Over My Dead Body

Chapter 23

The tramp walked slowly down the road pushing an ancient pram, a cigarette butt drooping from the corner of his mouth. He wore an old army greatcoat that almost touched the ground, along with four combat medals — the only parts of his disguise that were genuine — suggesting he was a veteran of some long-forgotten war. His dark hair was matted and stuck out from under a woollen hat that looked as if it had been a tea cosy in an earlier life. His face was unshaven and you could smell him from several feet away. He clocked the varying reactions he received from those who passed him in the street: sympathy, usually women; disgust, tattooed youths; and some even handed him a pound coin to relieve their guilt.

He approached a pub out of which was blasting ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’. Don’t worry, he promised those inside, it will only be a matter of time.

As he passed the pub, he kept an eye on the two bouncers who’d been posted on the door to make sure no uninvited guests intruded on the birthday boy’s celebration. He’d arrested one of them several years ago, but the man didn’t give the old git a second look as he shuffled past. If he’d glanced into the pram, all he would have seen was a torn packet of cornflakes, a dented tin box that had once contained ‘Edinburgh’s finest shortbread biscuits’, an empty Kleenex box and a Marlboro packet with one cigarette butt sticking out. A couple of threadbare blankets that Oxfam would have rejected were stuffed into one corner.

When he reached a set of traffic lights, he pressed the button and waited for the little green man to appear before crossing the road. He kept up his slow pace until he came to a crossroads: the demarcation line that unofficially marked the boundary dividing the two empires controlled by the Roaches and the Abbotts. Two aggressive-looking youths were patrolling the pavement on the far side, their sole purpose to ensure a Roach didn’t stray onto the Abbotts’ territory. The tramp stopped and asked one of them for a light.

‘Bugger off, you stupid old fart,’ was the immediate response. So he did. He kept on walking until he reached an unlit alley that even the most passionate young lovers would have avoided, and the police didn’t venture down on their own after dark.

He pushed his pram half-way down the alley, then, checking that no one was taking any interest in him, he removed his tea-cosy hat and put it in the pocket of his greatcoat, which he folded and placed under the blankets in the pram. The hair was still matted, the face still unshaven, the smell still nauseating, but the man dressed in a black tracksuit and black trainers now drew himself up to his full height and took one more look up and down the alley. Not even a stray cat to observe him.

He reached into the cornflakes box and pulled out the stock of a rifle. Next, he flicked the lid off the ‘Edinburgh’s finest’ and extracted a small night-vision telescope. Finally he unscrewed the handle of the pram, tapped it gently on the top, and a slim, perfectly weighted barrel slid out. It took him only moments to piece together a Remington M40 sniper rifle. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it was the model Ron Abbott favoured. He finally grabbed the Marlboro packet and slipped it into a tracksuit pocket. Moving swiftly towards the building at the end of the alley, he began to climb the drainpipe on its rear wall with the ease of a cat burglar, bringing back memories of the Iranian Embassy siege when he’d been a young lance corporal serving with the SAS, later mentioned in dispatches.

When he reached the top floor, he looked down once again to check if anyone had spotted him. No one had. He’d chosen his vantage point carefully: he was overlooked only by an old warehouse that closed its doors at six o’clock every evening.

He clambered up onto the roof, then crawled slowly across until he reached the other side, where he studied the gap between the two buildings. Ten feet and nine inches divided him from his chosen vantage point. That wouldn’t be a problem. He’d practised the jump several times with the rifle slung over one shoulder, and his average had been just over fourteen feet.

He retraced his steps, then crouched down for a moment before bursting out of the blocks and sprinting towards the edge of the building, reaching top speed on the last stride. With inches to spare, he leapt into the air like an Olympic long-jumper who knew exactly where the take-off board would be, and landed on the roof of the next building with several feet to spare. He knelt down on one knee and caught his breath, not moving again until his heartbeat had returned to a steady fifty-four.

He then crawled across to the edge of the building, but didn’t look down. He’d never told Colonel Parker, his old commanding officer, that he had a fear of heights. After a few more minutes he stood to take in everything around him, and was well satisfied. But then he’d chosen the spot carefully. He was directly above Ron Abbott’s flat, and Abbott, he’d quickly discovered, was a creature of habit. Something that was considered a deadly sin by the SAS, as it made you an easy target for the enemy. Abbott spent every Thursday evening with members of his family at the dogs in Romford, where they were regularly separated from some of their ill-gotten gains. That was invariably followed by dinner at a local nightclub, not known for its cuisine. He usually arrived back at his flat around one o’clock in the morning with a girl on one arm, sometimes on both.

