Gangbuster by Peter Bleksley Read Free Book Online Page A

this? Well, Freddy did and he was in for a shock. Camera on. One of the girls on the team went into the bathroom, ran a foamy bath and got into it, posing seductively. I got into Freddy’s marital bed, put a QPR poster above it, then his daughter clambered in beside me. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom for more clues…’ Up from under the duvet popped Bleksley and his daughter with big cheesy grins on our faces.
    At the conclusion of the job, we all sat down for a final debriefing. Chris Jameson stood up and said, ‘Before we start, we’ve got a brief instructional video for you all to watch.’ The video film rolled. All eyes were on Freddy. Cut to Chris at the front door of a nice semi saying, ‘I wonder whose house this is?’ Freddy sat bolt upright.
    ‘That’s my house, you bastards.’
    His face was a picture as he watched the guided tour, the beauty in the bath then Blex and his daughter romping in bed. To cap it all, we’d filmed the family’s pet hamster scurrying round inside the microwave (off, of course). ‘Now, who would keep a hamster in a microwave like this?’ Revenge was sweet.

4: gun law SW5
    T he gun was 2in from my face. The business end of a sawn-off, double-barrelled, up-and-over shotgun with enough firepower to splatter my brains over half of West London. And the eyes at the other end were cold, hard and desperate.
    This was the moment I came face to face with one of Britain’s most wanted criminals, on the run from jail after the brutal murder of a bar manager and now holed up on my patch. Vicious James Baigrie was sleeping rough in the back of a white van in a select street in Earl’s Court, where I was then based in the local Kensington CID office and determined to make my mark as a good detective.
    In the few seconds I was peering into the gaping twin holes of that shotgun barrel, I thought my mark was going to be my epitaph. Then instinct and training took over. I had taken Baigrie by surprise,but I was equally as shocked. I had expected the van to be empty when I checked it out in Philbeach Gardens as part of a dawn search for the fugitive Scotsman. I had played a hunch. The police knew Baigrie had fled from Scotland to London, was living in the Kensington area, and was probably working as a builder. A check at a suspected hideout address had proved futile.
    My team had been discussing the important issue of the day – where to have breakfast – when I spotted the white Transit van parked across the road. That, I thought, was the classic jobbing builders’ motor and was worth a quick spin. I peered through the windows. Too mucky to see much except some typical builder’s kit – paint pots, bucket, tools, some sand, that sort of thing. I pulled at the rear door handle, out of inquisitiveness really and – lo and behold – the fucking thing opened. I thought, OK, let’s have a nose around: pulled the door open and stuck my head inside. With that, I saw a slight movement and, all of a sudden, this balaclava-clad head popped up from beneath a blanket. I was totally taken aback because I hadn’t dreamed anyone would be kipping in there. I blurted out the first thing that came into my head which happened to be, ‘Good morning.’ That caused a few laughs later. Anyway my police training kicked in straight afterwards. I yelled at him, ‘I am an armed police officer.’ And no way was I bluffing. I was carrying a gun and I’d undergone intensive firearms training at the Metropolitan Police training centre at Lippitts Hill in Essex – I’d qualified with flying colours – I’d got a 007-style Smith and Wesson .38 six-shot revolver in my shoulder holster and I was ready to use it.
    As I spoke Baigrie ducked down and, wallop, had grabbed something. In a flash he had pulled out the double-barrelled shotgun. It was obvious from the steely glint in his eyes that he was prepared to shoot me if needs must. We were in a ‘quickest on the draw’ shootout situation. Except this wasn’t