‘Oi!’ she shouted, dodging around the vacuum cleaner that had been dumped in the middle of the staircase. From below, I could hear the cleaner’s footsteps increasing to a sprint. I heard the front door go crashing open, followed by the revving of an engine.
We made it outside just in time to see the cleaner stuffing his head into a helmet while clambering onto the back of the moped. The bike went putting off over the pavement into Furnival Street, slowing only briefly to negotiate the concrete bollards before disappearing towards Holborn with a sound like a mosquito fading into the night.
‘Fuck!’ Zara cried. ‘They’re going for Omar!’
‘Come on,’ I said, already turning. ‘I know a quicker way!’
We sprinted across Chancery and up to the Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn. It must’ve been coming up to seven o’clock now, because an old custodian was sauntering up to the gate from the other side, whistling and selecting the appropriate key from his bunch. He fell backwards shouting when we barged through the gate.
I could hear Zara panting into her phone. ‘Hello? Police! I need Detective Inspector Jack Linford! It’s an emergency! There’s going to be a violent assault! Bruce House! The back of Drury Lane! Just fucking send somebody! Anybody!’
By the time she hung up, we’d made it through Lincoln’s Inn and were out of the gatehouse at the south-east corner, pelting along the perimeter of Lincoln’s Inn Field, the fence they’d raised to deter the homeless back in 1993. This was no jog. It was a flat-out sprint. When I finally reached Sardinia Street, the buildings were disappearing around me. All I could hear was my own wheezing, like an astronaut floating in darkness, a deep-sea diver sinking into black. Screws turned in the backs of my thighs, ankles and knees. Sagging hair clouded my vision.
Ahead, Zara had come to an abrupt stop at the edge of Kingsway, the main road running from left to right with a steel barrier dividing its four lanes through the centre. She was listening for something. I paused, focusing hard, and heard it too. The moped was now coming down Kingsway from the right. There was a rally of horns as it tore recklessly through the lanes and then Zara was off again, zigzagging between black cabs and nimbly jumping the barrier. I followed, vaulting over, legs like concrete, and almost tripped in front of a northbound bus. Then we were on Kemble, which forked onto Wild Street to the right, and I saw the small bike rocketing towards us from that direction. I leapt with arms outstretched as if I might be able to tackle the riders from it, but there was no chance; they were several feet ahead already, whizzing up towards the sign for Bruce House Centre on the left.
And like a spill of petrol flowing beside an open flame, I saw what was going to happen before it ever did. From my distance of about thirty yards, I could make out the cluster of figures standing in the archway of the building’s brown double doors, cigarette smoke rising idly into dusk; I didn’t have to identify Omar for my gut to be sure that he was somewhere in the middle.
In unison, the smokers turned towards the bike, which had slowed to a crawl, then a halt. The passenger in the cleaning overalls was reaching for something, and the next thing I knew, Zara had turned on the spot and was running straight back towards me.
‘Back!’ she cried, pushing against my chest. ‘Get back!’
A sharp popping sound; three, four, five cracks accompanied by small bursts of light. It took my brain another second to realise that the passenger with the handgun had opened fire on the smokers.
Now somebody was screaming. The glass in the hostel’s doors had shattered. Two of the smokers were on the ground. One was crawling but the other wasn’t. The remaining bystanders had lunged into the safety of the building.
A siren was coming. Maybe two. Still not near enough. I pushed Zara aside and started running again, shoes pounding. Ahead, the bike’s red brake light went out. It took off up the remainder of the street and hurtled left instead of right onto Drury Lane, head first into the one-way system.
The blast of a horn; it looked as if the driver of the moped simply didn’t hear it. The next screaming sounds were those of brakes. For a split second, the assailants glowed white in the headlights of an oncoming van, but the moped nimbly avoided the bonnet and left the van to swerve straight into a parked Range Rover. Then the pair were gone, only seconds after arriving.
I made it to Bruce House with nails in my chest, very nearly suffocating on my feet. The first thing I saw was a young woman sprawled on her back, unconscious. It looked as if she’d fainted; I hoped to God that was all that had happened to her. Omar was still moving, jaw clenched, using a single elbow in a sort of half trench crawl for the doors. Blood smeared behind him in a slug-trail across the pavement. I glanced back to make sure Zara was all right and saw her on the phone again.
Omar blinked up at me, almost casually. ‘Hey, man. I think I’ve just been shot.’
‘Try not to move,’ I rasped, dropping to my haunches. ‘Where are you hit?’
‘Shoulder, feels like.’ He frowned, his elbow wobbling beneath his own weight. ‘Have I been shot?’
‘Yes. You’re in shock.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He gave up trying to struggle and simply collapsed down into a plank.
I didn’t know whether or not to move him. I wished I knew first aid. To my right, diners were warily looking out of the Turkish restaurant on the corner. The sirens were loud now, but the street itself was unnervingly quiet. Even Omar Pickett, who must’ve been in agony, wasn’t making a sound.
First came the paramedics, then the police, and before I knew it the whole street was swarming with uniforms amid flickering blue lights. I backed away to sit on the kerb with Zara, who was extremely shaken up and looked close to tears.
I’d only just sparked a cigarette when a familiar voice spoke down at us.
‘Well, what do you know? Elliot Rook QC at the scene of the crime.’
I blew smoke and nodded. ‘Evening, Detective Inspector.’
Linford looked furious. ‘So, which one of you is going to explain to me what my missing informant is doing bleeding out in the back of that ambulance?’
We glanced at one another, and then we told him everything that had happened.
Instead of drinking in the Knights Templar, we spent our Sunday evening going over and over our brief encounter with this supposed cleaner, describing him as best as we could, while Linford’s team moved back and forth between the cordon at Bruce House and chambers.
Rupert Stubbs was on his way to our building by nine o’clock and, as I was no longer required at the scene, I got out of there before he could turn up and pull my pants down in front of all the journalists and investigating officers. Zara desperately wanted to go to the hospital to see Omar, but Linford almost laughed in her face when she suggested it.
‘I’ll have armed officers on that ward all night,’ he snapped. ‘Nobody is getting into that place without a uniform. As for the two of you, I hope you’re happy with yourselves. You’d better pray my informant makes it through the night.’
‘See you in court tomorrow,’ I mumbled; it was all I could think of in the circumstances.