Monday 17 September
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HE FLOWER MARKET. TEN MINUTES. COME ALONE.'
A soft click and the line went dead. I pressed the button that would end the call. My bedroom was in darkness. The luminous digits of the alarm clock showed ten minutes after four in the morning. I crossed to the wardrobe and dressed quickly. Jogging pants, trainers, sweatshirt and the jacket SO10 had issued to me just a few days ago. It had four large plastic buttons. Two of them really were buttons. The third was a tracking device that I swivelled to activate. The last contained a tiny recorder.
The second I left the flat, the cameras outside would spot me. Even if I didn't activate the jacket button, my new mobile phone sent a constant signal back to a control room in Scotland Yard. If I left my flat at this hour, someone monitoring would spot that it wasn't normal behaviour and both my team and SO10 would be alerted. They'd make contact with the unmarked car parked somewhere in my street, who would be told to follow me discreetly.
Once outside, I carried my bike up to street level and headed for the Wandsworth Road. On the other side, the streets were busier. Traffic starts building up early around here.
The New Covent Garden Flower Market is the place where florists throughout London and the South-East go for their stock.
Hundreds of thousands of blooms arrive here every day from overseas and all corners of Britain. Close to the Thames and nestled between Nine Elms Lane and the Wandsworth Road, it's housed in a massive warehouse and opens most days at three a.m.
Although primarily aimed at tradesmen, the Flower Market is open to the public. Friday and Saturday mornings in particular will see a fair scattering of the bargain-hunters and the curious. Tourists who can be bothered getting up early enough; wealthy women from north of the river planning fancy parties; brides with dreams of filling their churches with blooms. And, sometimes, me.
Often, when I can't sleep, I cycle or walk down here and just wander among the stalls. Flowers have always been one of my favourite things.
I left my bike against some railings then went into the warehouse through the main cargo doors. The sticky, cloying scent of lilies was all around me. The stall to my right had hundreds of them: white, pink, yellow and the fabulous orangey-gold of the tiger lily. I moved on, heading deeper into the market, past towers of roses, cascades of daisies and boxes of blooms I could never have named. The scent of the flowers fought with that of fast food. It's an odd combination â roses and grease â but one I rather like. The place was busy. The market does most of its business between five and six a.m. and we were approaching the busiest time.
There he was.
Forty feet away from me, on the other side of a small ornamental forest of potted bay trees. He was dressed just as he had been in the park. Loose trailing jeans, black jacket with orange and lime symbols, black beanie. In the harsh electric light of the flower market, it was easy to recognize the pinched features and large nose of Samuel Cooper. A week ago, in the park, he'd been much further away and I hadn't been sure. Now I was.
He seemed to sway, then to lean closer towards me. Forty feet away and yet the way he moved seemed menacing and I had to tell myself to stand my ground. As we stared at each other, I tried to remember how many exits to the market there were. My colleagues, thanks to Joesbury's tracking devices, would know exactly where I was. Once they got here, they would surround the building. Only when confident all exits were secure would they venture inside. If I
kept him in here long enough, just staring at each other across the ornamental trees, we'd get him.
Seconds ticked by and I could sense an uncertainty in him. Those odd eyes began to flicker from side to side.
It was still too soon. There might be a few officers outside, but not nearly enough. I needed my radio. So far, I hadn't turned it on, but now I needed to hear where the others were. As slowly as I dared, I moved my hand towards my jacket pocket. Cooper took a step back. I froze.
Stale-mate. If I moved, he'd run.
âHelp you, love?'
The holder of the stall I was standing by had approached. I shook my head without taking my eyes off Cooper.
âSuit yourself,' muttered the man I could only see out of the corner of my eye. âYou'll have to move, though, I'm putting some stuff down there.'
âI'm with the police,' I said, knowing the chances of his believing me were slim. I was in casual clothes and still wearing my bicycle helmet. âGive me a minute, please.'
The stall-holder was silent for a moment. âWhy don't you show me some ID?' he asked.
I ignored him.
A hand grabbed my arm. âI'm talking to you. If you're theâ'
I had no option but to turn. I saw an overweight man in his early forties. He'd made me look away from Cooper and got the full brunt of my frustration. âBack off, now!' I hissed at him.
âI'm calling Security,' he announced.
Cooper was gone. I shook the hand off my arm and set off after him. Dodging a trolley, I pulled out and switched on my radio.
âDC Flint chasing suspect,' I called into it, using the verbal signal guaranteed to get me attention on the airwaves. âUrgent assistance needed.' I wove my way in and out of the crowds, trying not to send anyone flying. I caught sight of the doors. âExit 10,' I called. âSuspect heading for Exit 10.'
