Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  The agenda showed that he should send the demand on Sunday. This would be less than a week since the previous note. There would be a new delivery point. From now on he did not need to use the same contact; the word GULF was the key. The wording for the next note was clear. He removed the labeller from the locked filing cabinet and carefully typed in the details, making sure that the tape was wiped clean. He wore tight surgical rubber gloves. Once sealed he left the envelope propped up against the light on the desk and cleared away all the evidence of his activities.

  At the same moment, Joan sat with her friend in the coffee lounge in the Leeds Hilton Hotel. They always met there before their shopping spree. It was close enough to the station next door, yet within the city centre.

  "I'm really concerned, Louise. He's growing so preoccupied. It's as if he's feeding off something and I really can't put my finger on it."

  Louise had known Joan since school. They had always been close. Both in their way had been successful but it was Louise who had been the sharper of the two. She had a first- class brain and academic life had been easy for her. At university she played the boys with tremendous dexterity. Her appetite was extraordinary. Where others would spend hours working, revising texts, she had the ability to read once and retain, verbatim. This left her with a great deal of free time, time she filled carnally. She had never married, like Joan she was in a long-term, stable relationship. She was also one of the most callous girls Joan had known; often she would treat her men like dirt, but because of her propensity for sex she would always find them waiting. She was Joan’s opposite, and this was probably the reason they were still friends. She had qualified with a first in law and now worked as a partner in a large firm of solicitors.

  "Is he seeing someone else?" she asked matter-of-factly, sipping the froth from her Cappuccino.

  "I really can't see that. He's away travelling but always returns home or rings." She broke off in thought. "No, his habits haven't changed. Usually the aftershave changes and the breath freshener is all important. No, he's just the same that way. It's really difficult to put your finger on it. I guess he's just cold and short tempered."

  "Sounds like a typical man. Look, I can see you're upset by it all. Come round with Roy next week and I'll cook. My man would love to see Roy again. Maybe something might come out when the boys get together. It's probably something and nothing. Is he still getting his periods of anguish?"

  "He was. His boss, Drew, was concerned after a pretty bad depression and he booked him to see a shrink friend of his. He's had two sessions with him. He too believes in the Syndrome so Roy thinks he may have found a powerful ally, in fact he started to change after that first meeting, about the time of that terrible bombing."

  “You bring him round next week, say, Friday at seven and we'll see."

  They drank their coffee and took the escalator to the main entrance. The Concierge opened the door and tipped his hat as they left.

  ***

  The telephone on Sam's desk rang. He was studying an ordinance survey map of the M6 north of Birmingham and asking himself the question, "Where next?" He picked up the receiver. "Phelps."

  "Sam, it's Carl Howarth, Forensic." His voice was friendly.

  "Hi! How are you? Anything from the bomb that killed Mike?"

  "It's interesting really. Unfortunately, unlike the other explosives used, the last one showed no traces of taggants. We've analysed the origins, dates of manufacture and purchase of the other taggants and they're a really mixed bag. Traces show the explosives were all stolen from their original source or sold to companies abroad; one has come from as far away as Australia. Our guy has obviously bought a mixed bag."

  "I thought we'd narrowed the availability of this stuff right down by using taggants. Let's say he's targeted twenty bridges with an average of 10kg per bridge, that's one hell of a lot of plastic. The more I look at this scenario the more I'm convinced we are dealing with some political group. Only they could get hold of that amount let alone bring it into the country."

  "As you know, Sam, money talks and if you’ve the right money and know the correct people you can buy just about anything you like. You can even get it delivered to your door. Times are changing and speaking of change, I believe MI5 are mixing it with SO13. That should be interesting to watch."

  "Hopefully full co-operation this time. A number of knowns have been brought in for questioning but nothing as yet. If you find anything else, I'd appreciate a call. With luck we'll not see you professionally for a while." Sam hung up and moved back to the map.

  ***

  The search continued on more than one front. It was amazing just how many motorway bridges there were, some only small carrying pedestrians over the road system, others carrying roads over roads. 'Spaghetti Junction' had been checked and double-checked although some wit on the team suggested it needed a bomb under it to get the traffic moving!

  In a small office, tucked away in a building that was the pride of the sixties, sat an investigating officer. The building, all concrete, square and without an ounce of character, was the main police station for Wigan and surrounding districts. Large, white letters pronounced the word 'Police' and a small, ancient blue light from some long since demolished Victorian building hung above the main door. It was here that the first clue should have come to light. The investigating officer had checked the manufacturer of the type of palmtop that met the description of the unit seen by Sam Phelps and to his amazement the bomber had used one of the most expensive organisers available. He had checked with the producer to find their distributors and then contacted them directly. There was a remarkable number of organisers sold in any one year and to make matters worse they were produced under two names; one was primarily aimed at the schools market whilst the other for the punter in the street. They also made a number of variants.

