War on the Streets. Peter Cave
he leaned across his passenger and brought the pistol up, taking careful aim. Then, with an insane little giggle, he shot the policeman straight through the forehead, between the eyes.
The youth lowered the gun again and unhurriedly opened the driver’s side door. He climbed out, dragging his girlfriend behind him. Hand in hand, they crossed the paralysed road to the far pavement and began to stroll casually in the direction of Marble Arch, firing shots indiscriminately into the crowds of panicking shoppers.
Two hours later, Commissioner McMillan had a full report on his desk. He read it gloomily, digesting the horrific facts. The constable had died instantly, of course. Of the four subsequent victims, one young woman had been dead on arrival at hospital and an older woman was on life support and not expected to make it. The two other bullet wounds were serious, but not critical. The Escort, stolen two days earlier in West Hampstead, had contained several bundles of right-wing pamphlets and propaganda material, along with a Czech-built Skorpion machine-pistol in the boot. The couple had eventually disappeared, unchallenged, into the underground system. By now, they could be anywhere.
McMillan finished reading the report with a heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. All the pieces seemed to fit the pattern. Pushing the document across his desk, he sighed heavily. So it had started already, he reflected bitterly. He’d been hoping they’d have a little more time.
Sergeant Andrew Winston took a careful and calculated look at the pot on the table before flicking his eyes over his hand again. It was not an easy call. Seventy-five quid in the pot, a fiver to stay in the game and he was holding a queen flush. Winston hesitated, feeling vulnerable. Three-card brag wasn’t really his game; he was more of a poker man. He’d only allowed himself to be suckered in out of boredom.
‘Come on, Andrew,’ Andy Collins taunted him from across the table. ‘Put up or fold up. Or are you chicken?’
Winston never got a chance to answer the challenge. A strange hand plucked the three cards from his hand, dropping them face down on the table.
‘He’s not chicken – he’s just sensible.’
Winston whirled round, ready to jump to his feet and ready for a fight. Interfering with a man’s gambling hand was serious business. He recognized Lieutenant-Colonel Davies at once, instantly relaxing. His face broke into a surprised grin. ‘Hello, boss. What a coincidence, seeing you in this boozer.’
Davies shook his head. ‘Not really. I was looking for you.’
Winston was still puzzled. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’
Davies smiled. ‘I didn’t. But I’ve already been to just about every other pub in Hereford.’ He nodded at the cards. ‘Pick up your money. I need to talk to you.’
Winston looked uncertainly at the two players remaining in the game.
‘Don’t even worry about it,’ Davies assured him. ‘Collins wasn’t your real threat, except he’d have kept you both in the game longer and cost you more money. Pretty Boy’s the danger. My guess is that he’s holding a run – or better.’
It was a prediction which was about to be put to the test. Emboldened by the fantasy that he had bluffed Winston out of the game, Collins dropped his jack flush triumphantly. ‘See you, Pretty. Got you, I reckon.’
Pretty Boy Parrit shot him a scornful glance. ‘You got to be fucking joking, my old son.’ Slowly, deliberately, he laid out the king, queen and ace of spades and reached for the ashtray full of money.
Collins’s face dropped. ‘You spawny bastard. I thought you were bluffing.’
Pretty Boy grinned wickedly. ‘Who dares wins,’ he joked, scooping up the pot.
Impressed, Winston looked up at Davies. ‘How did you know?’
Davies shrugged. ‘Probably from playing a damned sight more games in the spider than you’ve had hot dinners. And from knowing men, being able to read faces.’ It was an expression of quiet confidence, rather than a boast.
Winston pushed himself to his feet. ‘But what if you’d been wrong?’ he asked.
Davies grinned. ‘I’d have paid you myself,’ he said – and Winston had no doubts at all that the man was perfectly sincere.
‘So, what did you want to talk to me about, boss?’ Winston asked, after Davies had bought fresh pints and led the way to an empty table. Davies took a sip of his bitter, eyeing Winston over the top of the glass. ‘Something’s coming up,’ he said flatly. ‘And I want you in on it.’ He paused for a few moments, savouring his beer. Finally, when the glass was half empty, he launched into a slightly edited account of the events of the past two days.
Winston listened carefully until Davies had completely finished. There was a slightly ironic smile on his face when he finally spoke. ‘Excuse me for pointing it out, boss, but aren’t you forgetting something rather important.’
Davies looked puzzled. ‘What?’
Winston laughed. ‘For Christ’s sake, you’re looking at it. Or are you getting colour-blind in your old age? I’m black, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Davies stared at the big Barbadian’s grinning features with a perfectly straight face. ‘Fuck me – are you?’ he said, in mock surprise.
Both men shared the joke for a few moments, before Winston spoke again. His face was more serious now. ‘No, seriously though, boss. If we’re really talking about mixing with a bunch of these crazy fascist bastards, having me around ain’t going to help much, is it?’
It was Davies’s turn to be serious now. He felt a little awkward, knowing that he had to step on sensitive ground. ‘Maybe you’re forgetting something, Andrew,’ he pointed out. ‘Like it or not, the fact is that a high proportion of London’s drug abuse occurs within the black community,’ he went on, almost apologetically. ‘You’ll be able to get to places, gain the confidence of people who wouldn’t give us poor honky bastards a chance.’
Winston conceded the point with a nod. ‘Yeah, you’re right there, boss. I hadn’t thought of that.’
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘Well, what do you think?’ Davies asked eventually. ‘Do you want in?’
Winston didn’t really need to think about it. He was normally a mild, easy-going man who never made a big thing out of race, and he was well aware that some of his more militant brethren would probably refer to him disparagingly as a white nigger for doing the job he did. But he had a quiet, but unshakeable pride – both as a man and as a black man. All extremes of bigotry offended his sense of decency and humanity. As he would sometimes say, if pressed on the matter: ‘We all bleed the same colour.’
He looked Davies in the eyes, nodding his head firmly. ‘I’m in,’ he muttered. ‘All the way.’
‘Good.’ Davies raised what was left of his pint by way of a toast. ‘I’m calling a briefing in the Kremlin for 0900 hours on Thursday. Meanwhile, I’d like you to come up with a few names, if you can. You’re closer to ground level than I am these days.’
‘Who have we got so far?’ Winston wanted to know.
There seemed no reason to withhold the information, Davies thought. He felt totally confident that he could count on the man’s discretion. ‘I’ve already called in Major Anderson from Belfast. And Captains Blake and Feeney will be at the meeting,’ he said. ‘With you on board, that should take care of the officer level. What we need now is a couple of dozen young but reliable troopers with plenty of recent experience in the Killing House. If we’re putting combat-armed men out on the streets, they’re going to need bloody fast reactions.’
Winston nodded in agreement. Davies was right about the