Chapter Twenty Two: The Bromley Lock up. The drone of traffic slashing its way through wet weather conditions made me realise I was still on this earth as I came too in the rear of the Land Cruiser. A glimpse of some classic landmarks assured me I was correct in my assumption that we were on the M25 and heading south towards the now famous Queen Elizabeth Bridge at Dartford, North Kent. The traffic was heavy and the sun was going down; it was getting dark. The headlights of a hundred cars reflected on the wet road. Dartford Bridge is a good 140 metres high; you can see down the Thames and across most of East London as you drive over the highest point. After crossing the bridge and paying the toll, a black hood was finally placed over my head. Now I know this area well, I have lived here all my life. There are 2 quick turnoffs to the village of Stone and the Town of Dartford, and then a good 15 minute drive to junction 3 for Swanley and then it’s the turn off for Orpington. I was not sure which one it was, but it was definitely one of the two. The car swung left and then right, it must be the huge roundabout at junction 4. We were heading for Orpington, or so I thought, I was sure of it. The car was absolutely quiet, no one spoke; I was scared and do not mind admitting it; they may kill me also, there was no other outcome that could possibly enter my head and give me comfort. Once you realise your mortality and the inevitability of your position in life; you reach a state of mind that can only be described as tranquil. Catriona was dead and no one knew where I was, it was over for sure; they had won. Even though I was resigned to losing my hold on life and heading for the unknown; I was still sad for my beautiful Catriona. She was so strong, athletic and full of energy for life, yet could be so sweet, thoughtful and patient. I cried for Catriona, not myself. I loved her. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres; we had turned off the main road and the Land Cruiser suspension was absorbing quite a bit of movement. My hood was pulled off. Are you with us Mr Mitchell? My lack of reply produced no reaction from McGovan’s crew who just continued to ignore me. Bramley: the detective from New Scotland Yard looked at me with a smart, but void look of triumph on his face. These were career criminals who have no respect for life and can only see plans for self-gain; my prospects were getting smaller by the hour. Bramley looked at McGovan; they both laughed loudly as we headed further on down the track. Banta was in the Land Cruiser behind us with another of McGovan's crew. The road opened up into a concrete laid yard. Two Alsatian dogs were chained at the far end of a row of lock ups; they barked at the cruisers until McGovan got out of the cruiser and strolled over to the dogs. The respect was there for all to see as he raised his arm and pointed at the dogs and gave the command: 'DOWN" The dogs were instantly quiet and everyone disembarked the Land Cruisers. The middle lock up was the biggest and McGovan barked an order for someone to drag my carcass inside. One of the crew I didn’t know man handled me inside. McGovan, Bramley and Banta stayed outside and started to congratulate each other. It would be Cocaine for sure: New York Snow, Charlie, Rock, Crack, or whatever other street names had been invented recently; they even call it ‘Foo Foo dust’ for Christ’s sake. But this to me, for sure: was ‘Masonic Snow’.
Blood coagulated on my face; I tried to wipe my face, but the grit and dirt just dug into my wounds. Outside the gruesome three were laughing and chatting; condensed air from each breath of malicious intent shone under the halogen lights mounted on top of each lockup. The yard was lit up like a shopping centre; they were confident and very happy, very happy indeed. Inside the lockup; I was quickly shoved onto a chair and slapped a few times to ensure my compliance. Then tied tightly with a narrow nylon cord; the cord dug deeply into my wrists, and remained tight due to its narrow gauge, immediately drawing blood. My tormentor took no notice, went back to the table for more cord and tied my feet. It was then that I got the biggest shock of my life as Tom Brule walked through the door. 'Hello Steve. How are you doing?' 'How am I doing? You double crossing piece of trash!' 'Now don't be sour Steve, you could have been a part of this if you had taken up my offer. I have hinted often enough for you to join up'. 'Yes Bill, for the Freemasons, not a criminal gang with a business name of Drugs UK Ltd'. 'This is it by the way, I cannot help you. You've got only a few hours left Steve'. He proceeded to jam a dirty rag into my mouth and then tie it with yet another rag. McGovern then poked his head into the lockup, looked at me with satisfaction; then looked across the room at the others in the group. 'Get outside and unload this stuff, quickly'. Four guys and that damned brunette turned on their heels and headed for the door. Tom just sat down and relaxed, this was his usual style, all ways in control and looking cool, never the working class fool. I could see the blinding halogen lights illuminating the yard and streaming through the open door of the lockup. The rear door of one of the cruisers was just about in my line of vision and the moment a bag hit the dirty concrete surface of the yard, a puff of dust fluoresced as it absorbed the energy of the halogen lights. At this point all hell broke loose. ‘This is the Police, Armed police, stand still, you are under arrest’. Tom was the only one inside the lockup with me and he hardly moved; it took several seconds before he raced to the door and looked out. In this time: McGovern, Banta and the 2 gang members dived behind the cruisers; all drew weapons of choice. All had handguns of one variety or another. Peter Bramley threw himself into the lockup, narrowly missing Tom in the process. Then two shots rang out and shards of glass exploded around the vehicles; the halogen lights went dead. For a few moments, everything was silent, still even. 