Last Light (5 page)

I hoped, too, that my black cotton bomber jacket had ridden up enough to show them there wasn't a pistol attached to my belt or tucked into my jeans.

"Not armed," I yelled.

"Weapons free!"

Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too loud and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.

I pivoted slowly so they could see my back and check for themselves that I wasn't lying. As I faced the corridor junction, I heard more boots thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.

A shield moved out of the corner then slammed into position on the floor at the corridor junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the side of it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.

"Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.

"I'm weapons free!"

Keeping my hands in the air I stared at the single, unblinking eye behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer, taking advantage of the left side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.

I looked down as a red laser spot the size of a shirt button splashed on it dead centre. It wasn't moving either. Fuck knew how many splashes there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.

Frenzied shouts finished bouncing off the walls as a loud, estuary-English voice took command and shouted orders that I could now understand.

"Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"

No more turning, I did what he wanted.

"Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"

Keeping my hands up, I lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any eye contact, just looking down. The left-handed firer in front of me followed my every move with the laser splash.

The voice shouted more orders from behind.

"Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."

I did as I was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of the stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinpricks of grit pressed into my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.

I found myself staring at the bottom of one of the stairwell group's ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.

The silence was broken by the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots approaching me from behind. My only thought was how lucky I was to be arrested.

The boots arrived at their destination, and heavy breathing from their owners filled the air around me. One old black creased-leather size ten landed by my face and my hands were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I felt the cold, hard metal bite into my wrists as the handcuffs were ratcheted tight. I just let them get on with it; the more I struggled the more pain I would have to put up with. The handcuffs were the newer style, police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal spacer. Once these things are on, just one tap against the spacer with a baton is enough to have you screaming in agony as the metal gives the good news to your wrist bones.

I was in enough pain already as one man pulled at the cuffs to keep my arms straight, and someone else's knee was forced down between my shoulder blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes water, and all the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.

A pair of hands, their owner's boots each side of me now that he'd removed his knee from my back, were making their way over my body. My wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my

Nick Somerhurst passport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber jacket.

I felt suddenly naked.

I turned my head, trying to get as comfortable as possible during the once-over, and rested my face on the cold stone. Through blurred vision I made out three pairs of jeans emerging from behind the shield at the junction and heading my way. One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they passed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.

I started to feel more depressed than worried about what was coming next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.

Behind me I heard the zip of my holdall being pulled back and the contents given a quick once-over. At the same time I felt my Leatherman being pulled out from its pouch.

There was still no talking as hands ran down my legs to check for concealed weapons. My face acted like a cushion for my cheekbone as I was hauled around like a sack of spuds.

Hands forced themselves around the front of my stomach and into my waistband, then extracted the three or four pounds' worth of change in my jeans.

The same set of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my knees, to the accompaniment of laboured grunts and the squeak of leather belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands dropped down by my knees as if I was begging.

The cold stone floor was hurting my knees, but I forgot about them instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.

His hair wasn't looking so neat today: the Sundance Kid had been running about a bit. Above his jeans he was wearing a green bomber jacket and heavy blue body armour with a protective ceramic plate tucked into the pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.

There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in his face as he stared down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job hadn't gone too well. I was still alive; he hadn't been able to make entry into the office with the help of his new mates here and claim self-defence as he shot me.

My documents were handed to him and they went into his back pocket. He played with the coins in his cupped palms, chinking as they poured from one to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair of jeans, who had my bag over his right shoulder. I kept my eyes down at calf level now, not wishing to provoke him. It was pointless appealing to the uniforms for help. They'd have heard it all before from drunks claiming to be Jesus and people like me ranting that they'd been stitched.

Sundance spoke for the first time.

"Good result, Sarge." His thick Glasgow accent was directed to someone behind me, before he turned away with the other two. I watched them walk towards the stairwell, to the sound of Velcro being ripped apart as they started to peel off their body armour.

As they disappeared past the corridor junction I was dragged up on to my feet by two policemen. With their strong grip under each of my armpits, I followed them towards the stairs. We passed the shields at the corridor junction, as the armed teams started to break ranks, and made our way down the stone stairs. Sundance and the boys were about two floors below. I kept catching glimpses of them as they turned on the stone and iron-railed landings, and wondered why I hadn't been blindfolded. Maybe it was to make sure I didn't trip on the stairs. No, it would be because they didn't care if I saw their faces. I wasn't going to live long enough to see them again.

We exited the building via the glass and metal-framed doors I'd made entry through earlier. At once the noise of boots on the stairs and the policemen's laboured breathing from the effort of hauling me about was drowned out by the confusion on the street. Sweat-stained, white-shirted police officers were running about, their radios crackling, yelling at pedestrians to follow their directions and clear the area. Sirens blared. A helicopter chopped the air loudly overhead.

We were on the private entry road to the Marriott Hotel, part of the County Hall building. To my left was its turning circle, bordered by a smart decorative hedge. Police were preventing guests from coming out of the main entrance as they tried to see what was happening or to run away, I wasn't sure which.

