“Anyway, that was all a long time ago now.” A pause. “We should get cracking. Let’s split this up.” He roughly divided the wedge of papers into two equal piles. “You go through that one, I’ll go through the other.”
For the next forty-five minutes they both read through their papers, the silence broken only by the noise of their pens as they took notes and the occasional question from Jennifer or comment from Renwick as he pointed something out to her. He had been right. It was a small market, the same names, some institutional, some private individuals, showing up several times over. Jennifer kept score, adding a little line next to each name every time it was mentioned. Van Simson had already scored twelve, double his closest competitor. Looking over, she could see that Renwick had amassed a similar score for him.
She paused mid-scribble.
“What was that?”
Renwick didn’t look up.
“What was what?”
“That noise. It sounded like it came from the garden.”
“Oh.” Renwick looked up, smiling. “Probably the neighbor’s cat culling the local mouse population.”
Jennifer nodded, looked out the window and then back down at her notes. A few moments later her head snapped toward the open window again.
“That’s no cat.”
“What?”
“I said, that’s no cat.” Jennifer had got up and moved over to the window. “Too big. And there’s more than one, too.”
“Are you sure?” Renwick stood up, a concerned look on his face.
“Quick, turn the lights out,” Jennifer whispered. Renwick stumbled over to the light switch and flicked it off, his forehead crumpled into a worried frown. Jennifer edged her head round the window’s edge so that she could see into the garden. She immediately jumped back and pressed herself to the wall.
“Two men,” she whispered. “Making their way toward the house.”
“What the blazes do they want?” Renwick whispered back, his voice suddenly afraid.
“I don’t know, but I figure we shouldn’t wait around to find out. Let’s get outside and call the cops.”
“What about all my paintings?”
“You’re insured, aren’t you?” Renwick nodded. “So leave them. These guys look like they mean business.”
They both tiptoed out of the kitchen and made their way to the front door. Jennifer unbolted it.
“Now remember… ” she said as she pulled it open.
She never finished the sentence.
“Watch out!” shouted Renwick.
Instinctively she raised her arms in front of her face and a fist glanced harmlessly off her elbow. She could tell from how quickly it had come that whoever it was had been waiting for the door to open and she knew then that the other two men must have been deliberately sent round the back to flush them out onto the street.
She only had time to register that her assailant was a short, stocky white man, before she had to dodge his follow-up punch, his knuckles slamming instead into the door’s polished surface and making him yelp. She seized the opportunity, chopping him in his throat with the edge of her hand and then kicking him hard in the groin. He immediately dropped to his knees with a groan and sagged forward, his face bright red as he choked and gurgled, unable to catch his breath.
“’Nuff, bitch.”
Jennifer jerked her head round to see the two men who’d come in through the garden standing in the hallway, the one on the left holding a gun to Renwick’s head. Like the other man, they were also white, although their forearms were dark with matted hair and swirling tattoos. Both wore jeans, shiny black bomber jackets and bright white sneakers.
“Pull another move like that and we off granddad. Got it?” Renwick stared at her, his head tilted to one side where the man was pressing against his temple with the gun’s muzzle, clearly terrified.
“Fine.” She raised her hands. “Take what you want.”
The man on the right stepped forward, his mouth thin and purple from poor circulation, his right ear pierced in three places, his nose bent like a boxer’s.
“Oh, we will, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”
“Get out of my house, you scum,” Renwick shouted, his eyes fierce and proud. “I know who sent you and you can tell him from me that—”
The man pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans, turned round, aimed it at Renwick’s chest and fired.
“Harry!” Jennifer called out as Renwick collapsed onto the stone floor, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
The man she had knocked to the ground struggled to his feet behind her, still wheezing, the fingers of his right hand now gripping a thick brass knuckle.
“You fucking bitch,” he snarled as he struck her with a big looping punch to the back of her head.
Jennifer saw the marbled floor accelerating toward her as she fell, but blacked out before she hit it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The sun had barely risen when the first van pulled up, the street still empty apart from the two gray pigeons chasing each other across the sidewalk. The driver jumped down to the ground. Pulling on his black helmet, he tapped twice on the van’s side. Almost immediately the side door slid back on its well-oiled runners and the seven men inside stepped out, their gloved hands clasping their gleaming Heckler & Koch MP5s.
They were all dressed identically, multipocketed combat trousers tucked into ankle-high boots, the long laces zigzagging up their shins before being wrapped several times around the top of the boot and then tied off. A Glock 17 self-loading pistol was velcroed to each person’s left leg while handcuffs, extra ammunition, and CS gas canisters hung around their waist. Their black bulletproof vests made their chests bulge. Nobody spoke.
A second van drew up and a further six men erupted onto the street, helmets and goggles already on. A tall man in civilian clothes with rounded shoulders and thin wrists stepped slowly out of the passenger seat of the second van and looked down the street with quiet satisfaction at the armed men standing with their backs pressed to the sides of the vans. His moment had finally come.
“Daniels,” Detective Sergeant Clarke whispered through his teeth. One of the men peeled off from the others and walked over, the insignia of the Metropolitan Police’s elite SO19 armed response unit clear on his shoulder.
“This man is probably armed and certainly dangerous. You go in and you go in hard. Shoot him if you have to. And remember, I want to make the arrest in person. This is my collar, not yours.”
Mike Daniels grimaced.
“Why don’t you let us worry about who we shoot and you worry about the paperwork and not getting in our way.” He turned and walked back to his men, who gathered round him in a tight circle. Clarke stood fuming, only grateful that no one had overheard their exchange.
In a low voice, Daniels gave some quick instructions, before looking over at Clarke and nodding. Two men took up positions opposite the building, leaning on the hood of each van. The other twelve men trooped silently over to the shop entrance in close formation.
“Right,” said Daniels as they crouched in front of the large windows. “You know the layout. You five with me up the stairs to the living quarters on the top floor. You four secure the ground floor and warehouse. You two, round the back. He’s not expecting us, so this should be simple, but he might try something, so stay alert. Smith, get the door. Go! Go! Go!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tom threw himself out of bed as the alarm went off. He had rigged the system up himself; the computer screen perched on the tea chest at the foot of his bed lit up with a floor plan of the building, the flashing red section showing where the alarm had been triggered — someone was in the shop downstairs. A sickening crash as something fragile was knocked to the ground echoed up the stairwell confirmed it.