'I repeat. You are under arrest. We are armed Police and will fire, if fired upon. Drop your weapons and stand back from the vehicles'. McGovern and Banta looked at each other; and both swore in unison. 'Bloody coppers' He knew the lay of the land and the coppers could only be in the tree lined bank opposite to the lockups. He ordered two of his guys to run left and right flank; they both nodded and prepared for a make or break sprint away from the lockups, the cruisers and relative safety. As each man ran, they fired 2 shots into the blind darkness opposite the cruisers in a desperate attempt at self preservation. Two shots rang out in reply; the first missing the guy on the left flank, the round travelling straight through the breeze block construction of the lockup; the only clue to its power being a puff of dust ebbing away from a small hole in the wall; but the second shot, fired at the man running for the right flank, entered the man’s skull at 950 metres per second and exited his skull a millisecond later taking a 2 inch piece of skull and scalp with it. A massive gush of blood followed the skull fragments as they hit the wall of the lockup in unison and were slowly pulled to the ground by gravity. The guy must have hit the floor before the blood and bone fragments hit the wall, it was instantaneous and final in its deathly conclusion. McGovan, Banta, and the Brunette: all returned fire at the same time; a volley of small arms fire echoed throughout the yard, all aiming for the ground opposite. Each player instantly taking cover, swearing in a string of profanities, eyes bulging with adrenaline; fingers taught around their piece.
It seemed like an eternity, but only a second had passed when the volley was returned three fold; vehicles rocked as tyres burst and glass shattered. Me, Bramley, and Tom Brule were still inside the building and trying to take cover. They were cowering at the back of the lockup, I was tied to a chair in the middle of the lockup with no protection; I rocked and jolted my chair to enable movement in a desperate effort to take cover. It was at this precise moment that a dozen rounds pierced the breeze block wall of the lock up. Dust and clumps of breeze block filled the air and hit the floor in succession; the rounds ricocheted off the floor, and then passed through the rear wall of the lockup: except one, the one that entered the chest of Peter Bramley, the bent copper from the yard. He lay against the wall, in shock at his condition, disbelieving its inevitability; coughing and spluttering blood up from his lungs. Brule just screamed, and it was a scream of panic as the rounds ricocheted around him. The room fell still, but the breeze block dust still floated in the air. Bramley’s breathing was becoming more laboured by the minute as his lungs filled
with blood. Outside had gone deadly quiet.
‘This is the Police. Lay down your weapons. We have marksmen with rifles and small arms. Lay down you weapons’.
McGovan, Banta and the Brunette, looked at each other for reassurance as to what the next ‘team’ move would be; Banta stood up, arms aloft. The yard was instantly flood lit from the opposite bank; then McGovan stood up, then the Brunette, and finally the goon on the left flank. Brule rushed to the door.
‘Stand still. This is the Police, stand still’. His hands were up in an instant. Police rushed in from the bank, and further vehicles raced up the track to the yard; dust and dirt flying as 2 squad cars and 2 containment vehicles turned the last corner onto the concrete yard. A dozen officers suddenly surrounded McGovan and his crew. One lay dead on the yard, thick red blood still oozing from a gaping wound to the head; inside the lockup Bramley was dying fast, barely breathing. Two officers burst through the door, small arms at the ready. Every muscle fibre in my body beckoned for release: here, here, over here. I could not speak, but the body language was clear. The cuffs were put on Brule who was shaking uncontrollably and he was led away for questioning. As for Bramley; it was obvious he would not last long but he was inspected for injuries. ‘Medic required; medic for Bramley!’ As for me, my bonds were removed and I was released; my wounds still bled a little, but the pain subsided from my ankles, wrists and neck. They would clean me up and treat my wounds later. People were still rushing around securing evidence and prisoners. And inspecting the haul of waxen blocks; it was obvious what they were, but the senior office still cut a package and performed a quick onsite test. The touch paper turned purple, it was a positive test and the officer allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He then turned to me: ‘You must be Mr Steve Mitchell’. ‘Yes Sir and thank you for my rescue. It is obvious that Bramley and Brule had nothing to do with it. So who organised this operation? You know McGovan murdered my wife don’t you.’ ‘Later Mr Mitchell, you do not look well, but you have survived. I will answer all your questions later. And as for your wife, please accept my deepest sympathy.’ His look was professional and sincere; I could see he meant it.’ The prisoners were removed first and whilst the crime scene was put under the correct control procedures I was allowed to stay. Finally once the immediate procedures were set, four officers remained with a resource vehicle to protect the crime scene. The final vehicle was loaded with evidence and we returned to the Bromley Borough Police Station for questioning of individuals and cataloguing of evidence. They counted one hundred and fifty two bags of grade A Cocaine; five tons in all. This was, at last, the successful outcome Catriona and I had been counting on; but she never survived to see. Something within me will always be missing.