Dead Heat Read Online Free PDF

are very specific in that the location of the target is usually known and he or she is picked up from that point and followed by the team until the operation is either called off or the cops move in and make an arrest. The surveillance team is never used for this latter purpose. Occasionally some ops are run on an ad hoc basis by putting a team into an area which the target is known to frequent, hoping there is a sighting from which the team would then pick up the target and slot themselves into place.
    As was the case that afternoon and evening.
    But this type of op can be frustrating, especially when the target does not put in an appearance.
    The team had gravitated to the Rusholme area of Manchester, a location well known for the high number of Asian restaurants along the main street. Andy Turner was known to do quite a lot of his business in this part of the city. He was suspected of trading with Asians, who made up a large proportion of the local community in Rusholme. Much of the heroin which found its way on to these streets originated in Pakistan, coming in from the north-west frontier, through Turkey and some of the former Soviet republics and across Europe.
    Jo Coniston and Dale O’Brien were sitting in their car on a side street, facing towards the main road through Rusholme, becoming very bored with the way the afternoon was progressing into evening. They had exhausted ‘I spy’ and medleys of Beatles songs and were sitting in glum silence, listening to sporadic radio transmissions between other team members, aware that the radios were still not working properly. They had a tendency to pack up half-way through a conversation. Very annoying.
    â€˜I’m going for a stroll,’ O’Brien announced.
    Jo sank down in her seat and reclined it. ‘Don’t blame you,’ she said. ‘This is just so bloody wishy-washy . . . needle-in-a-haystack job. He’s never gonna turn up, y’know.’
    â€˜I know.’ O’Brien climbed out and walked down to the main road, turned out of sight. She closed her eyes after locking the car doors, this being the sort of area where anything could happen, especially to a lone woman in a car. She exhaled a long, fed-up sigh.
    Goldman was not dead, but he was not well. Blood continued to cascade out of his nose, indicating that his heart was still beating, and the blows to his head had knocked him unconscious for a few seconds. He came round with massive brain pain.
    Newman hoisted him up off the floor, avoiding getting any blood on his own clothes, whilst Turner scoured the flat. He returned from the kitchen, shaking his head in wonderment.
    â€˜A right little drug dealer’s set-up,’ he said. In the kitchen he had found an array of mobile phones and pagers, neatly piled up bank statements, coded lists of contacts; wraps, bags, weighing scales, crushed paracetamol tablets, bicarbonate of soda and four microwave ovens. ‘Ready for a delivery, I’d say. Isn’t that right Goldy, you Jewish twat?’
    He tapped Goldman on the crown of his head with his bat. The dealer, now seated on a chair, swooned and dropped his bloodied face into his blood-covered hands. He did not respond to Turner’s question, nor his derogatory racial remark.
    â€˜I asked you a question.’
    Goldman mumbled something and held his head, which felt as though it had been smashed like an egg.
    Turner positioned himself on the arm of a chair. ‘Now then, you little shit, a little budgie’s told me that you’ve been dealing on my patch without my say so. Very rude thing to do, that. Don’t like it.’
    Goldman slavered out a gobful of blood down between his legs.
    â€˜It’s got to stop. Where do you keep your cash, boyo?’
    â€˜What cash?’ he managed to reply.
    â€˜Don’t mess – any cash you have in this house, I want it. So where is it? Pay up and stop dealing on my streets and I’ll call it