Stone glanced at him. 'Sandra's sister…'
Thorne took a gulp of cold air and shut his window.
'So, why does she grass up her sister's boyfriend?' Holland asked. Brigstocke tried to catch Holland's eye in the mirror. 'That's the other reason we're not fucking around this morning,' he said. 'Nonattendance is not Gribbin's only violation of his parole conditions.'
'Shit.. ' Stone had seen it. He held the notes out for Holland to take.
Thorne turned his head, looked at Holland. 'There's three people in the house, Dave. Gribbin, Cook and Cook's eleven-year-old daughter…'
Thorne swiveled round again, pulled his seat belt taut. Beneath it, he could feel his heart start to thump that little bit faster and louder. Around the nape of his neck he could sense the smallest tingle beginning to build. He caught his breath as an insect hit the windscreen in a mess of blood and wings.
It was a horseshoe-shaped cul-de-sac on a modern housing estate, and the property they were interested in was at the far end… Thorne looked at the houses as the van slowly made its way past them up the drive. Taking in the detail, the attempts to personalise and gentrify. The bright, differently coloured front doors; the hanging and The Thistles. Most of the houses and garages were empty, the occupants having left for work hours earlier, but still the occasional curtain twitched. This was probably as exciting as it would ever get. It was one of those funny towns on the outskirts of the city that couldn't quite make its mind up if it was urban or rural. Twenty-odd miles to the west of central London, it lay uncomfortably between the M25 and the Chilterns. For its population of commuters, the proximity to rolling hills and quaintly named villages probably made the daily slog up the motorway worthwhile, but it was a different story for their teenage children. No amount of fresh air could make the place any less boring. Antique shops would not prevent them pissing it up the wall on a Friday night and cutting up rough in the centre of town…
Thorne saw a woman staring down at him from an upstairs window. He read the alarm on her face and watched her back away quickly, almost certainly heading for the phone. It was understandable. Those who peeped from behind curtains on one side of the drive saw a blue Transit van. Those like her, in houses on the other side, could see the four men in jackets, jeans and trainers, who crept slowly alongside it, moving at the same speed, the van's progress masking theirs. When the van began a long, slow sweep around the curve of the horseshoe, the police officers behind it moved in a similar arc. As it slowed right down, they did the same, and when it stopped and the engine was switched off, the four men gathered into a tight huddle and waited.
Five hundred yards away, at the other end of the drive, two police vans had sealed off the entrance. Traffic police kept the vehicles moving as drivers slowed down to gawk. Half a dozen uniformed officers in shirtsleeves moved curious pedestrians along. Behind the Transit, Thorne listened. He could hear the distant squawk of a two-way. The drone of traffic from the other side of the field behind the estate. Somewhere nearby there was a radio playing. He tuned the sounds out and tried to concentrate on what Brigstocke was saying…
'Are we clear?' Brigstocke asked. He looked hard at Thorne, Holland and Stone. Thorne knew he was looking for focus. Nods all round. This was probably going to be straightforward enough, but it only took a second for something run of the mill to go very tits up.
'Right…'
A beat, then Brigstocke hammered with his fist on the side of the van and two more officers jumped immediately from the front. The van doors still swinging, they began sprinting towards the house, the biggest one lugging a heavy, metal door-ram.
Thorne and the others came around from the far side of the van, running. Brigstocke and Stone went immediately left towards the gate at the side; making for the back of the house. Thorne and Holland veered away from them, following in the wake of the two from the front of the van…
Grunts, and short breaths, and the pounding of rubber soles tarmac and pavement and grass, and still the sound of the radio coming from somewhere…
Thorne came up next to the officers at the front door. He crouched down, ready to spring forward, and nodded. A couple of deep breaths. The big officer gritted his teeth and swung the battering-ram.
'Police…!'
Thorne could hear shouting from inside the house and from around the back. The door hadn't given. He began kicking at the lock, then moved quickly as the ram was swung into the door again. This time it crashed open and, leading with his forearm, Thorne rushed in.
'Police! Everybody in the property show themselves now…'
From behind him, Thorne heard the clang of the battering-ram as it was dropped on to the doorstep. From somewhere-up ahead he could hear a thump and, upstairs, a woman screaming… A wore, an, Thorne thought. Not a child… 'Anybody here, show yourself!'
He saw a long hallway ahead of him. Two, three doors off to his right…
'In there!'
He glanced left at the big officer coming past him, at the bulk of his wide back moving beneath his car coat as he charged up the stairs two at a time.
At the other end of the hall was a kitchen, and through it he could see Brigstocke and Stone outside the back door. Holland pushed past him, ran to open it.
The doors clattered open, smashed in ahead of him. In the first room, nothing… He stepped back out into the hall, turned to see Brigstocke and Stone running towards him.
From the second room, a shout…
'Here…'
Thorne shoved his way past the officer in the doorway and burst into the room. It was small – a sofa, an armchair, a widescreen TV still on. At the other end was an archway leading off right to another room, a dining room, Thorne guessed.
Gribbin stood next to the armchair, his hands above his head. His face showed nothing. His eyes moved from Thorne's to the doorway through which Sandra Cook was being propelled by one of the local CID boys. She pushed her way past Brigstocke and Stone, all but dragged Holland out of the way.
'What the fuck do you want?' she shouted.
Thorne ignored her, turned to look at Gribbin. 'Raymond Gribbin, I'm arresting you in connection with breach of parole conditions, which…'
He stopped and looked towards the archway in the right-hand corner as a figure stepped cautiously through it. One by one the heads of the other seven people crowded into the small room turned, until everyone was looking at the girl.
'Is everything going to be OK, Ray? I'm scared…'
Gribbin took his hands from above his head, opening his arms as he stepped towards her. 'It's all right, sweetheart…'. It all happened in a few seconds. It was a testament to Andy Stone's speed and strength that he was able to do so much before being dragged away by Thorne, Holland and a screaming Sandra Cook.
'Don't fucking touch her…'
As Gribbin's hands slid across the girl's shoulders, Stone was halfway across the room. He was on him by the time Gribbin was reaching to pull the small, blond head to his barrel chest, the girl squealing as he pushed her away and turned to defend himself… Gribbin reached up and grabbed Stone around the collar, staggering back into the television which tipped against the wall. Stone brought both fists up fast into the thick, tattooed forearms and pulled them back down hard as he dropped his head into Gribbin's face. It was then that three pairs of hands grabbed Stone, around collar, belt and sleeve, yanking him backwards across the armchair as Gribbin dropped to his knees and the girl ran sobbing to her mother.
Stone tried to stand up, to tell those around him that he was calm, that they could get their bloody hands off him… Thorne stepped across and knelt down next to Gribbin. His head had fallen back against the television, one hand scrabbling at the carpet, bailing itself into a fist. Blood dripped through the fingers of the other hand. On the screen behind Gribbin's head, there was applause as a woman welcomed viewers to her show and invited the studio audience to share their holiday nightmares. Twenty minutes later, with the inhabitants of the quiet cul-de-sac pressed against their windows, Gribbin was led out, a bloody handkerchief pressed to what was left of his nose.