Cooper shot out into the car park and a few seconds later so did I. He was throwing himself over a railing, heading for Nine Elms Lane. I took a second to look round then I was running too, across
the car park. He ran through the traffic, across the Wandsworth Road and on to the intersection.
âHe's heading for the bridge,' I shouted into the radio.
As fast as I dared, I made my way across the traffic. A bus rattled past and early commuters stared out at me. For a second I couldn't see Cooper. Then I spotted the lime squiggles on his jacket.
âSuspect on the Vauxhall Bridge,' I gasped into the radio, feeling a surge of hope. On the bridge I'd have a clear run. There was a chance I could catch him. There was even the possibility someone could cut him off at the other side. Vauxhall Bridge led almost directly into Westminster, an area never without heavy police presence.
âSuspect a third of the way along Vauxhall Bridge, heading north-west. ' I was fast running out of breath. âSuspect wearing loose black jacket, jeans and black hat. Believed to be Samuel Cooper.'
The suspect believed to be Samuel Cooper suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the pedestrian walkway. I stopped too. The traffic on our side of the bridge was flowing normally. The other lane was empty and over Cooper's shoulder I could see why. Two patrol cars had stopped at the junction of the bridge and the road that skirts the north bank of the Thames. Cooper had seen that he couldn't escape that way. He'd turned and was coming back.
Ignoring the instinct that told me to step into the traffic and get out of his way, I made myself stand firm. He might make it past me but I'd slow him down. There would be back-up behind me. I didn't dare risk looking round but I knew they'd be in position by now. More officers would be arriving any second.
âFlint!' screamed a voice I knew only too well. âGet out of the fucking way!'
Footsteps were coming in both directions and it felt like I was the one being hunted down. I had an almost irresistible urge to flee.
Cooper was yards away now, had slowed to a trot. Then he pulled a short, black handgun out of his pocket.
The footsteps slowed.
Cooper was feet away. I could see men behind him, some of them in uniform, one of them wearing a grey jacket that had been draped across my sofa not so many nights ago. Joesbury lived just over the river from me, hardly five minutes' drive away.
Cooper was spinning on the spot, pointing his weapon alternately at me, then at Joesbury and his team. The bridge was empty of traffic now. Joesbury was mouthing something at me. I realized what it was a split second after it was too late. Get back, he'd been trying to tell me.
Cooper had grabbed me. We fell against the red steel of the bridge's safety rail and I wondered if any of my ribs were still intact.
âI'll do it!' he screamed. âI'll blow her fucking head off!'
The gun was actually pressed into my left shoulder but I was far from arguing. Managing to get my breath, I raised my eyes from the gun. Cooper's strange eyes weren't focused. His breathing, even allowing for the distance he'd run, was too fast, and drool was collecting in the corner of his mouth. He was seriously under the influence of something.
Getting his balance, he straightened up, pulling me in front of him. He was a good six inches taller than me and a whole lot stronger. His left arm went around my waist as he raised the gun to my right temple. On balance, I wouldn't have called the situation improved. Except, while the gun had been pressed against my shoulder, I'd had a pretty good look at it and had seen the make and model number on the barrel.
âLet her go, Sam,' called Joesbury. âJust let her go and we can sort this out.'
âGet off the fucking bridge!' Cooper's voice in my left ear was close to deafening. âGet off the bridge or you scrape her brains off it.'
Joesbury had both hands in the air. He took a step backwards. âTake it easy,' he said. âWe're going.'
He and the officers with him were moving back. If I was going to act, it had to be now. I wrapped my hands around the fabric of Cooper's jacket. When I had a firm hold and knew he couldn't go anywhere, I took a deep breath.
âThe gun isn't real,' I called out, praying I was right. âIt's an air pistol. Come and get the bastard.'
Joesbury and the officer at his side exchanged glances. The gun that might or might not be real â I honestly wasn't that certain â was pushed harder against my temple and I felt something in my
neck about to snap. Then I was being pulled backwards at the waist and my feet left the ground.
Panic shot through me like red-hot needles.
The heat of Cooper's body was gone but he still had me in a tight grip. I was being pulled backwards against the thick steel girder of the barrier. Shit, Cooper was on the other side of it, leaning out over the river, with nothing other than a tight grip on me to prevent himself falling.
âNot a good idea, Sam.' Joesbury was getting close again. âIt's low tide. The water can't be more than a metre deep. The fall will kill you.'
On the far bank of the river, there was no sign of the grimy, rubbish-strewn beaches that appear at low tide. The water would be deeper than Joesbury was telling us. Small comfort, because the only contact I had with the ground by this time was the tips of my trainers and any second now my spine was going to snap.
âIt's twenty metres down, Sam,' called Joesbury. âThat's higher than an Olympic diving board. You won't survive.'
