Free Civvies by Lynda La Plante

King’s Cross. Jesus Christ Almighty, Dillon was thinking, I must have fucking scrambled eggs for brains. Walking down some poxy back-street with fifty grand, a hundred grand — he didn’t know how much and he didn’t care — strapped to him, talk about a soft target… ‘Everythin’ watertight this end,’ Jimmy was murmuring low into the phone. ‘We’re on our way back to base —’ He listened, brow furrowing. ‘What?’ Forward, sideways, back, Dillon was doing slow sweeps, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. There was a bloke, forty, fifty yards behind, red anorak, pasty-faced, who might be out for a stroll, or going to the shop for fags, but Dillon had his doubts. ‘Well what you want us to do with it?’ Jimmy’s voice rose half an octave and he brought it down. ‘Strapped round our waists, where you think?’ He glanced meaningfully at Dillon. ‘Wants us to hang onto it!’ ‘You’re bloody joking — you tell him we’re coming in. I’ve had enough.’ Dillon grabbed the phone. ‘We’re not wanderin’ around friggin’ London with… hello?… hello?’ Dillon thrust the phone back, eyes swivelling over Jimmy’s shoulder. ‘I think we’ve got a tail on us. Guy in a red anorak, see if he’s still with us…’ Jimmy sneaked a look, a quick nod at Dillon. They kept on walking, picking up speed but trying not to show they’d rumbled him. The street they were in branched into another, running parallel with the lines that went into King’s Cross. As they neared it, Dillon said, ‘He’s still behind us, an’ he’s still on his tod. What you think? Next corner? Make a run for it!’ ‘Okay. Soon as we hit the bend, next left, do a runner, split up. See you at King’s Cross taxi-rank…’ The instant they turned the corner it was heads down, diving into a sprint, running like crazy; they’d covered all of thirty yards before either of them realised. Dillon skidded to a stop, staring at the high brick wall topped with broken glass, blocking off the street. ‘Shit! You don’t even know where we are! You prat! It’s a dead end… it’s a dead end!’ They whipped round, but it was too late. Red Anorak had turned the corner and was coming towards them. Jimmy said, ‘We’re gonna have to take him —’ Before Dillon could say anything he was charging back, running like the clappers. Red Anorak stopped, started to turn and run, but Jimmy was fit and fast, on top of him like a ton of bricks, bringing him down with a flying tackle. The man’s head bounced on the pavement, and before he’d rolled into the gutter Jimmy was up and at him, putting the boot in. ‘For chrissakes, take it easy,’ Dillon panted, coming up as Jimmy delivered another kick, seeing blood pouring from the man’s gashed head. ‘You see anyone else?’ Jimmy’s eyes were rolling in his sweating face. ‘Go on, get to the corner, see if he’s got anyone else with him — hurry. Move it!’ Dillon ran off. Jimmy ferreted inside the anorak, found a wallet and flipped it open. ‘Oh shit!’ Encapsulated in a 4 × 3 inch plastic slip cover, a colour print of the man’s ruddy face and ginger moustache. Above it, his name, rank and number: D.C.I. RIGGS . ‘Come on,’ Dillon hissed, racing back. ‘What you waiting for?’ Shielding it with his body, Jimmy snapped the wallet shut and slipped it into his pocket.

CHAPTER 8
    Dillon nearly lost all his shirt-buttons getting the money-belt off. ‘Here, take it — I never want to see that bastard Newman again!’ He thrust it into Jimmy’s lap, sitting alongside him in the back of the taxi parked on the hard shoulder of the Shepherd’s Bush flyover. Two close calls in one afternoon, and he was sick of it. First Red Anorak, then evading the cops literally by seconds, ducking into a cab at King’s Cross as squad cars came zooming in from all directions. Dillon wiped his damp palms on his trouser knees. ‘I lost half-a-stone sweatin’ what would have happened if