London Large: Blood on the Streets Read Online Free Page B

feel
grateful for how good she was at making sure he could get on with the job in
his own way, the way she kept the top brass off his back. But since London had
started going to hell in a handcart, and with the unsolved murder rate
spiralling by the day he’d noticed the cracks appearing in her well-manicured
persona. She was starting to feel the pace.
    In all the years he’d known
her she hadn’t sworn and this was the first time he had even heard the ‘G’
word.
    ‘Already seen it. On my way.’
    Something approaching relief
came over her. It wasn’t his patch, and he had other things to do, but she
wanted him there early. He was the best copper on the force at reading a murder
scene. She knew his record. No one else was even close to his clear-up rate -
even if his methods were considered by some to be unorthodox and outdated.
    ‘H, find out what’s
happening. Find out who could have done this. St. James Park, broad daylight,
tourists everywhere. Please, for God’s sake. Get this one sorted.’
    Blimey, thought Harry. A
second use of the ‘G’ word and a ‘please.’ Upstairs must be close to hanging
her out to dry.
    ‘I’m on it’, he said.
    He ended the call. The
beautiful geek to his left had slipped into a parallel universe. Multiple tabs
were opening on her tablet and her phone was pinging with a whole host of
airborne updates as her co-ordinated eyes and hands moved faster than the wings
of a hummingbird on speed.
    ‘I’ve never seen anything
spread this fast. A million hits and it’s only been on Twitter for twenty
minutes. That’s more than the Pope’s Christmas message. I’m telling you guv,
this is going to go worldwide.’
    Different clips and videos
were appearing from multiple sources; the tourists of London town had been well
and truly entertained. Amisha was piecing the multiple pics and clips together
like an electronic jigsaw, trying to work out the timeline of events.
    ‘There’s a clip showing this
guy firing multiple rounds’, she said, ‘looks like he’s killed three or four
people, including two women slumped on a bench, who are appearing in more and
more pictures. Everyone at the scene is taking pictures of them and posting them
on Twitter.’
    Amisha flashed a picture of
the gunman.
    ‘Mike Richards.’ said H.
‘Solid lad. Worked with him a few years back, at Carter Street nick before it
was closed down. He’s now part of the Queen’s Protection Unit.’
    ‘Ok,’ said Amisha. Realising
her mistake, she returned to the puzzle, instantly merging with the machines as
she assimilated the images and video clips flooding in.
    She barely noticed H’s expert
gear shifts as he veered in and out of the London traffic as fast as a fat kid
in a sweet shop. He knew every inch of this town, every rat run and dark
alleyway. He kept to the back streets to keep clear of the grinding London
traffic, and decided to stay south of the river until he reached Westminster
Bridge. The concrete jungle estates of South London passed by in a blur of
architectural ugliness. He skirted the Elephant and Castle roundabout and
zipped past an estate where a gang of hoodies, huddled under a pissed-stenched
stairwell, were crowded around a phone; they were displaying more alertness
than he would normally expect. He knew exactly what was animating them.
    ‘Three million hits’, said
Amisha, ‘the Twitter spike is already fifteen times above the previous record
in this timeframe. We’re witnessing internet history in the making.’
    What the fuck is she on?
    H swung the car past the last
roundabout before Westminster Bridge, blistering hot wheels smoking and
screeching like a banshee on a bender, and put the pedal to the metal. Beneath
the bridge a sewage boat chugged past on its way to a sewage dump near Pitsea
in Essex, but the shit on board was as nothing compared to the shit that was
about to hit the fan when he entered St. James’ Park.
    ‘One minute away’, he shouted
‘tell me what the