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JIM
Five of us turned up: me, and four men in full gear. Black clothing, bullet-proofed jackets, caps that
hide your eyes, and shoes with soles that were thick enough to do damage. All my men were armed.
All of us wore earpieces, to keep in radio contact. I was leading.
It was 0500 hours. It was dark. Early morning hush was settled over the neighbourhood like a
blanket.
We parked quietly around the corner, killing the car engine quickly, and when we got out we didn’t
talk, communicating with gestures only. Three of us stayed at the end of the driveway, in the shadows
and out of sight, and we waited there silently while I sent two around the side of the property.
We didn’t want anybody slipping out of the back.
Streetlights revealed that the bungalow was in bad condition, in contrast to the neighbouring
properties, which were immaculate, their front gardens displaying neatly trimmed lawns, and tended
borders, containing closely clipped shrubs like shiny suburban trophies.
The flowerbeds in our bungalow’s garden were overgrown, and the lawn was muddy and unkempt,
but the metal gate at the side of the house had shiny black paint on it and its latch didn’t squeak when
my two DCs opened it and sidled through it.
My guess was that its decline was recent.
There was a single garage to the side of the bungalow; its door was shut but in good nick, and the
driveway had been expensively relaid at some point recently. There was no crunchy gravel to give us
away. There was also no vehicle in the driveway, no curtains drawn at the front and no lights on in the
house, and I hoped to God the place wasn’t empty.
On my signal, two of the men approached the front door and stood either side of it, tucked in, so
that they weren’t visible through the frosted glass in the door, not until they were ready to be.
There was a security light above them, but it didn’t come on. They had a battering ram with them, a
black metal cylinder, so that they could break down the door if necessary.
They didn’t look at me. They were focused on the door, waiting to hear my voice in their earpieces.
‘Go,’ I whispered into my radio. I knew the command would transmit loud and clear, and they didn’t
hesitate. They rang the bell, hammered on the door, shouted through the letter flap: ‘Police, let us in.
Police!’
The noise ripped through the pre-dawn stillness.
By the time a light came on in the hallway of the bungalow the other properties around us were lit
up like Christmas trees and we were about to bash the door in.
A woman opened it, just an inch or two at first, suspicious eyes peering through. She looked as
though she’d been asleep. She wore tracksuit bottoms, plastic clogs and a nurse’s tabard. My men
pushed past her. I followed.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
She pointed towards the end of the hall opposite. One of my men was already down there; the other
had gone into the front rooms. I ran down the hall, but even before I’d travelled those few paces I
knew it had gone wrong when my man said, ‘In here, boss,’ and his voice sagged. He stood in the
doorway just ahead of me and his body language had relaxed, adrenalin gone. There was no threat.
As I pushed past him, he said, ‘He’s not going anywhere.’
In the middle of the room was a hospital bed. In the bed lay a man, his eyes wide balls of fear. He
was underneath a white sheet that he’d pulled up to his neck with fingers that scrunched the material