Rough Justice Read Online Free PDF

‘Thank you,’ he said.
    ‘I already said don’t thank me,’ said Simpson. He nodded at Grimshaw. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
    Simpson followed Grimshaw out of the bedroom, and closed the door. The two men walked down the landing. The front door was open. Thompson, now wearing a ski-mask, looked up when he saw them coming down the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Maloney’s as mad as hell.’
    ‘Screw Maloney,’ said Grimshaw. ‘How are we doing?’
    ‘Half a dozen paintings already. The guys are in the library now, fetching the Monet.’
    As he spoke, Matt Burrowes, dressed in black and wearing a ski-mask, jogged out of the library, holding a large painting sheathed in bubble-wrap.
    ‘Come on, Matt, get a bloody move on,’ said Grimshaw.
    ‘Be nice if you’d give us a hand,’ panted Burrowes, heading out of the door.
    Grimshaw tossed the holdall down to Thompson. ‘Shove that in the van,’ he said. Thompson headed outside.
    ‘Come on, Eddie, help load the vans,’ said Grimshaw.
    Just then they heard staccato shouts outside. ‘Armed police! Hands in the air – now!’
    ‘What the hell . . .?’ said Grimshaw.
    Maloney came running out of the library, holding his gun in the air. ‘There’s cops outside – hundreds of cops!’
    Three men in black overalls wearing bulletproof vests and black helmets and pointing Heckler & Koch carbines appeared at the front doorway. Maloney dropped his gun and threw his hands up. ‘Don’t shoot!’
    The three men fanned out across the hall and another five armed officers rushed in through the door. ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’ shouted one of the new arrivals.
    Grimshaw raised his hands. Simpson flicked the safety on the shotgun but before he could throw it to the floor one of the armed police fired. Simpson’s head jerked back and he slumped to the ground as the gun fell from his nerveless fingers.
    Two armed policemen dragged Grimshaw roughly across the driveway to a waiting van. ‘Okay, okay, I’m not resisting,’ he said, but his captors ignored him.
    The three men who had arrived in the second van were all lying face down while six armed officers covered them with their MP5s. Thompson was standing spreadeagled against a wall while an officer in a bulletproof vest patted him down.
    A paramedic was attending to Simpson, dabbing at a graze on his forehead where the police marksman’s bullet had narrowly missed splattering his brains across the hallway. Two armed police stood guard over him, cradling their MP5s. ‘You were lucky,’ said the paramedic.
    ‘Yeah, well, I’d have been even luckier if the idiot had held his fire for another second or two,’ sneered Simpson. ‘I was bloody well surrendering.’ He scowled up at the two armed policemen. ‘Was it one of you pricks that shot me?’
    The two men stared at him impassively.
    ‘Yeah, well, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers, you trigger-happy morons.’ He winced as the paramedic used a Q-tip to apply antiseptic.
    There were half a dozen patrol cars in a semicircle facing the house, their doors open and lights off, with two ambulances. Two paramedics in green overalls and yellow fluorescent jackets wheeled Rawstorne out of the house on a stretcher towards one of the ambulances. His wife, a blanket around her shoulders, hurried after them, dabbing at her face with a tissue. Two female police officers, one wearing a bulletproof vest and a black helmet with the visor up, came out with Amy. She was trembling and hugging herself as she stared blankly at the activity around her.
    A female detective with a chestnut bob, wearing a beige raincoat with the collar turned up, hurried over to Angela Rawstorne. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
    ‘Of course I’m not all right,’ she said acidly. ‘I want to go with my husband.’
    ‘That’s not a problem, Mrs Rawstorne,’ said the detective. She nodded at the paramedics and they helped the woman into the back of the ambulance. Mrs