by Jay Gill
‘The current government is weak,’ he told him. ‘It needs a wake-up call, even a manufactured one.’ Those he worked for wanted to make sure the country took a hard line on terrorism. For sake of this country’s future, he said, it was time the fight was taken to the enemy.
‘We need troops on the ground in serious numbers, backed up with intelligence from special forces. We need to hunt down our enemy in those countries that harbour them. No more pussyfooting around. We need to instigate air strikes. We need to impose sanctions. We need our enemies to know that the United Kingdom is once again a country to be respected and feared.
‘There was a time when this small country of ours was the most powerful country on earth. We were proud conquerors. We led the way in industry, trade, exploration and science. We ruled the land, sea and sky. At every pivotal point in history we were there. Yet, look at us today. We’re a pathetic shadow of our former greatness, and it’s getting worse. We cannot even protect our own towns and cities. We’re under siege from an enemy at home as well as abroad. And the government don’t see it. And even when our nose is bloodied by some godawful attack, they’re too weak to act for fear of upsetting those on the left. Fuck the left. It’s time to stand up for what really made Britain great. The only way to do that is to shock our elected officials out of their inertia. Every time there is a terrorist attack, it’s not the elected officials who suffer: it’s our people who suffer. Those with the power to really do something need to hurt. They need to be scared. Then they’ll sit up and take action. Then they’ll act.
‘Only when they are in the line of fire themselves will they take up the fight. That’s why I and other patriots like me decided the status quo isn’t working. We need to change the status quo. We must make them believe our enemies are targeting them. If we do that, they’ll throw everything they have at saving themselves and they’ll save our beloved country at the same time.’
It was all bullshit, of course. Yet for a true patriot like Vaughan, it was the icing on the cake. At his lowest point, all Vaughan could see was that his country had chewed him up and spat him out. He’d lapped it up, so desperate was he to believe it was the right thing to do. He had to save his daughter.
Norton had watched Vaughan practically wetting himself as he envisioned making the money he needed for his family. And to complete the task, he would be able to draw on his military skills, which is what he was best at. And once again, he’d feel good about himself and restore his sense of pride. At the same time, he could change the course of history and save his country.
Blah, blah, blah.
The real reason for Norton reigniting the war effort was far from idealistic. War meant deals, and he had negotiated contracts to supply arms. If he could convince the prime minister and the rest of the Cabinet that attack was the best form of defence, then he would very quickly become a wealthy man.
Sadly, Vaughan had made himself a problem. It was a shame as he’d seen a bright future for the young gun. It could have been a very profitable relationship for the both of them. Norton could have lined up lucrative contracts all over the world for him. There was always someone willing to pay for a competitor, wealthy businessman, ambassador, prince, senator, army general or wife to be bumped off.
Norton drank the Cognac down in one and looked at the empty glass. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone.
‘The corporal won’t be completing the final act. Are you sure your man can complete? Good. I want him at the next removal as well, just in case Vaughan doesn’t come through. If he fails, complete yourself. I want the minister dead. No, I understand. Good. The corporal’s must look like suicide. Yes, suicide. A note would be good – guilt, worthlessness, unable to adjust, you know the sort of thing.
‘Then your man must finish the big one. Is that understood? Good. Yes. You’re right; it means we’ll need our asset ready. Take care of it. Good. You know what to do.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’d arrived at the historic town of Marlow-upon-Thames to meet with Robert Olsen from MI5. We walked alongside the River Thames swapping stories and talking about the pressures of our work. After a while he asked how the girls and I were coping since Helena’s murder. It’s been a long while now, but I still find it hard to explain my feelings, especially to people I don’t know well. So instead, I stuck to facts.
‘Alice and Faith are doing really well, I think. We each cope in different ways and we all have our moments when we can’t stop the tears. I think what makes it most difficult is the senselessness of it all; that, and the brutal way she went. The girls know little of that, of course. They know she was hurt by a bad man and that during a brave fight with him she died. All in all, we’ve moved on and are well past the darkest part of it all.’
‘I heard he was an addict looking for an easy bag snatch.’
Olsen was surprised when I laughed. ‘Well, he got more than he bargained for with Helena. By all accounts, until he pulled a knife, she had the better of him. She knocked the piece of shit to the ground, breaking his nose in the process. Then she repeatedly kicked him in the bollocks. That’s my girl.’
We laughed and walked a while in silence.
Finally, I asked him, ‘Are you going to tell me why I’m here? It’s good to catch up, but you and I both know we’re not here to talk about my life.’
Olsen shrugged and looked uneasy. His demeanour changed, and he looked more serious. I’m sure it was more for my benefit, a way of giving me notice he was now on duty. Which was bullshit, of course. I knew he was never off duty. Whether he was at home doing mundane tasks like mowing the lawn or out and about clothes shopping with his family, his mind was working. He and I were very much alike in that way. We have to work twice as hard to switch off.