In front of me, at the kerb side was a white Mercedes estate,

engine running, all doors open. One of the pairs of jeans was in the driver's seat ready to go. As a hand pushed down on top of my head and I was quickly bundled into the back, my feet connected with something in the foot well It was my holdall, still unzipped.

The guy with the trainers sat on my left and attached one end of a pair of handcuffs to the D ring of the centre set of seat-belts. He then flicked the free end around the pair that gripped my wrists. I wasn't going anywhere until these boys were good and ready.

Sundance appeared on the pavement and said his goodbyes to the uniforms. Thanks again, lads."

I kept trying to make eye contact with the guys who had dragged me down here, who were now standing by the entrance to the office block. Sundance got into the front passenger seat and closed his door, obviously aware of what I was doing.

He bent down into his foot well That isn't going to help you, boy." Retrieving a blue light from the floor and slapping it on to the dashboard, he plugged the lead into the cigarette-lighter socket. The light started flashing as the car moved off.

We came out of the hotel's approach road and on to the main drag at the south end of the bridge, directly opposite the hospital buildings. The road was cordoned off and surrounded by every police vehicle in the Greater London area.

The windows of the hospital were crammed with patients and nurses trying to get a grandstand view of the commotion.

We wove around the obstacles in the road and through the cordon. Once over the large roundabout, we passed under the Eurostar track a hundred metres further down. I could see the slick, aerodynamic trains waiting in the glass terminal above me, and felt sick that one of them should be leaving soon without me on it.

Sundance removed the flashing light from the dashboard. We were heading south towards the Elephant and Castle and, no doubt, into a world of shit.

I looked at Sundance's face in the wing mirror. He didn't return eye contact or acknowledge me in any way. Behind the stony face he was probably working out what he had to do next.

So was I, and started to work on him straight away. This isn't going to work.

I've got on tape the orders you drove for and I-' There was an explosion of pain as Trainers put all his force behind his elbow and rammed it into my thigh, dead legging me.

Sundance turned in his seat.

"Don't wind me up, boy."

I took a deep, deep breath and kept going for it.

"I've got proof of everything that's happened. Everything."

He didn't even bother to look round this time.

"Shut it."

Trainers' hand chopped down on the spacer bar between the cuffs. The metal jarred agonizingly on my wrists, but I knew it was nothing compared with what would happen if I didn't buy myself some time.

"Look!" I gasped, 'it's me stitched today, it could be you lot next. No one gives a fuck about people like us. That's why I keep records. For my own security."

We were approaching the Elephant and Castle roundabout, passing the pink shopping centre. I nodded to give Trainers the message that I was going to shut up. I wasn't a fool, I knew when to shut up or talk. I wanted to make the little I knew go a long way. I wanted them to feel I was confident and secure, and that they would be making a big mistake if they didn't pay attention. I just hoped it wasn't me making the mistake.

I looked in the mirror again. It was impossible to tell whether this was having any effect on Sundance. I was just feeling that maybe I should get in another instalment when he sparked up.

"What do you know, then, boy?"

I shrugged.

"Everything, including those three hits just now." Fuck it, I might as well go right to the top of the bullshit stakes.

Trainers' brown, bloodshot eyes and broken nose faced me without emotion. It was impossible to tell whether he was going to hurt me or not. I decided to try to save my skin big-time before he made up his mind.

"I taped the briefing that you drove for." Which was a lie.

"I've got pictures of the locations." Which was true.

"And pictures and serial numbers of the weapons. I've got all the dates, all diaried, even pictures of the snipers."

We turned down towards the Old Kent Road, and as I shifted position slightly I glimpsed Sundance's face in the wing mirror.

He was looking dead ahead, his expression giving nothing away.

"Show me."

That was easy enough.

"Sniper Two is a woman, she's in her early thirties and she has brown hair." I resisted the temptation to say more. I needed to show him I knew a lot, but without running out of information too early.

There was silence. I got the impression that Sundance had started to listen carefully, which I took as my chance to carry on. 'You need to tell him," I said.

"Just think about the shit you'll be in if you don't. Frampton won't be first in the queue for taking the blame. It'll be you lot who get that for sure." The message had at least got through to Trainers. He was swapping glances with Sundance in the mirror: my cue not even to look up now, but let them get on with it.

We stopped at a set of lights, level with carloads of families swigging from cans of Coke and doing the bored-in-the-back-seat stuff. The four of us just sat there as if we were on our way to a funeral. It was pointless me trying to raise the alarm with any of these people as they smoked or picked their noses waiting for the green. I just had to depend on Sundance to make a decision soon. If he didn't, I'd try again, and keep on until they silenced me. I'd been trying hard not to think about that too much.

We approached a large retail park, with signs for B&Q, Halford's and McDonald's.

Sundance pointed at the entrance sign.

"In there for five." The indicator immediately started clicking and we cut across the traffic.

I tried not to show my elation, and let my eyes concentrate hard on the lunchbox of tricks at the top of the sports bag as I felt the Merc lurch over a speed bump.

We stopped near a bacon roll and stewy tea van, and Sundance immediately got out. Trolleys filled with pot plants, paint and planks of wood trundled past on the tarmac as he walked out of sight somewhere behind us, dialling into a StarT ac that he'd pulled from his jacket.