‘We have reason to believe he is,’ said Woodham evenly as he stepped onto the stairs. Two of the other detectives moved into the hallway and started off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘No, honestly, he isn’t. He went out about ten minutes ago. We had an argument when he came home. He hadn’t told me about his suspension, and now I’m kicking him out.’
Woodham, who wasn’t the most diplomatic or tolerant of people, clearly didn’t believe her and carried on up the stairs. ‘Your baby needs you,’ he called down to her, and she pushed past the other detectives on the stairs, her face a picture of humiliation. It looked like, in the life of Mrs Stegs Jenner, things couldn’t get much worse.
The rest of us piled into the house. I opened the door into the sitting room. The lights were on, as was the TV, but the room was otherwise empty.
A few seconds later, there was the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs, and I came back into the hall to see Woodham reappear looking none too pleased. Mrs Jenner was following him, holding the grizzling baby.
‘I told you he wasn’t here,’ she said.
Woodham glared at Wrays and Farland who’d come in behind me. ‘I thought you were meant to be watching the place,’ he said accusingly.
‘We were,’ said Wrays, sounding not unlike a chastised schoolboy. ‘We must have looked away for a moment and missed him.’
I noticed Farland blushing. Obviously, office romances were all the rage.
‘I’m not a liar, you know,’ continued Mrs Jenner.
Woodham turned to her angrily, in no mood for pussy-footing around. ‘Where the hell do you think he is, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ she snapped, tears in her eyes.
I could understand the DCI’s frustration but I didn’t think he was going about dealing with it the right way. ‘Where’s the most likely place you can think of where he’d go if the two of you had an argument, Mrs Jenner?’ I asked her.
‘The pub probably. That’s where he spends most of his time. There’s one at the end of the estate on Church Hill that he drinks in now and again. The King’s Arms, it’s called. Or otherwise, if he’s on foot, he might take a walk up to his old school. He goes there sometimes when he wants some peace and quiet. It’s just over the back of the houses opposite. There’s an entrance at the bottom of the road.’ Her gaze moved from me to Woodham. ‘What are you arresting him for? He didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Paul, did he? Paul Vokerman?’
‘We can’t discuss it at the moment, I’m afraid,’ Woodham told her. ‘All right: Wrays, Farland, you get up to the pub. John, you and me’ll go up to the school with the uniforms. The rest of you stay here and carry out the search.’
The baby howled loudly and angrily in Woodham’s direction, evidently not happy with this man’s intrusion on to his territory, and Mrs Jenner finally burst into tears.
Woodham didn’t notice. He was already heading for the car, with me following.
47
Malik went back inside the house, slamming the front door behind him. The two detectives were still sitting where he’d left them, playing a game of cards. Both had cans of Foster’s open. They looked up as he reappeared.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Dan Harold.
‘We’ve got a problem. A big one. Vamen’s on to us. He knows Merriweather’s at this location.’
‘Christ almighty,’ he cursed. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who told you?’
‘That’s the thing, I’m not sure. I just got an anonymous call a few seconds ago.’ He didn’t add the bit about Flanagan being the alleged leak.
‘How do you know it’s authentic?’ asked Bill Cheek, reaching into his jacket and fingering his shoulder holster nervously.
‘He told me the address. It’s an authentic call, take my word for it.’
Cheek got to his feet, Harold following.
‘What’s going on?’ called Merriweather from the other side of the house, his voice booming down the hallway. ‘Whatchoo doing back, Asif?’
‘Let’s get all the lights off,’ said Cheek, switching off the lamp by the chair he’d been sitting in. ‘And pull the curtains. Dan, go down and make sure Merriweather stays put.’
‘Do you want me to let him know what’s happening?’
‘Yes.’
Malik had put the number of DCI Norman Thackston of Crawley Police, the nearest station with armed support, into his mobile a few days earlier, just in case of this eventuality, even though he’d always thought it unlikely in the extreme. He speed-dialled it now, at the same time flicking off the hall light. Thackston wasn’t there, but after a dozen or so rings, someone else picked up.
‘Thackston’s line, DS Kamal speaking.’
Malik strode into the kitchen, switching off the light and pulling the curtains across. As he did so, he told Kamal as rapidly as possible what was happening, and how urgent the situation was, before giving him the address. Twice. ‘I need armed response units here immediately. We’re going to have to move our man as soon as possible, but I’m not doing anything until you get here. Be quick, for God’s sake. We lose the target and heads’ll roll, I promise you that.’
He hung up before Kamal had a chance to get a word in edgeways, then headed back into the hall. In the darkness, he could make out Cheek standing there with his gun drawn. It brought home the danger of the situation to him. They were in trouble, serious trouble, and because he was unarmed, having never had the desire to take up firearms training, Malik was going to have to rely on other people to bring him out of the situation alive and unhurt. It wasn’t a situation he was either used to, or relished.
‘They’re on their way,’ he told Cheek.
‘Good. You need to get down with Merriweather. We’ll watch the back and front doors.’
Malik nodded and headed down the hallway in the gloom to the office where he’d spent the last three hours, Cheek following.
Merriweather was in the chair where he’d been sitting all afternoon. He’d lit a cigarette and was still swigging from the can. He didn’t appear too concerned. Harold stood next to him, his gun also drawn.
‘What’s happening then, Asif?’ Merriweather asked, trying to sound casually cheery, but not quite achieving it. ‘We got trouble or something?’
‘You could say that,’ said Malik.
‘All right, Merriweather,’ said Cheek, ‘put the fag out. Now. And get on the floor. Dan, you watch the back door, I’ll watch the front. Everyone turn their mobiles off. I want it to sound like we’re not here. All right?’
Merriweather reluctantly put out his smoke and sat down heavily on the floor. Malik crouched down next to him, and the other two left the room. Now it was simply a matter of waiting.
‘How the fuck did they find out where we were?’ demanded Merriweather. ‘Can’t you lot do anything right? I thought it was meant to be a fucking secret.’
‘Keep your voice down, Jack. Please.’
The two of them fell silent. Malik reached down and switched off his mobile, wondering what his wife was doing even as he crouched there on the floor of a darkened, silent house, his mouth as dry as a bone as he silently prayed for help to arrive. Probably preparing the dinner or putting the children to bed. Perhaps even reading them a story. The thought comforted him somehow. He looked at his watch. And waited.
A minute became two, then three. Time passed slowly. He could hear Merriweather’s heavy breathing.
‘I can’t believe you’ve fucked up again,’ hissed the other man eventually.
‘Shut up, Jack.’
He looked at his watch again, wondering how long it was going to take the ARVs to get up from Crawley. Fifteen minutes probably, even going at breakneck pace. However, their sirens would startle any would-be assassins before then, so time was probably on their side. But it still felt like a long wait.
There was a noise outside the window. A shuffling. Muffled voices. He tensed in the darkness. So did Merriweather, his eyes widening. They were here.