Jack Slater - No Place to Hide

With two of the car’s side-windows wound slightly down to avoid misting up, it did not take long for the inside of the car to get as bitterly cold as the outside. Pete was glad of the heavy police-issue coat he was wearing. His hands were clad in thick gloves, but still the cold seeped into him as he sat there, waiting for Petrosyan to emerge, not even certain that he would.

He remembered Annie, the previous morning, running from the car to meet her friends, bundled up in a thick coat, black gloves and a black wool hat with a pale, furry bobble on top, winter tights under a skirt that, even at ten years old, she was starting to wear too damn short for his liking. But at least she was warm.

He grunted. At this moment, she’d still be tucked up in bed, fast asleep.

What about her brother?

Where was he, and what was he doing? What was he wearing on this icy morning? Was he indoors somewhere? God, I hope so , Pete thought. The idea of him hunched, shivering, in some freezing corner of the city , probably with no winter coat, never mind a hat or gloves or enough to eat, no shelter except perhaps from the rain – And thank God it’s not doing that – made his stomach twist and his teeth clamp together in anguish.

Wherever the boy was, Pete hoped he was at least warm enough. Cold like this could kill a person, especially if they were undernourished and vulnerable. He sucked air in through a throat clogged by emotion.

He shook his head, refusing to allow the thought to go any further. Come on, Pete. Focus. But there was still no activity to be seen in his side-mirror. The street was quiet and still.

He caught a flicker of movement, but it was just a dark cat jumping up onto the wall of the house beyond where the Armenian – if he even was one – was living. As he watched, it jumped down onto the footpath and disappeared under a car. Pete was briefly tempted to switch his gaze to the other mirror, to see it emerge on the road, but resisted. He had to stay alert. This whole operation depended on his spotting Petrosyan as soon as he came out.

He waited a while longer, then checked his watch again. Almost seven. He shivered. Maybe he should start the car and close the windows, just for five minutes, warm himself up a bit . . .

It was incredibly tempting. But, if Petrosyan came out, heard the engine running and saw no one . . . People around here wouldn’t leave a car running unattended to defrost the windscreen. It was dodgy enough where Pete lived but here, on the rougher side of the river . . . No way.

He rubbed his gloved hands together briskly and wriggled his shoulders inside his coat.

Movement.

He stared at the side-mirror. A door swung open. A man stepped out, breath pluming, closed the door behind him and headed for the pavement. Stocky and bald, his head gleaming under the street lights. His distinctive, thick leather jacket matched the description Dave had provided to a T.

Petrosyan.

He lifted his radio. ‘Heads up, people. Engines off. Our man’s on the move.’

The target started towards him along the narrow pavement.

‘Coming this way,’ Pete said quietly into the radio. ‘Jane, be alert. Dave, come on round. Gently does it. No rush.’ He paused, waiting. Watching from low in the seat, hidden by the headrest.

Petrosyan turned at the junction.

‘Jane, target approaching you.’

‘Got him, boss.’

‘Dave, you’re up.’

‘Roger that.’

The man in the leather jacket had now gone from Pete’s view. He knew that Jane would have eyes on him until he turned another corner or, if not, for a good two hundred yards, so there was no rush for Dave to take up the pursuit.

Behind him, headlights showed, coming up around the junction beyond the target house as Dick Feeney drove slowly up into view.

‘Steady, Dick. Jane’s got him for a minute or two unless she says different.’

‘He’s in sight,’ she confirmed. Then, ‘Hang on. He’s gone behind a van.’ A pause. ‘There. He’s crossing over. Continuing down the street.’

They waited.

Then the radio hissed again. ‘He’s turned. Right, right, right. Gone from view.’

‘OK, Dick. Drive straight down the hill. Try and spot him on the way past the road he’s turned into, but don’t slow down. I’ll go down the next one along and come in from the far end so he can’t suspect anything.’

‘Affirmative.’

Pete saw the headlights of Feeney’s car moving towards him in his mirror as he switched on the ignition. ‘Which cross-street, Jane?’

‘Third one down from here. That’s the third one.’

‘Roger that.’ He pulled out as Dick turned down towards Jane’s position, heading further along the road to take the next left. He was approaching the second cross-street down the hill when the radio crackled again.

‘Target sighted,’ said Dave. ‘Right side of the street, still walking.’

Pete relaxed slightly. As he’d suspected, the Armenian was heading for the small group of shops along there. A newsagent’s cum post office, a fish and chip shop and a small independent pet shop were set back slightly from the 1950s houses to either side so that three or four cars could park in front of them.

‘OK, Dick,’ he said into the radio. ‘Turn around where you can. He’ll be going to the newsagent’s. Jane, you can come on down, too.’

He made the turn and spotted Petrosyan walking towards him, about a hundred and fifty yards away. Like the other streets around here, the houses had no drives or garages. It was parallel parking on the street, wherever you could find a space. Pete spotted one and stopped to reverse into it. Ahead of him, Petrosyan turned into the newsagent’s, as expected. Pete keyed the radio mike again. ‘Heads up. He’s in the shop. Move in, move in.’

He finished parking and switched off the engine as two cars turned into the junction ahead of him, one from the left, one from the right. Taking the radio with him, he stepped out of the car.

‘Jane, leave your car back a bit. Dick, come in and stop outside the shops,’ he ordered, then tucked the radio into his pocket as he headed in on foot. He was just turning into the narrow forecourt of the shops when the door of the newsagent’s opened, bell tinkling, and the Armenian stepped out, a newspaper folded under his arm, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

‘Morning,’ Pete said with a nod.

Petrosyan glanced at him. His small eyes narrowed.

A car pulled up to Pete’s right. ‘Good thing I bumped into you, Gagik,’ he said. ‘I need a word.’

Petrosyan’s frown turned instantly to a snarl. ‘You’re a cop.’

Pete held his calm expression. ‘I am, but you’re not under arrest.’ He heard the door of the car to his right open and close. Jane’s footsteps were echoing along the pavement behind Petrosyan. ‘Somebody in Exeter is going around killing people. His latest victim, he used what I’m told is very likely your product in the process, so you might be able to help me identify him.’

‘Why should I help you?’

‘I’ve got two officers to your right and another one behind you.’

Despite himself, Petrosyan glanced over his shoulder.

‘If we wanted you in custody, you would be by now,’ Pete went on. ‘We just need to talk. The guy we’re after is busy reducing your alleged customer base as we speak, so it would be good for business for you to help us.’

‘What business?’

‘We know exactly what business you’re in, Gagik. But, like I said, we don’t care. Not this morning. All we need is to find out who’s been buying suxamethonium recently.’

Petrosyan stepped in close to Pete. Although he was a good five inches shorter, his bulk and his attitude were enough to intimidate most people and he relied on them now as he tried to stare Pete out. ‘Why would I tell you, even if I knew? What would it do to my reputation if I did that?’