The other reason Ross had selected that particular spot was because it gave him a clear view of the pub where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. Two hundred and forty yards — well within the range of the high-powered precision rifle — as the crow flies.

He eased the butt of the rifle gently into his shoulder, and lined up the crosshairs on the telescopic sight on the forehead of one of the bouncers. He held the rifle in that position for two minutes before he lowered his arm and rested.

Ross suspected it would be a long wait before the real target appeared. After all, it was his thirty-fourth birthday. He took the Marlboro packet out of his pocket, extracted six highly polished bullets and stood them up in a straight line like soldiers on parade. Then he settled down to wait, but didn’t for a moment lose his concentration.

The first reveller emerged from the pub just after midnight. Not someone he recognized. The second, who spilled out onto the pavement a few minutes later, was Terry Roach’s uncle Stan, who had been in and out of jail for the past twenty years, and was now rumoured to have been pensioned off by the family.

Ross raised the rifle once again and centred the crosshairs on Uncle Stan’s lined forehead. He pulled the trigger. A small click followed, allowing Stan to go on his way, blissfully unaware he’d been target practice.

Although he didn’t expect the real target to appear for at least another hour, he loaded six bullets into the magazine. Just in case.

Over the next hour a stream of inebriated guests made their way out of the pub and started walking unsteadily in the direction of their homes. Taxi drivers avoided that street, even in the middle of the day.

Then, without warning, the birthday boy appeared. He staggered out of the pub, accompanied by two of his mates who were in no state to assist him.

Ross calmly took out his phone and dialled 999. When an operator asked, ‘Police, fire or ambulance service?’ he said firmly, ‘Police,’ as Terry Roach lurched forward and grabbed at a window ledge to steady himself.

‘Police. How may I assist you?’

‘There’s a gun battle going on in Plumber’s Road, Whitechapel,’ he said, trying to sound breathless.

‘Can I take your—’ But he’d already switched off the phone. He would dispose of it later.

He nestled the butt of the rifle back into his shoulder, and steadied the barrel with his left hand. He centred the crosshairs of the telescope on the enemy’s forehead, just as he had done in Oman, and now in Whitechapel. He lowered his sights to the birthday boy’s right kneecap, his old sergeant major’s words ringing in his ears: Concentrate, breathe normally and squeeze the trigger smoothly in one movement, don’t snatch. He carried out the order and the bullet whistled through the air towards its target. Seconds later Roach sank to the ground in agony, clasping his right leg.

As Ross had anticipated, the stricken man’s two mates tried to drag him back into the pub. He lowered the crosshairs an inch and steadied himself before pulling the trigger a second time. This time, the bullet headed for Roach’s groin, and the sudden agonized movement of Roach’s hands from his knee to his balls rather suggested Ross had hit the bullseye. One of his mates continued to drag Roach back towards the pub, screaming for help at the top of his voice, while the other ran off in the opposite direction.

The pub door suddenly swung open and a crowd of Roach family and other gang members came rushing out. A finger pointed up in his direction, and every available body began charging across the road towards him. Ross lined up the rifle for the last time, not aiming at Roach’s forehead to end his agony, but a few inches lower. The third bullet struck him just above his Adam’s apple, passed right through his neck and ended up embedded in the pub’s wall.

Ross looked over the side of the building to see lights appearing in the windows of the flats below. He was interested only in one particular flat and moments later he was rewarded.

He placed the rifle next to the three spent cartridges, turned, and took a deep breath before running flat out across the roof and once again launching himself into the air. This time he flew even higher than before, but then he was no longer carrying a rifle. He landed safely, rolled over and was quickly back on his feet. As he made his way to the far corner of the building, he could hear a siren in the distance. He began the long climb down, always slower and more challenging than climbing up, as any mountaineer will tell you.

When his feet touched the ground, he jogged back towards the alley where he retrieved his hat and greatcoat from the pram and pulled on his tea-cosy hat. He’d just reached the end of the alley when he heard voices close by. He continued heading towards the battlefield, a risk, but he couldn’t afford the owners of the voices, whichever side they were on, to think he was running away from the scene. One of them slowed down as they passed him, hurled the pram onto its side and took a cursory look at its contents before he ran on. But then, he no longer had anything to hide.

After he’d thrown everything back into the pram, Ross continued walking towards the pub. There was no longer a demarcation zone. It was all-out war.

The first squad car screeched to a halt outside the Plumber’s Arms, and within moments the street was swarming with armed police in protective gear and carrying riot shields. They began rounding up members of both gangs before hurling them into the nearest Black Maria.

He couldn’t resist a smile when he saw the choirboy standing outside the pub, directing operations. He walked straight past him, and wouldn’t have looked back had he not heard the thud of a body landing in the middle of the road behind him. His only mistake.