His tone became more measured. ‘This is all off the record. None of this came from me or anyone within MI5. I want that to be clear. I am also not asking you to act on any of what I’m about to tell you. I am only telling you this because... well, because it is my belief you’re in up to your neck in all this, whether you know it or not. You’re respected, you know that, and it’s my belief that if McPherson were still with us, he’d be having this same conversation with you and not me.’ Olsen swallowed hard.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Olsen had me on edge. ‘I’m guessing this is to do with McPherson’s murder? Brannon’s too?’
‘Yes. All of it.’
‘You and I are on the same side, Rob. We both want the same thing. If we’re going to stop whoever killed McPherson and Brannon from killing again, it’s going to be easier if we’re all on the same page.’
Olsen looked as if he was fighting a mental battle; he clearly wanted to talk but was finding it hard to start. ‘As you might expect, we have people in place up and down the country gathering intelligence. We’re monitoring terrorist activity day and night. Gathering intelligence isn’t the problem. The problem used to come from sifting the vast amount of intel, prioritising it and allocating enough appropriate resource when it’s required. We’ve since become very good at that; we had to adapt quickly. Right now, we have the very best people and technology cross-checking and sifting out fact from fiction.’
‘Have you found something?’
‘That’s just it. Our people look for patterns in behaviour and activity. Chatter before an attack as well as chatter after an attack. You see, often after an attack, sympathisers let their guard down and say something we can pick up on. There’s always someone with a loose tongue we can pick up and squeeze.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. We’ve heard nothing that suggests any sort of organisation was involved.’
‘I bloody knew it.’ I was ready to blurt out my theories, but instead I kept my mouth shut and my ears open. I let Olsen continue.
‘What we did find was evidence based on profiling voice patterns, language and phrasing used in the calls you received from the shooter. We analysed reports and interviewed witnesses at the scenes of both sh
ootings, in particular, reports from witnesses at Brannon’s attack just up the road from where we are now. We know the weapons used based on the ballistic reports, the times and locations of the attacks and the skill set required to achieve the killings. We cross referenced all that to build a profile.
‘Our man is most definitely a white, British male who is serving or has served in the British armed forces. We’re looking for a skilled sniper. One of our own. Someone the British army trained. His skill set will make him lethal and elusive.’
‘How do we find him and stop him?’
‘Before I get to that, there’s something else you need to know.’
‘Go on.’
‘When I said there was no chatter, that was only half true. Our analysts discovered we were being fed information – or disinformation, to be more precise. Whoever is behind this wanted us to believe there was an active terrorist cell involved in these attacks. What we came to realise was that the chatter was coming not from the streets or online as it traditionally does, but was clearly manufactured. I can’t go into detail, but what I can say is that based on experience we know it was fabricated.’
‘So where did it come from?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘What do you mean you can’t say? Is it that you can’t say or that you won’t say?’
‘All I can tell you is we’re looking at internal failures in data protocol.’
‘Someone inside MI5 deliberately spread misinformation?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He didn’t need to. My mind was already working overtime trying to make this all fit.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you telling me McPherson and Brannon were killed by us? None of this makes sense.’
‘You’re right; none of this makes any sense right now. What you need to know is that, like us, the Met is being deliberately misled and it’s coming from within.’ Olsen checked his watch. ‘I had better go. This thing is going to get messy very quickly. It won’t be long before we have a line on the shooter, and once that happens and people start getting squeezed, we’ll know more.’
‘How do you know I’m not part of this? I mean, it was me who took the call from the shooter.’
‘Right now, there are very few people I trust. McPherson trusted you and that means I trust you. Instinct tells me you’re potentially as much a victim in all this as McPherson and Brannon, so for now, watch your back. Once they know we’re narrowing in on them they’ll bite back.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I was talking to military veterans at a morning support group meeting and had been listening to stories for a couple of hours, hoping I might unearth a lead. I’d heard some heartbreaking stories as well as many inspirational ones. I’d learned how lives were being turned around through the work of the veterans’ charity that hosted these meetings. I was filled with admiration and reflected, not for the first time, on how hearing the problems of others can put your own challenges into perspective. These men and women are true heroes. Every day they’re fighting mental and physical battles I find difficult to imagine.
It had been a good meeting and I’d made some new friends, but I hadn’t generated a lead of any kind. I was preparing to leave when I felt my phone vibrate in my jacket pocket. I excused myself and stepped outside to read the text message I’d received.
‘There’s a bullet with your daughter’s name on. You had better find her. Quick.’
A million thoughts surged through my brain at once and every muscle in my body went rigid with fear. Uncomprehending, I read the message again.
Your daughter. Did they mean Alice or Faith? I began running to my car, dialling Monica’s number as I ran. It went to voice mail. I reached my car, got in and raced out of the car park and into some light traffic. I dialled Monica’s number again and this time she answered.
‘Alice and Faith – where are they?’
‘They’re at school? What’s wrong?’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s going on?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in town, shopping. You’re scaring me. What’s going on, James?’
‘I’ve received a threat against Alice and Faith. I’m on my way to the school. I need to go. I need to call the school. I’ll call you as soon I know more.’ Monica wouldn’t get to the school as quickly as I could.
