward and switching on the blues and twos.
A taxi coming in the opposite direction obligingly slowed and flashed its headlights. As Holly made a sharp U-turn and accelerated, the voice of a female controller came through the radio. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five?’
‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Alldridge answered.
Holly rapidly caught up a two-lane bottleneck of traffic at the roundabout in front of the pier. The rogue Astra was some cars in front. No one could move out of the way so she switched off the siren, leaving the blue lights flashing.
‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five, we’ve had a couple of calls about the same address, in Somerhill Avenue. A concerned daughter called us from Australia about her widowed mother. She’s not been able to contact her since the weekend, says she’s not responding to calls, texts, emails or Facebook. We’ve also had a report of a yapping dog at the same address, from a neighbour. Are you free to attend? Grade Two.’
John answered. ‘Yes, yes.’
He turned to his colleague. ‘See which way Greene, went?’ She shook her head.
‘Let him go, we’d better attend at Somerhill.’
Grade Two was not an emergency, which meant, to Holly’s disappointment, it wouldn’t be a blue-light run.
‘What do we know about the occupant?’ John asked the call handler.
‘Owner is a Mrs Driver, first name Susan. She lives alone with a Yorkshire terrier called Buster. Her neighbour says she’s concerned because she’s been round a few times, knocking on the door and getting no reply, other than the dog going nuts. The dog has barked off and on for three days, which is very unusual. She’s phoned Mrs Driver, also, and she’s not picking up.’
‘We’re on our way.’ John leaned forward to punch the address into the satnav.
‘It’s OK,’ his partner said. ‘I know the area.’ She made a left into Old Steine and another left into North Street up towards the Clock Tower, and then on, uphill, to the Seven Dials. She shot John a glance. ‘G5?’
‘Sounds likely.’
Holly wrinkled her nose. ‘Not my favourite.’
‘At least it’s not summer. Went to one a couple of years ago, a seafront flat where an old lady had put a Sainsbury’s bag over her head — and been there three months before anyone noticed she was missing. Called in by a neighbour who said there was a funny smell. I thought she was still alive when I went in the door — that she was moving — then I realized it was her body covered in maggots.’
‘Yech! I attended one, an old man, dead for a month, locked in a room with his cat. The cat had eaten half his face.’
‘Says it all about cats, doesn’t it?’
‘I’d like to think my cheeky cat, Madam Woo, wouldn’t eat me,’ she replied. ‘Probably best not to give them the chance.’
In front of them, a tiny Honda with what looked like two old ducks in it halted at the roundabout. And stayed halted. A taxi came round; a van; a car; a lorry; then a long, long gap before another car and then another interminable gap. The Honda did not move.
‘What are you waiting for? Go!’ Holly yelled through the screen. ‘For God’s sake!’
John chuckled at her impatience. Another car came round.
Holly hammered on the steering wheel in frustration. ‘GO!’
Finally the little car pulled forward, straight into the path of a BMW which blasted its horn, narrowly missing the back end of the Honda.
A couple of minutes later they drove slowly along Somerhill Avenue, looking at the house numbers.