There was no reply. No further glass crashed or tinkled.
They waited a couple of yards to either side of the front door. From this close range, it was plain that Reg Cowling was dead. His face had been blown away; in fact, his head had almost detached. However, Bishop, while wounded in the face, which was riddled with gashes and splinters, and the right shoulder, which resembled raw beefsteak through the rents in his smouldering jacket, was vaguely conscious. He was ashen-cheeked, but his eyes, which by some miracle had both survived, were visible beneath fluttering, blood-dabbled lashes.
‘Bastard went for head-shots,’ Heck said. ‘Expected them to be wearing body armour.’
Penny Flint had told them Sagan was a pro. Here was the proof.
‘This is Heck,’ he said into his radio. ‘Update on the casualties … both in a collapsed state and suffering extensive gunshot injuries. DS Cowling appears to be dead, DC Bishop is conscious and breathing – how long for, I can’t say. We still can’t reach them.’
Gemma’s response broke continually and was delivered in a breathless voice, which indicated she was running. Before he could make sense of it, it was blotted out by another explosion of glass from inside the flat.
‘He’s going for it!’ Quinnell warned. ‘Must have decided the coast’s clear!’
‘I repeat, we are armed police officers!’ Heck shouted. ‘Throw your weapon out!’
With a third shuddering BOOM!, what remained of the front door was blasted outward. Again, DC Bishop got lucky. The shot was directed above him, so though he was bombarded by wreckage, he was spared further pellet-wounds.
A loud clunk/clack from inside signified that a fourth shell had been ratcheted into place.
‘Pump-action!’ Heck said.
More glass was struck from its frame. The detectives locked gazes across the open doorway, brows beaded with sweat.
‘We can’t just let him run,’ Heck stated flatly.
Quinnell didn’t argue the point.
Heck swallowed the apple-sized lump of phlegm in his throat, and wheeled partly around into the doorway, only his left arm, left shoulder and the left side of his head visible as he tried to pinpoint the target. Quinnell did the same from the other side.
But the immediate area, which was an actual living room, was bare of life.
There was no sign of the guy. None at all.
They were vaguely aware of plain, simple furnishings, of bookshelves that were empty, of bland pictures on the walls. But there were also doors to other areas, one on the left and one on the right. On the far side of the room stood three tall sash-windows. The left one had been smashed out.
‘Doors first,’ Heck said, running right, but finding only an empty bathroom. ‘Clear!’ he yelled, spinning back.
Quinnell had gone left. He reappeared from the bedroom. ‘Clear.’
Heck darted for the left window, which had had to be broken because, by the look of it, Sagan had only been able to lift the lower panel several inches. He flattened himself against the wall, and risked a glance through it. Some twenty feet below, a figure in dark clothing – what looked like a heavy overcoat – and with the shotgun hung from its shoulder by a strap, scampered away across the tops of five flat-roofed garages standing in a terraced row. It was instantly apparent how he’d got down there. Some five feet to the left of the window, about six feet above it, there was a horizontal steel grating – the platform section of an old-fashioned fire escape. The fire escape stair dropped steeply down on the far side of that. There was no possibility of reaching either the stair or the platform by jumping. But the killer had prepared for this in advance by connecting a knotted rope to the underside of the grating, and looping it over a hook alongside his window, where it would hang down the apartment house wall unobtrusively. All he’d had to do when the time came was get a firm grip, unhook it so that it swung away from the window, thus preventing anyone in pursuit using the same method, and slither down to the garage roofs.
Heck peered dully at the hanging rope a good five feet away. He was vaguely aware of Quinnell appearing alongside him.
‘Bastard!’ the Welshman said, spying the dwindling form of Sagan as he reached the far end of the garages.
About sixty yards to the right of these, a uniformed police car swung over the grass into Charlton Court from the cul-de-sac at the front. Unfortunately, it was only a divisional patrol responding to the call that had just gone out, and it wouldn’t be armed, which rendered it next to useless. Besides, Sagan had now jumped from the left side of the garage roofs onto Bellfield Lane, which led away at a much lower level. As well as the rugged, rubbish-strewn slope slanting down to this, there was a high mesh fence along its edge, which formed an impassable barrier for vehicles. Sagan made a rapidly diminishing shape as he raced away along the lower road. Still there was no sign of a Trojan unit.
‘Check the casualties,’ Heck said tightly.
Quinnell nodded, and went back across the flat.
Heck holstered his Glock and put his mic to his mouth. ‘This is DS Heckenburg … urgent message. Suspect, John Sagan, is at large and on foot … male IC1, mid-forties, fair-haired, wearing glasses and a dark, possibly black overcoat. Currently escaping northeast along Bellfield Lane. Warning, Sagan is armed with a pump shotgun and more than willing to use it. For the cerebrally challenged, that means he’s armed and dangerous. I repeat: John Sagan is armed and very dangerous!’ He bit his lip, and added: ‘In pursuit.’
‘Hey, whoa!’ Gary Quinnell shouted, as Heck climbed up into the casement.
The hanging rope was only five feet away. Heck knew there was a good chance he’d make it, but he also knew that if he stopped to think about this he wouldn’t go any further. So he didn’t think, just launched himself out, diving full-length – and dropping like a stone, maybe ten feet, before managing to catch hold of the rope. Several more feet of cold, greasy hemp slid through his fingers before he brought himself to a halt, ripping both his gloves and the flesh of the palms underneath. Doing his best to ignore the blistering pain, he clambered down and alighted on the garage roof nearest the building.
‘Suspect heading northeast along Bellfield Lane!’ he shouted down to the two uniforms who’d spilled onto Charlton Court from their patrol car, faces aghast at what they’d just seen Heck do. ‘Spread the word!’
Without waiting for a response, Heck ran due north along the flimsy roofs, feet drumming on damp planks covered only in tarpaper, jabbering into his radio again, giving instructions as best he could. At the far end, he dropped onto all fours and swung his body over the parapet. He hung full-length and dropped the last five feet, before careering downhill through grass and clutter onto the road.
‘Bellfield Lane heading northeast,’ he shouted, hammering along the tarmac. ‘Any units in that direction to respond, over?’ But the airwaves were jammed with cross-cutting messages. ‘Shit … come on, someone!’
As he ran, the vast concrete shape of a railway gantry loomed towards him. Above it, stroboscopic lights sped back and forth as trains hurtled between East Dulwich and Peckham Rye. Conversely, the shadows beneath the structure were oil-black. In normal times this would be a muggers’ paradise, but Heck was armed, and besides the night was now alive with sirens – it was just a pity none were in the immediate vicinity.
Beyond the railway overpass, a sheer brick wall stood on the right, but on the left there was wire fencing, and behind that another slope angling down to a glass-littered car park. The fence’s second section was loose, disconnected along the bottom, giving easy access to the other side. Heck swerved towards it – only to find that his quarry, neatly camouflaged in his all-black garb, had secreted himself flat at the foot of the waiting slope. The first Heck knew of this was the muzzle-flash, and the hail of shot that swept