‘I’m heading home. Let me know as soon as you hear something,’ said Monica. I could hear panic in her voice. In the background, the quiet of the store changed to the sound of passing vehicles as she walked out onto the high street.
When I arrived at Spring Castle School, Alice and Faith had been taken out of lessons and were sat, bemused, in the office of their headmistress, Mrs Keane. I was almost overwhelmed by relief when I saw them, and struggled to hold back my tears as I squeezed and kissed my little girls.
‘Daddy, you’re squeezing me too tight,’ complained Alice.
‘Are we going home early?’ asked Faith. Then she said hopefully, ‘I’ve got double maths last lesson. So please can we go home now? Please, please, please?’
Mrs Keane stood by the door to her office. ‘Girls, I’ll speak to your teachers and let them know you’ve had to leave early. I’ll make sure you’re given the opportunity to catch up.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep you updated.’ I was so happy to see Alice and Faith safe I was close to hugging and planting a kiss on Mrs Keane.
‘You have my private number,’ said Mrs Keane. ‘Under the circumstances it might be easier to speak out of school hours. Just keep me posted. I’m sure this will all blow over.’
‘I’ll call you this evening.’
I had ignored all the parking bays and parked directly outside the school reception area. I opened the car’s back door and helped Alice and Faith with their bags as they climbed in.
‘Where are we going, Daddy?’ asked Alice.
‘Well, I thought we’d go home and perhaps we could do some baking. How about showing me how you made those flapjacks? The ones you made with Monica?’
Faith was going through her rucksack, looking for something. ‘I think I’ve left my pencil case on my desk. I need to go and get it. It has my new pen in it. I don’t want to lose my new pen.’
Alice began helping her little sister look. The two girls began pulling everything out and piling it on the seat between them.
‘What’s this?’ asked Alice. She was showing her sister a plain white envelope. ‘There’s something inside. I can feel it.’
I watched them in the rear-view mirror. ‘What have you got there, girls?’
The two girls began arguing.
‘It’s mine. I want to open it,’ cried Faith.
‘Fine, then. You open it,’ said Alice. ‘You’re such a baby.’
Faith tore open the envelope. She pulled out a card and set it to one side, then held up a large, shiny bullet. ‘Look, Daddy. It’s got my name on it.’
‘Put that down,’ shouted Alice at her sister. ‘Do you even know what it is?’
I cranked the wheel hard and stopped the car at the side of the road, causing the driver behind me to swerve past, honking. I turned in my seat. Faith was still holding up the bullet. I recognised it as the type used by the sniper.
‘That’s pretty, sweetheart,’ I said, keeping my voice light. I wanted to stay calm for the sake of the girls. ‘But someone is being mean. Putting that in your bag is naughty. Would you be a good girl for Daddy and give me the bullet, the envelope and the card, please? I need to take it to my police station.’
I put out my hand and, with reluctance, Faith handed them to me. I glanced at the card as I slid it, and the bullet, back into the envelope. On it was written BACK OFF.
I felt sick. This had just got very personal and too close to home.
Chapter Thirty
At 3.07 a.m. Michael Cutler woke with a jolt. He was covered in sweat. Beside him he heard Melanie sigh heavily and roll over. S
he didn’t like being disturbed while she slept.
‘Sorry, hon,’ he whispered. ‘Another bad dream.’
His sister Amanda had died when they were children, but what happened still haunted him. ‘Haunted’ was the right word. She had been three years older than him, and he had adored her. He remembered her saying one time that he was her shadow. There were only a few times towards the end when she’d told him he couldn’t tag along, but for the most part they’d been inseparable.
Growing up, they had needed each other. Dad was never there, which was fine. Whenever he was home, he was either drunk or angry or both. Mum was there physically but her mind always seemed to be elsewhere. She always seemed to be staring out of a window or stood in the garden smoking and thinking, and sometimes, crying. Even when she did speak to him, her eyes seemed vacant and her mind far away. He remembered desperately wanting her to acknowledge him.
His parents had always argued; their quarrels had gotten worse right before Dad left for the last time. As a child, Michael thought the lack of warmth he received was normal. Frustrating, yes, but normal; he knew now that children often become resigned to their circumstances, and that had been true for both him and Amanda. He now understood why things had been the way they were, although he wished he had known in childhood what he now understood as an adult.
As his parents’ quarrelling had intensified, Mum had become even more withdrawn and distant. On that final day, Michael remembered sitting on Amanda’s bed, hugging her pillow and crying while he waited for her to come home. She always comforted him, and he needed her now; their parents were having a horrible row in the kitchen below him. He must have been about twelve and she was nearly sixteen. He should have been emotionally stronger, but he was a sensitive boy; everyone said so.
He remembered feeling relief and excitement and looking out of her bedroom window when he heard her key in the front door. He remembered the arguing stopping for a moment as Amanda entered the house. He sat forward on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to run up the stairs and walk through her bedroom door and put her arms around him. But she never did.