So, it was either this or a security job in some warehouse somewhere drinking endless cups of tea.” Mick replied.
“What about yourself?” Mick asked.
“Me, oh I . . . ” Liz spluttered as she tried to recall the exact moment in her life that has set off the unlikely chain of events that had led her to become one of the first female armed officers of London’s Metropolitan Police.
Suddenly the police band radio burst into life.
“TROJAN 2, TROJAN 2!”
“Saved by the bell!” Mick smiled at Liz and took the radio. “Base this is Trojan 2. Send over.”
“TROJAN 2, PROCEED TO THE SANTANDER BANK AT 15 ISLINGTON HIGH STREET—WE HAVE A CODE 2 IN PROGRESS WITH A POSSIBLE CODE 44, OVER.” The voice on the radio instructed.
Liz activated the lights and siren. The sudden deafening scream of the wailing siren sent the traffic shunting sideways the little that they could move to make way for her car. Liz stepped on the accelerator and swung out into the oncoming traffic on the other side of the road.
“Base this is Trojan 2, Received and Understood. Proceeding to Santander Bank, 15 Islington High Street, Code 2. Possible Code 44. Out.” Mick replied as he accepted the address on the on-board computer which activated the GPS route map.
♦ ♦ ♦
David was still sitting in the car watching the bank door through the rear-view mirror. He glanced again at the watch on the dashboard as the display now showed six minutes and ten seconds had passed.
“Come on, come on Gazza . . . ” David nervously drummed his fingers on the dashboard.
David took another sip of his now cold coffee and he continued looking in the rear-view mirror. He notices two women pushing pushchairs past the entrance to the bank. To distract himself, David pulls his mobile phone from his pocket and checks for any messages. There aren’t any. The smiley-face air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror seems to mock his rising anxiety. Suddenly he notices blue flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. He adjusts the mirror to see a police car, picking its way through the traffic coming up the High Street from the west end still about 500 yards away.
He glances again at the watch on the dashboard which shows that seven minutes have now passed.
“Oh shite!” David takes a last look at the door of the bank. Still no sign of Gazza.
“OK, Sorry Gazza, seven minutes, I’m outta here,” David mumbles to himself as he takes the watch from the dashboard and places it back on his wrist.
David indicates as he slowly pulls out into traffic and heads east down the High Street as police sirens start to fill the air. He turns first left into a side street as Liz’s BMW screeches around the corner into the side street from the other end on the wrong side of the road narrowly missing the silver Mercedes. For a split second as they fly passed each other Liz glances at the driver of the Mercedes. David looks away adjusting his Spurs cap on his head and drives on as Liz refocuses on the street ahead and screeches around the next corner and into the High Street from the east end.
♦ ♦ ♦
Gazza glances at his watch. “Time’s up!” He bellows.
He marches over to the manager and the cashier and snatches the sack that they have been filling and gives it a shake to feel the weight. He grunts that he is not impressed and points the gun at the Manager who puts up his hands and nervously takes his wallet from his jacket pocket and offers it to Gazza who lets him drop it in the sack.
Sirens begin to fill the air inside the bank and the customers still sitting on the floor exchange nervous glances. Gazza runs to the door to see a regular police patrol car pull up outside the bank. He looks up the street for the silver Mercedes. It’s gone.
“Shit, shit, shit! I’m not going back inside. Not for no one!” Rages Gazza.
He steps outside the door and points the gun at the lone unarmed policeman exiting the patrol car who raises his hands. Gazza laughs maniacally and makes off down the east end of the High Street.
Just then, Liz’s car lurches around the corner from the east end of the High Street and screeches to a halt outside the bank.
“Suspect IS armed!” Mick confirms as he spots Arnold Schwarzenegger running towards them with a bag in one hand and a rifle in the other.
Liz reacts immediately, pulling the lever to release the trunk as Mick leaps out of the car and sprints around the back to get the Heckler and Koch’s.
Gazza sees he’s outnumbered, turns and heads back up the west end of the High Street towards the unarmed policeman, who, having lowered his hands, now raises them again.
Liz steps out of the car and has a line of fire from behind the driver’s door. She raises her Glock pistol and shouts a warning.
“ARMED POLICE, DROP YOUR WEAPON!”
Gazza spins around on his heels and brings up his gun towards Liz. Liz hesitates. Gazza lets rip of the full magazine. A deafening clattering roar fills the air as the bullets fly into the ARV shattering glass and peppering the car with bullet holes as Liz dives headlong into the car.
“Hasta la vista, BABY!” Gazza shouts excitedly.
A second later Mick pops up from behind the back of the ARV with a Heckler and Koch and fires a three-round burst into Gazza’s chest.
17. Only a very small minority of specially trained police officers routinely carry firearms in the UK.
18. British army parachute regiment.
You Have Been Murdered!
Inverness, Scotland
David is sitting in the front window of a café in Inverness High Street with two large coffees in elegant mugs placed on the table in front of him. The Eden café was a comfortable coffee bar decorated with black and white framed photos on the walls of famous people drinking coffee. The aroma of fresh ground coffee filled the café and filtered out onto the street and was particularly effective at attracting passers-by. After calling Roy on the telephone at the number on the leaflet, Roy had suggested to meet at this café at 11:00 am. David had arrived early. He was jotting down some thoughts on a piece of A4 paper as he sipped his coffee and waited for Roy. Outside the window, it is a fine autumn day and the sun is shining brightly making it a little warmer than usual for this time of year. Across the street, David could see a bagpiper playing, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, tartan kilt, and long white socks. The tune he was playing sounded familiar to David. He remembered he had heard it before on the radio in his van.
Rod Stewart was the artist he remembered, that famous Scottish musician from the 1980s, but what was the name of the song?
“Amazing Grace!” Said Roy suddenly appearing at the table and smiling as he offered his hand to David.
“What . . . ?” Said David, a little surprised to see Roy standing next to him. He had not noticed him enter the café.
“The
