‘Peter?’ said Stephanopoulos over the Airwave. ‘See anything?’
I couldn’t see the van from my position, but I did have a good view of the roads around the park. Sandwiched between Smithfield Market to the north and Barts Hospital to the south, both providing ample cover to bring up van-loads of backup, the car park was tactically a terrible choice for Chorley to get caught in. Stephanopoulos already had spotters on the roofs and the upper floors of the buildings all around and two whole serials of TSG lounging around in the courtyard behind the hospital museum. This particular lot had worked with us before and had taken to wearing a sprig of mistletoe on their Metvests, presumably because a bulb of garlic would look stupid. TSG officers spend a lot of time waiting around in the backs of Sprinter vans and so are prone to violent practical jokes and moments of whimsy. Seawoll had suggested celery, but nobody but me got the joke.
I replied to Stephanopoulos. ‘Nothing from here.’
I listened while Nightingale and the rest of the spotters reported in from their various positions around the perimeter. Nightingale, I knew, was in Smithfield Market with Guleed comfortably ensconced in the Butcher’s Hook pub on the east side.
‘What’s the target, do you think?’ asked Seawoll.
‘St Paul’s at a guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘Possibly the site of the Mithraeum.’
The cathedral was half a kilometre to the south and the Bloomberg building site was further to the east and twice as far.
‘He certainly likes the Square Mile,’ said Guleed.
She was right. The Rising Sun, where Camilla Turner met the late John Chapman, was just around the corner, and beyond that was the Barbican, where Faceless Man senior had been stashed for all those years. Behind me on the other side of the hospital was Little Britain, where Martin Chorley had his think tank.
‘Everyone’s in position,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘What now?’
‘If we’re lucky the fucker will show his face and Thomas can twat him,’ said Seawoll.
‘We’re not exactly covert,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours before we’re all over Facebook.’
‘If that,’ said Guleed.
‘The longer we wait the more we pass tactical advantage to Chorley,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I think we’ve all had quite enough of that.’
‘The bell is the key,’ I said. ‘We half-inch the bell and Chorley’s stuffed.’
‘There were two vans,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘How do we know the bell’s in that one?’
‘Or not already in place somewhere,’ said Nightingale – unhelpfully in my opinion.
‘Somebody’s going to have to have a look, aren’t they?’ said Stephanopoulos.
It was a difficult decision. Chorley knew me, Guleed and Nightingale on sight and there was no way we were going to risk some poor non-Falcon qualified copper. In the end Stephanopoulos nicked a green London Ambulance service jacket from one of the nearby ambulance crews and got ready to do the walk past herself.
‘And what if you meet Lesley?’ I asked.
‘Then that will be one less problem to worry about, won’t it?’ she said.
‘Make sure she fucking wears her Metvest,’ said Gold leader when we outlined the plan.
Stephanopoulos, who claimed to have stashed her Metvest in her wife’s henhouse the day she made inspector, nonetheless promised not to get stabbed. I donned my magic hoody and dashed around through the hospital grounds so I could loiter suspiciously on the corner of Little Britain and keep the entrance ramp in view.
It was a bright day with scattered clouds and the air was still and warm. Stephanopoulos wore the jacket over one shoulder to sell the illusion, and to disguise the fact that it was too small for her. And to hide the X26 taser she was carrying in her left hand.
I still couldn’t see the van but I knew its exact position halfway down the ramp. I reckoned if I vaulted the safety rail further up, where the drop was less than a metre, I could get there in less than twenty seconds.
‘I’m approaching the van,’ said Stephanopoulos.
I’ve been told that in the old days undercover officers had to try and disguise the fact that they were using a radio. But now you just wear headphones and carry a phone in your hand. This explains why the next thing she said was, ‘Just as long as we don’t have asparagus again.’ A pause. ‘Because I hate asparagus.’
‘I’ve always said you were wasted on the police,’ said Seawoll.
‘I’m having a look through the front window,’ said Stephanopoulos in a low voice. ‘I can see something in the back and she’s sitting low on her suspension.’ And then much louder, ‘How many times do I have to tell you: the goat is not allowed in the house.’
Nightingale told me to saunter up the entrance to the ramp while he went to the top of the pedestrian access stairs on the other side of the park, so he could cover Stephanopoulos’ exit.
I was halfway across the road when a spotter reported that a mint coloured Fiesta was heading up Long Lane and was indicating for a left turn – meaning it might be heading for the car park. I said I’d keep an eye out.
I was almost across when Stephanopoulos said, ‘Oh shit. Chorley just came out of the underground bit.’
There was a bit of loud breathing and then Stephanopoulos said she was hidden behind a different van but she could probably get a shot with her taser as Chorley went past.
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Nightingale.
‘Wait for him to pass and get the fuck out of the way,’ said Seawoll.
‘Peter,’ said Nightingale, ‘turn the car away.’
I looked over and saw the Fiesta, mint coloured as advertised, turning out of Long Lane and making an obvious beeline for the entrance at the top of the ramp. I stepped quickly out in front of it and held up my hand in that gesture all police hope is authoritative enough to halt over a tonne of moving metal.
The trick is to always be ready to dive out of the way.
The driver was a white woman in her mid-twenties; white blouse, lightweight navy suit jacket, brown hair.
I made a friendly fending-off gesture, but the woman’s expression gave her away.
I’d know that look of exasperation anywhere – even when it’s not on the right face.
‘Lesley’s in the Fiesta,’ I said over the Airwave.
She’d been slowing to negotiate the ramp, but as soon as she saw me Lesley floored it. I threw a car killer into the bonnet and the engine died. But she had too much momentum and I had to vault the safety rail to avoid getting run down.
‘Pillock!’ I heard her shouting as she went past.
I made what they call a tactical assessment.
I could see the van a third of the way around and down the ramp. Because the ramp formed almost a complete circle I had sight of Nightingale to my right as he went for the pedestrian staircase less than forty metres away. I watched as he jumped over the railing and dropped down onto one of the landings below. I decided that my job, as usual, was Lesley, and took after the Fiesta as it rolled down the ramp.
The ramp was built for carriages and drays drawn by huge Clydesdale draught horses, and so was cobbled for traction and maximum tripping and leg-breaking potential. Still, I went flat out on the basis that I really didn’t want to be tag-teamed by Lesley and Chorley together.
I was good enough by then to throw car killers about without sanding my Airwave, so I was still online to hear one of the spotters yell something unintelligible and Seawoll order the containment teams to set up a safety perimeter. This was the appropriate Falcon response plan in action – the TSG keeps the public out of harm’s way while we lucky few go toe to toe with the Faceless Man.
And not forgetting his sidekick – the mutable Lesley.
The Fiesta pulled up by the van and Lesley tumbled out, still wearing her fake face.