.

from Parkinson Drive, which lies adjacent to Fairfax House on the southeast side. I’m making my way around there now, over.’

       ‘Roger that … PNC every vehicle parked, and make it snappy. Heck, you in position?’

      ‘Affirmative, ma’am,’ Heck replied quietly – he could hear a resounding clump of feet and the low murmur of voices ascending the stairwell on the other side of the fire-doors. He checked his cap to ensure it concealed his earpiece. ‘Sounds like I’m about to get company, over.’

       ‘Received, Heck … all units stand by, over.’

      The airwaves fell silent, and Heck slumped back onto his sofa, eyelids drooped as though he was in a drunken daze. The footfalls grew louder, the fire-doors swung open and two shadowy forms perambulated into view. In the dim light, Heck wasn’t initially able to distinguish them, though from their low Cockney voices he could tell they were both males, probably in their thirties or forties.

      ‘Q&A session first, all right?’ one said to the other. ‘Don’t let on we know anything …’

      For a fleeting half-second the duo were more clearly visible: shirts, sports jackets, ties hanging loose at the collar. And faces, one pale and neatly bearded – he was the taller and younger of the two; the other older and grouchier, with hang-dog jowls.

      To Heck they were unmistakeable.

      He held his position until they’d passed him, ascending the three steps to the dingy corridor and trundling off along it. He sat upright to watch their receding backs. Once they were out of earshot, he leaned close to his lapel mic. ‘Heckenburg to DSU Piper … ma’am, I know these two. They’re ours. DS Reg Cowling and DC Ben Bishop from Organised Crime.’

      In the brief silence, he could imagine Gemma gazing around at whoever else was in the command car, mystified. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ she’d be asking. ‘How the devil did they get onto this?’ He could also picture the blank expressions that would greet these questions.

      ‘They’re heading down Sagan’s corridor,’ Heck added. ‘There’ll be other villains living in this building, but if it’s not him they’re here for, ma’am, I’m a sodding Dutchman.’

       ‘Can you intercept, over?’

      ‘Negative, ma’am … they’re virtually at his door.’

       ‘Understood. Heck, hold your position. All we can do now is hope.’

      Heck stood up, but slammed himself flat against the wall beside the steps, crooking his neck to look along the passage. He understood her thinking. If he went running down there and tried to grab the two cops, there was every possibility Sagan would open the door and catch all three of them. If he kept out of the way, however, it was just vaguely possible the duo had some routine business to conduct with the guy and might be on their way out again in a minute, with no one any the wiser about the obbo. That latter option was a long shot, of course. Like SCU, the Organised Crime Division was part of the National Crime Group. They didn’t deal with routine matters. There was one other possibility too, which was even more depressing. Suppose Cowling and Bishop were up to no good themselves? Could it be they were here to see Sagan for reasons unconnected with police-work? If so, that would be a whole new level of complexity.

      Heck squinted down the gloomy passage. The twosome had halted alongside number 36. They didn’t knock immediately, but appeared to be conferring. He supposed he could try to signal to them, alert them to an additional police presence, but the idea was now growing on him fast that these two might have nefarious motives.

      A fist thudded on the apartment door. Heck held his breath. At first there was no audible response, then what sounded like a muffled voice.

      ‘Yeah, police officers, sir,’ Cowling said. ‘Could you open up? We need to have a chat.’

      Heck breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t in cahoots with Sagan after all. But now he felt uneasy for other reasons. Given the severity of Sagan’s suspected offences, this was a very front-on approach – it seemed odd the two detectives had come here without any kind of support. Did they know something SCU didn’t, or did they simply know nothing? Had ambition to feel a good collar overridden the necessity of performing some due diligence?

      The muffled voice intoned again. It sounded as if it had said ‘one minute’.

      And then two thundering shotgun blasts demolished the door from the inside, the ear-jarring din echoing down the passage. Cowling and Bishop were blown back like rag dolls. The impacts as their bodies struck the facing wall shook the entire building.

      ‘This is Heck inside Fairfax House!’ Heck shouted into his radio as drew his Glock. ‘Shots fired – immediate armed support required on the third floor! We also have two officers down with gunshot wounds. We need an advance trauma team and rapid evac! Get the Air Ambulance if you can, over!’

      A gabble of electronic voices burst in response, but it was Gemma’s that cut through the dirge. ‘Heck, this is DSU Piper … you are to wait for support, I repeat you are to wait for support! Can you acknowledge, over?’

      ‘Affirmative, ma’am,’ Heck replied, but he’d already removed his woolly hat and replaced it with a hi-vis, chequer-banded baseball cap. Climbing the three steps, he advanced warily along the corridor, weapon cocked but dressed down as per the manual. ‘Both shots fired through the door from inside number 36. Sounded like a shotgun. Both Cowling and Bishop are down … by the looks of it, they’ve incurred severe injuries, over.’

      ‘What’s your exact position?’ Gemma asked.

      ‘Approx thirty yards along the corridor … but I’m going to have difficulty reaching the casualties. They’re both still in the line of fire, over.’

       ‘Negative, Heck! You’re to get no closer until you have full firearms support. Am I clear?’

      ‘Affirmative, ma’am.’ More by instinct than design, Heck continued to advance, but ultra-slowly, his right shoulder skating the right-hand wall. At twenty yards, he halted again. Neither of the shotgunned officers was moving; both lay slumped on their backsides against the left-hand wall. The plasterwork behind them was peppered with shot and fragments of wood, but also spattered with trickling blood.

      Heck’s teeth locked. In these circs, hanging back felt like a non-option. These were fellow coppers pumping out their last. He pressed cautiously on. And then heard a sound of breaking glass from inside the flat.

      ‘Crap!’ He dashed forward, only for a door to open behind him. He spun around, gun levelled. The thin-faced Chinese woman who peeked out gaped in horror. ‘Police officer!’ he hissed. ‘Go back inside! Stay there!’ The door slammed and Heck resumed his advance, radio mic to his lips. ‘This is Heck – suspect’s making a break for it through a window. It’s three floors down, so I don’t know how he’s going to manage it. But his flat’s on the building’s northeast side, which overlooks Charlton Court … we’ve got to get some cover down there, over.’

      Even as he said it, Heck knew this would be easier said than done. The surveillance team on Fairfax House was no more than eight strong at any time. Even with Gemma on the plot, that only made it nine – so they were spread widely and thinly. On top of that, though armed and wearing vests, they were geared for close target reconnaissance, not a gun-battle. No doubt, Trojan units would be en route, but how long it would take them in the mid-evening London traffic was anyone’s guess. He slid to another halt as a dark shape appeared at the farthest end of the corridor, about twenty yards past number 36. By its size and breadth, and by the luminous council-worker doublet pulled over its donkey jacket, he recognised it as Gary Quinnell, whose lying-up position was on one of the floors above. The burly Welshman had also drawn his firearm, and was in the process of pulling on the regulation baseball cap.

      They acknowledged each other with a nod. Heck lowered his weapon and proceeded, stopping again about five yards from the