and onto his back and his legs spread-eagled. Taking stock, the sergeant knelt down and checked for hidden weapons.
‘He’s clean, boss.’
‘Nice work, Sergeant,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘Your dog did a fine job.’
Glancing up, the sergeant watched as Jack Mason bent down and rolled back the gunman’s trouser leg. From what he could see, the injuries to his face were superficial. Apart from the upper forearm, which had been terribly mauled by his dog; everything else seemed fine. Then, as Mason checked the suspect’s footwear, he caught the look of concern on his face. Something was wrong, and whatever it was they were about to find out.
‘It’s not our man, George.’
‘It must be, Jack,’ Wallace replied, as a dozen fellow officers crowded forward to get a better look.
‘I’m telling you, George. This isn’t our man.’
Uncertainty spread like the plague.
‘If he isn’t our man, then who the hell is he?’
His face as black as thunder, Mason took a deep breath as he turned to the nearest plainclothes police officer. ‘Lock this bastard up, and whilst you’re at it throw away the key.’
Everyone stood gobsmacked as Mason turned and stormed off towards the waiting helicopter. No one spoke. Whoever the gunman was, Jack Mason was far from happy.
Seconds later, the helicopter took off in a northerly direction.
Chapter Fifteen
Dave Carlisle sat in the hospital waiting room, his patience severely tested. It was two in the morning, and the long hours spent hanging around for Jack Mason to show had left him irritable. Clinging to the memories of his mother’s last few months of life, Carlisle detested hospitals at the best of times. The familiar smell of disinfectant, clean linen sheets and the long nights of empty conversation all flooding back. Alone by her bedside, slowly wasting away, until in the end the gaunt figure of a woman that he once called mother, had changed beyond all recognition.
The hospital décor was modern, impersonal, he thought. To one corner, a green plastic sign bore the inscription: EAST WING RVI – STAFF ROSTER. The clock on the wall – now stuck in time – was already three hours slow. Part way down a narrow corridor stood an armed police officer. Motionless, with arms folded tight across his chest, he was barring the entrance to another part of the building. Then, through the main entrance admissions doors, Carlisle caught sight of yet another yellow NHS ambulance as it drew up alongside A&E. As the vehicle’s back doors swung open, an old lady strapped into a wheelchair was placed onto the tail-lift of the vehicle and carefully lowered to the ground. Christ, thought Carlisle, how many more patients do these people have to deal with tonight?
Slowly, the commotion died down.
Opposite him, the duty night nurse sat propped against a large admissions desk. Her long gaunt face buried deep inside a pile of hospital records, she scribbled through patients’ ailments with the conviction of a judge passing sentence. Despite constant interruptions, she somehow appeared impervious to distractions. Suddenly it dawned on him, what the hell was he doing sat in a hospital waiting room in the middle of the night anyway. Two o’clock in the morning wasn’t exactly his favourite time of the day; he could certainly have done without this.
Then, through tired eyes, he spotted a white-coated figure approaching from one of the side wards. He was young, late twenties, short in stature with long blond hair neatly tucked beneath a blue surgical cap. From a side coat pocket hung the ends of a stethoscope – crammed there in a moment of haste.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Mr Carlisle, I presume?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
Carlisle staggered to his feet. In what had been a long three hour wait, his mouth was dry and the back of his tongue felt like coarse sandpaper. ‘I’m here on official business, Doctor, but I’m waiting for DCI Mason to show. I’m sure he’ll be
‘He’s clean, boss.’
‘Nice work, Sergeant,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘Your dog did a fine job.’
Glancing up, the sergeant watched as Jack Mason bent down and rolled back the gunman’s trouser leg. From what he could see, the injuries to his face were superficial. Apart from the upper forearm, which had been terribly mauled by his dog; everything else seemed fine. Then, as Mason checked the suspect’s footwear, he caught the look of concern on his face. Something was wrong, and whatever it was they were about to find out.
‘It’s not our man, George.’
‘It must be, Jack,’ Wallace replied, as a dozen fellow officers crowded forward to get a better look.
‘I’m telling you, George. This isn’t our man.’
Uncertainty spread like the plague.
‘If he isn’t our man, then who the hell is he?’
His face as black as thunder, Mason took a deep breath as he turned to the nearest plainclothes police officer. ‘Lock this bastard up, and whilst you’re at it throw away the key.’
Everyone stood gobsmacked as Mason turned and stormed off towards the waiting helicopter. No one spoke. Whoever the gunman was, Jack Mason was far from happy.
Seconds later, the helicopter took off in a northerly direction.
Chapter Fifteen
Dave Carlisle sat in the hospital waiting room, his patience severely tested. It was two in the morning, and the long hours spent hanging around for Jack Mason to show had left him irritable. Clinging to the memories of his mother’s last few months of life, Carlisle detested hospitals at the best of times. The familiar smell of disinfectant, clean linen sheets and the long nights of empty conversation all flooding back. Alone by her bedside, slowly wasting away, until in the end the gaunt figure of a woman that he once called mother, had changed beyond all recognition.
The hospital décor was modern, impersonal, he thought. To one corner, a green plastic sign bore the inscription: EAST WING RVI – STAFF ROSTER. The clock on the wall – now stuck in time – was already three hours slow. Part way down a narrow corridor stood an armed police officer. Motionless, with arms folded tight across his chest, he was barring the entrance to another part of the building. Then, through the main entrance admissions doors, Carlisle caught sight of yet another yellow NHS ambulance as it drew up alongside A&E. As the vehicle’s back doors swung open, an old lady strapped into a wheelchair was placed onto the tail-lift of the vehicle and carefully lowered to the ground. Christ, thought Carlisle, how many more patients do these people have to deal with tonight?
Slowly, the commotion died down.
Opposite him, the duty night nurse sat propped against a large admissions desk. Her long gaunt face buried deep inside a pile of hospital records, she scribbled through patients’ ailments with the conviction of a judge passing sentence. Despite constant interruptions, she somehow appeared impervious to distractions. Suddenly it dawned on him, what the hell was he doing sat in a hospital waiting room in the middle of the night anyway. Two o’clock in the morning wasn’t exactly his favourite time of the day; he could certainly have done without this.
Then, through tired eyes, he spotted a white-coated figure approaching from one of the side wards. He was young, late twenties, short in stature with long blond hair neatly tucked beneath a blue surgical cap. From a side coat pocket hung the ends of a stethoscope – crammed there in a moment of haste.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Mr Carlisle, I presume?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
Carlisle staggered to his feet. In what had been a long three hour wait, his mouth was dry and the back of his tongue felt like coarse sandpaper. ‘I’m here on official business, Doctor, but I’m waiting for DCI Mason to show. I’m sure he’ll be
Similar Books