The arches of Vauxhall Bridge are twelve metres to water level at the lowest tide. Add on another couple of metres to reach road level and the fall would be fourteen metres at most. Still not one I relished. People don't often fall from bridges into the Thames and survive.
âYou're right above one of the concrete piers,' said Joesbury, who was almost close enough to touch us. âYou won't even reach the water.' I couldn't look down but I was praying Joesbury was bullshitting about that, too. If we hit the water, we'd have a chance. Land on concrete â forget it.
âI've done nothing. This is a fucking fix.'
Joesbury's eyes didn't even flicker. âCome on, buddy, back on to this side. We'll sort this out.'
âScrew you.'
Joesbury leaped for us just as Cooper pulled me up and over the railing. For a split second I felt a hand around my foot. I met Joesbury's eyes and saw them creased up with pain. His dislocated shoulder. The pressure of his hand held a second longer, then I felt a sliding sensation as my foot slipped from my trainer and I was falling.
I could see horrified blue eyes, the river gleaming like black ink and coloured lights from the north bank reaching across it like ribbons. I had a moment of surprise. I'd imagined my own death often, but it had never been like this. This strange sensation of feeling perfectly fine and completely fucked at the same time. Then instinct kicked in and I threw my arms above my head. Just in time. The water hit me so hard I thought I had landed on concrete and then the world turned into a plunging, dark hole.
I
'M SINKING, SO FAST IT FEELS LIKE I'M STILL FALLING, INTO A blackness that is dense enough to be solid, and I know that, against every instinct, I cannot panic. I have minutes. Fall into the Thames around Westminster in the middle of winter and it takes roughly 120 seconds before the cold paralyses your limbs and you sink to the bottom. In late September I might have a few minutes longer.
Still moving fast. Make those minutes count. Limbs outstretched now to slow me down. Looking around. Eyes stinging. Nothing to see but shifting dark shapes. Lights. The lights from the bank above me. I'm not sinking any more but moving fast all the same. The tide has got me.
Swim. Get up to those lights. Don't breathe. Don't think about the river, about the darkness below, about weed tangling in my face. Make those minutes count. Savage pain as something hits me hard. I'm being dragged against a hard surface I can't see. For a second I stop moving and know I'm caught on something. The river rips past me like a waterfall and I know this is the end. Then I'm free again, spinning off into darkness. Lights still above me. Don't breathe. Minutes have gone by. Clock ticking. I need air.
I'm breathing. I've broken the surface. Then I'm down again, but air in my lungs has given me hope. I kick. Keep moving. Don't give in to the cold. A body is recovered from the Thames every week of the year. Most of them are found in London. Don't be one of them.
I surface again. The huge wheel of the London Eye is already small in the distance. I've travelled so far already. The tide is hurrying away with me. Then I'm dragged under again. I am in the river in the dark in a heavy tide. I'll be found, days from now, probably in the U-bend around the Isle of Dogs because that's where most bodies get trapped. I'll be bloated and mutilated and the seagulls will have got to me. I'll be laid in a shallow, large bath at Wapping while the Marine Unit take fingerprints â if I have fingers left â and try to establish my identity.
But I'm still alive, still breathing and moving. Get the jacket off, the fabric is heavy and it's dragging me down. I risk reaching for the button and remember just in time.
The jacket might be my only hope. That and Joesbury's mobile phone in my pocket. He and the others will know where I am. They'll be following me downriver. Just stay alive. I catch a glimpse of something huge on the bank. Cleopatra's Needle. I'm heading for Waterloo Bridge. There's the
Queen Mary
. The river bends sharply here. This is where I run the greatest risk of being crushed to death against a bridge pier, or a tethered barge. It might also be my best chance.
I turn to face the direction I'm travelling in. I'm almost in the centre of the river and I have absolutely no chance in this tide of swimming to the side. But the north bank is busy here, it's almost a parking lot for pleasure boats and historic ships. Shit, that hurts. Something hits me in the face and for a few seconds I can't even breathe, but the boats of the Embankment are getting closer. There is a small one, some sort of water taxi, it has lines running to the shore. Several of them just above water level.
I hit them full on. The river howls and increases its grip. It's pulling me round, trying to get me free, it's not giving up on me just yet. I catch hold of a line and find myself almost horizontal in the water, so hard is the river dragging me downstream. I make the last effort I'm capable of and manage to hook my elbow around the line. I lock my hands together. It's all I can do.
Now I really do have minutes. Minutes before my strength gives up. Minutes before the cold, even in September, gets to me. Joesbury and the others will be looking for me. The control room in
Scotland Yard will know where I am, will be sending back information. Someone will come for me.
I just have to hope Joesbury's swanky tracking devices don't mind the wet.