* * * * *
It was a Gold Command-led Operation and Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw was running the show from District headquarters.
Scott Riley hadn’t been hard to find; he’d got plenty of form. And they had found a red Vauxhall Corsa, which was registered to him, behind his flat.
Now all they had to do was wait for it to move.
To help with the capture of Ronnie Fisher, the Force Surveillance Team had been brought in and they were currently parked up in various streets around Scott Riley’s address. They had every road and side-street around his home covered; the moment he drove away, someone would be tailing him.
At Peter Blake-Hall’s club — Ronnie’s destination, according to Kerri-Ann Bairstow the police were waiting. A four-man Task Force Firearms team, together with a dog-handler, were hidden behind garages three streets away, and Hunter and Grace, with Detective Superintendent Leggate, were in an unmarked car, parked behind a derelict warehouse on waste ground at the rear of the club.
Hunter was in the driver’s seat, shuffling uncomfortably, his fingers rapping away gently at the steering wheel. They had been parked for almost an hour and a trickle of nervous excitement ran through him. It made him recall his Drug Squad days — then, he had frequently savoured the same experience.
He stared out through the windscreen, his eyes settling upon the rear of Peter Blake-Hall’s club. The light was beginning to fade; a faint orange glow had replaced the pale blue horizon. It was only mid-afternoon, but day was giving way to evening.
As he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, Hunter’s personal radio crackled into life. The Surveillance Team were breaking their silence. The crew in the ‘eyeball’ vehicle announced that two men had just got into Scott Riley’s red Corsa, but they were unable to identify the occupants.
A woman’s voice announced “Target vehicle is off, off, off.”
Hunter gripped the steering wheel — the waiting was over. If it was Ronnie Fisher in the car, then in another twenty minutes he would be here and within his grasp.
Within five minutes the commentator’s voice had changed — the first car had fallen back and a new lead car was now on the Corsa’s tail. Hunter could make out, from the directions and landmarks being broadcast, that the target vehicle was indeed heading their way. For a couple of seconds he could hear the blood rushing inside his ears and felt the muscles in his legs and forearms beginning to tighten. The adrenaline had kicked in.
Ten minutes into the unwavering commentary, Hunter heard the sentence he had been waiting for — Ronnie Fisher, their target, had been identified as the front seat passenger. He felt a tap on his shoulders from the back seat. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was giving him the starting orders. He turned the ignition and revved the engine. The car rocked.
The next ten minutes seemed to fly by. From the radio chatter, Hunter determined that the Corsa was heading their way.
As the red car entered the final section of small side-streets on its way to the club, the chatter over the airwaves increased.
A couple of the tail-end cars from the surveillance team convoy would now be peeling away, increasing their speed, ready to block off any escape attempt by the driver of the Corsa. In a few minutes he would be boxed in and going nowhere.
“It’s a stop, stop, stop, outside the Le Chambre Rose,’” came the cry over the radio, quickly followed by, “Target is out of the vehicle and heading for the front doors.”
Detective Superintendent Leggate issued the order, “Strike, strike, strike.”
Hunter gunned the engine. The car’s rear wheels spun and slid momentarily, churning up loose gravel. Then they gripped and Hunter tore towards the back entrance of the club.
A hundred yards from the rear of the premises, the call of “He’s doing a runner,” blared over the airwaves. Hunter saw the emergency double-doors explode open. Ronnie Fisher came out of them so fast, he almost fell over. He managed to balance, then spun away sideways and picked up his sprint.
Hunter yanked the steering wheel hard, hitting the brakes, and the car skewed. Before it had even jerked to a halt, Hunter threw open the driver’s door and launched himself out.
Ronnie was twenty metres ahead but Hunter quickly made ground, snapping close to his heels within seconds. He barked out the order “Police, stop.” It had the desired effect — Ronnie skidded to a halt.
Before Hunter could get within striking distance, Ronnie had turned and dropped into a rugby tackle squat. Hunter didn’t have time to stop, but before he made impact he threw himself side-on, catching Ronnie full in the chest with his shoulder. They hit the ground together, though Hunter’s momentum rolled him away. As he leapt to his feet, Ronnie was mirroring his actions, outstretching his arms to do battle. In that instant, Hunter locked eyes with someone who had the look of Frankenstein’s monster.
In the blink of an eye, Ronnie reached down snatched something out of his right boot.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” he growled.
Behind him, Hunter heard Grace scream, “He’s got a knife.”
He jerked back. And only just in time, as a glint of metal flashed before him. The blade had missed him by a few inches.
Ronnie slashed forward with the knife again. This time Hunter was ready. He swung his left arm across to deflect the blow. It wheeled Ronnie to one side, exposing his ribs. Hunter hooked in his right fist, putting his whole weight behind the punch. A bone-jarring crack resounded and Ronnie screamed in pain as the air exploded from his chest.
He toppled, instinctively flinging out an arm to prevent himself from hitting the ground. Hunter brought his elbow crashing down onto the top of his skull like an executioner’s axe.
Ronnie was out before his face hit the ground.
A sudden weakness overcame Hunter and he felt light-headed. Bending double, he clawed in long gulp of air.
Detective Superintendent Leggate and Grace approached. He could hear other detectives spilling through the emergency doors, scrambling towards them.
Everyone stopped and encircled the unconscious Ronnie Fisher. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose.
Hunter raised himself up to his full height and took in another deep breath. He was beginning to shake. The first thing he saw was the bemused look upon his SIO’s face as she viewed their grounded, bloodied target.
Straight-faced he said, “Reasonable force, boss!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DAY EIGHTEEN: 11th December.
After receiving treatment for two cracked ribs, a busted nose and a split lip, Ronnie Fisher was released from hospital at 3.30am, in handcuffs, with a police escort, and transported across to Barnwell Custody Suite, where he was bedded down for the night.
* * * * *
Hunter found it hard to drop off to sleep — he was still so high, long after climbing into his bed. And then when he finally dozed, he slept fitfully. He awoke just before 5.30am and after half an hour of tossing and turning gave up, switched off his alarm and climbed into the shower. He drove into work in the dark, on quiet roads, his thoughts drifting towards the day’s work ahead.
At the rear door, he bade good morning to the day Sergeant.
He sprinted up the back stairs and at the top almost collided with his partner Grace, coming out of the ladies toilets.
Catching his balance he said, “You’re in early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Been putting on my face for the day.” They were the first ones in the office and while one made the hot drinks, the other put bread into the toaster. They had polished the toast off and replenished their drinks before the first of the other team members arrived.