An Imperfect Killing. Luke Delaney

‘She reported him for harassment about four months ago and had a restraining order issued preventing him from approaching her in person or by letter, email etcetera – the usual stuff. Suspect’s name is Ruben Thurlby.’

      ‘And what do we know about Ruben Thurlby?’ Featherstone demanded.

      ‘IC1,’ Benton began, using the police racial code for white/European, ‘six foot three inches tall, heavy build, forty-two years old with some learning difficulties. Apparently he likes to dress in combat clothing and has a generally unkempt appearance. He has no previous convictions other than the harassment charge, although he was arrested for breaching the restraining order only a few weeks ago. Home address is a council flat on the Rockingham Estate, SE1. He lives alone.’

      ‘So,’ Featherstone nodded, ‘he just couldn’t stay away from our victim eh?’

      Sean could already see Ruben Thurlby in his mind – sitting alone in his council flat, dressed in filthy combat clothes, surrounded by cuttings from magazines and newspapers of Sue Evans as he made the homemade bullets to fit the reactivated replica or blank-firing revolver he’d probably had for years. He could almost hear Thurlby mumbling to himself as he prepared the weapon he’d use to take his revenge on the woman who’d so cruelly turned down his love and betrayed him to the police.

      ‘What do you reckon, Sean?’ Featherstone sought his opinion, dragging him back to the real world. ‘Sound good to you?’

      ‘Sounds like we need to speak to him,’ he agreed.

      ‘Good,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Put a team together and let’s have him nicked, but use SO19 to take him down. As far as we know he’s still armed. The shooting was only hours ago so he’s probably still a forensic goldmine. The sooner we have him in the better chance we have of preserving the evidence that’ll convict the bastard. I’m beginning to smell an early result people, so let’s get on it.’ He rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘As soon as he’s nicked let me know.’

      Sean nodded and turned to Benton. ‘Grab four people you trust – full body armour, just in case. You never can tell which ones want to go out in a blaze of glory.’

      ***

      Sean and Benton sat in the unmarked car parked in Tiverton Street on the Rockingham Estate in Southwark – a sprawling, brown brick monstrosity built in the 1950s to replace bombed-out housing from the war. They were far enough away from Thurlby’s fourth floor flat so as not to be too obvious, but close enough to be able to see him if he came out of his front door and onto the communal balcony-walkway that led to the stairs and lifts. Several of the local youths had already clocked them as police – keeping a watch on them from a distance like a group of meerkats tracking a snake in the grass. Sean hoped that Thurlby’s learning difficulties meant he wouldn’t be as alert as the local neighbourhood police watch. But even they hadn’t noticed the nondescript satellite-dish installation van and another disguised as a self-drive rental. Each contained half a dozen heavily armed SO19 officers who were just waiting for the word that the target was out and in the open from the observation point in an empty flat in the block opposite Thurlby’s. As soon as that happened all hell would break loose.

      ‘D’you think he’s our man?’ Benton asked.

      ‘Looks about right,’ Sean shrugged, ‘but I won’t know for sure until I see him – until I speak to him.’

      ‘You mean until we interview him?’ Benton thought he’d corrected him.

      ‘Yeah, sure,’ Sean lied. ‘Until we interview him.’

      ‘You were a DC on an MIT too weren’t you?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Sean answered sounding uninterested.