Female officers are considered better at delivering bad news, which is why I get so many death knocks, but I had no answers for Bashir’s family. His mother collapsed when I told her what had happened. She sobbed and beat her fists against her husband’s chest, as though blaming him for bringing her to such a cruel and lawless country.
Now I am back at my desk, typing up notes. Nish is sitting opposite me, searching the footage from traffic cameras and CCTV from the bus. Two suspects have been identified using the Gang Violence Matrix database, which gives suspected gang members a rating of either red, amber or green, depending on their level of risk.
It is four days since my run-in with Darren Goodall and the grazes have all but healed. I haven’t made an official complaint or followed up on the text messages being sent to Tempe.
I glance up at Nish.
‘If you suspected a fellow officer of illegally accessing databases, would you inform on him?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘The reasons, maybe. I mean, they could be harmless.’
‘What if you suspected this officer was stalking his former girlfriend?’
‘Leave it alone, Phil.’
‘Are you advising me, or answering my question?’
‘Both,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder, worried we might be overheard. ‘This is about Goodall.’
‘It’s a hypothetical.’
Nish doesn’t believe me. I swivel my chair away and go back to the screen.
The radio chatter from the control room has increased in volume. Heavy boots echo in the corridor outside. The shift sergeant is at the door, yelling across the room.
‘We have an address. We’re moving.’
I feel my adrenaline spike.
‘Can I go, Sarge?’
He takes a moment, rolling his shoulders. ‘Briefing in five.’
I dash upstairs and grab my stab vest and helmet before joining the others. The officer in charge is a chief inspector, Jack Horgan, who I haven’t met before. He’s shaven-headed, with a rumbling voice, and is dressed entirely in black, bulked up by a bullet-proof vest.
‘We have identified two suspects, Aldous Fisher and Darnel Redmond,’ says Horgan.
Mugshots appear on the TV screen behind him. The men are young, with tight curls and neck tattoos. ‘Fisher has form for drug possession and property crimes. Redmond was convicted of a knife attack three years ago and is out on parole. His brother, Arlo Redmond, is serving a life sentence for murdering a shopkeeper in Brixton.’
The image changes to a map of South London.
‘Redmond has an aunt who lives on the Brandon Estate. That’s the address he gave when he was treated in hospital two weeks ago for a stab wound to his thigh. He and a second man, believed to be Fisher, were seen near the Brandon Estate less than an hour ago.’
We are divided into two teams of five, each with a call sign and a team commander. The briefing ends and we’re moving. Ten of us are crammed into the minivan, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, sweating in our heavy gear. There are eight men and two women. Some are making jokes to relieve the tension. Gallows humour. It doesn’t mean they’re uncaring, or making light of the task, merely finding a way to calm their nerves.
The windows are fogging up, but I can recognise the streets as we drive towards Kennington Park. The Brandon Estate was built in the 1950s as social housing. The six eighteen-storey towers that were labelled slums in the seventies and the ‘estate from hell’ in the nineties. Periodically, attempts are made to clean them up, but some stains are too hard to wash out.
Redmond’s aunt lives on the second floor of Cornish House, which is in darkness except for a haphazard chequerboard of lighted windows, some softened by curtains, or blinds. Washing hangs from balconies, along with the occasional Union Jack flag or BLM banner. We park out of sight and move quickly towards the tower. Boots echo in the stairwell. Horgan raises his fist. We pause. He wants two officers at each end of the corridor and two more guarding the stairs. Two more will swing the ‘big red key’， a hand-held battering ram. Others will guard the stairwells.
‘Where do you want me, sir?’ I ask.
Horgan ignores the question. I glance at my colleagues, but nobody is looking at me. They are taking up positions.
‘What about the balcony?’ I ask.
‘We’re on the third floor.’
‘Second floor,’ I say. ‘It’s jumpable.’
Horgan doesn’t like being contradicted. ‘If you’d prefer to wait outside, PC McCarthy, be my guest.’
I’m surprised he knows my name.
I haven’t moved.
‘Are you disobeying a direct order?’
‘I didn’t realise it was an order, sir.’
I descend the stairs and walk towards the parking area. A footpath cuts across the lawn, dotted with lampposts that are throwing patches of light onto the grass and bitumen.
I hear the first call of ‘Police, open up!’ and the sound of the battering ram, splintering the door. At that moment, from the corner of my eye, I spot a dark shadow swing from one balcony to the lower one. A second figure is climbing over the railing. I start to run, as the two men make the final drop.
They’re sixty yards away. I yell at them to stop and stay where they are, but they scramble upright and sprint away from me.
I punch the button on my shoulder radio: ‘Delta four, two men have gone over the balcony. Pursuing on foot heading west. I’m crossing Hillingdon Street.’
They are cutting between two of the other towers, along an tarmac path that leads to sporting fields. I can pick out the silhouettes of the trees and the ghostly rectangles of football nets.
They are quicker than I am and they know the area, every shortcut and hiding place. I have to keep them in sight until back-up arrives. Horgan is talking to me, but I can’t hear his instructions over my ragged breathing and heavy boots on the tarmac.
We reach a road, which turns north past the community hall. Ahead of me I see the silhouette of a steeple and catch a glimpse of a name on the church noticeboard, yelling my location into my radio.
A car turns a corner. The headlights blind me momentarily and I crash into a rubbish bin. The men have stopped the vehicle and are trying to open the doors, which are locked. They’re yelling and kicking at the sides of the car. I catch a glimpse of an elderly black man behind the wheel, who looks terrified.
Giving up, they peel away and continue running, turning left into Kennington Park Place, heading towards the A3. There are roadworks ahead. Barricades. They leap the concrete bollards and suddenly split up. I follow the bigger of the two, Aldous Fisher, who’s also the slowest. Every so often he looks over his shoulder, hoping that he’s losing me or that I’ve given up. He’s getting tired.
He turns right, crosses the road and turns left up a one-way street. I relay the name of the road, breathing hard between the words. He turns another corner, and when I swing around the railing fence, I lose sight of him. I stop and move forward slowly. He could be hiding between parked cars or behind the hedge.
‘I might have lost him?’ I say into the radio, giving my location and a description of his clothing: black jeans, a T-shirt and a sleeveless quilted jacket. ‘I think it’s Aldous Fisher.’