  He telephoned each of the largest distributors requesting lists of sales and where possible, names and addresses of purchasers; this was not as difficult as one would imagine as most people paid by credit card and the invoice was linked with a specific unit, also the larger companies would seek the customers' details for future mail shots. However, this type of research did not take into consideration the purchasers who paid cash and refused to give their personal details, or the machines that were stolen from shops and from individuals. It surprised the officer just how many were stolen. There was a third facet to the equation: companies giving them to clients as gifts rarely kept accurate records.

  The manufacturer faxed through a list of those purchasers who had returned their guarantee registration cards but this was far short of the number sold. To compound matters, the identical machine could be bought in America more cheaply and with the number of computer mailing firms, their ability to track down those numbers was a little like finding a needle in a haystack. However, the clue was there, sitting amongst the numbers’ information already on the desk, all he had to do was search. It would be just down to good police work but when something is staring you in the face it is often blurred and to the officer, the numbers he studied might well have been written in Arabic. His job was simple: collate and enter the information into the Police National Computer (PNC) terminal that would link the station to the main computer terminal at Hendon and from there to the crime analysis computer at New Scotland Yard. This computer, known as CRIS (Crime Report Information System), was new in itself. The police hoped that it would build up a picture of the bombings by searching for a pattern of time, location and type of explosive. This latest computer was linked also to the HOLMES (Home Office Large Major Enquiry System) where thousands of snippets of information could be filed and cross-referenced in seconds. HOLMES had in its data banks all the details of mainland bombings and the relevant forensic information that could, when matched, pinpoint the bomber. The modem went on line and the clue disappeared. It would be found, but only much later.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roy packed away the items he had used to prepare the nex
t note and went to the car. He needed to call at the office; it would be open until noon, one of the lads was always on site. Only one car was in the car park, the company logo clearly marked on the side and boot. He parked near the door, punching his code into the combination lock. He shouted on entering so as not to cause concern to anyone inside. He moved to his office.

  "Is that you Roy?” It was Emma.

  "Yes, in my office. Didn't expect to see you today, you don't work Saturdays."

  "No, I needed to collect some things I left last night but I'm going now. Callum’s in the back until dinner."

  "I've just come to collect these notes and then I'm going for a drive."

  Emma had always had a soft spot for Roy. "Mmm that sounds lovely. Where are you thinking of going?" she asked as they made their way to the car park.

  "Through the Dales, maybe. Long time since I've seen some of the more lovely parts of this country of ours."

  "Wouldn't be room for a small one would there? I've nothing planned for today."

  Roy wished he had not said anything but nodded and held open the door. "It would be my pleasure."

  Roy drove quickly, enjoying the freedom of the open road. The sheer grunt of the Subaru brought a tingle to his neck; he whistled to himself and gunned the motor harder. Emma sat almost tense, her tight blue jeans highlighting her slim thighs, her hands on the edge of the seat. The hedgerows buzzed past, as he negotiated the tight lanes. Leaves that had already turned brown were blown as the car whispered past.

  "Where are we going, Roy? You do drive very fast."

  Roy slowed the car realising Emma was not enjoying the drive and immediately her body sagged and relaxed. Her hands moved from the edge of her seat and she turned and smiled at him. She had a lovely smile.

  From Ripley, the car turned left at the roundabout and trundled down the lanes eventually turning into Studley Royal. The gates to the hall were imposing as they drove through. The long elegant driveway was bordered by parkland and many deer roamed freely.

  "Look at the deer, Roy!" Emma's face became totally animated as her eyes darted to both sides of the car.

  Roy smiled and dropped his hand onto hers. She was shocked at first by its coldness but made no attempt to remove it.

  The car park was almost deserted. Roy climbed out and took two fleece jackets from the boot, tossing one to Emma. "Might be a bit big but it'll keep out the cold." She slipped it on and zipped it tightly to her neck. She could smell him and she liked that. It was far too big but it was warm. Roy dragged out his bag, the same one he had used in his bomb setting expeditions only this time it contained nothing more dangerous than his coffee. They moved towards the gates. Roy bought two tickets and they walked through.

  Roy enjoyed the country and he had a particular love of this area, the organisation of the garden set against the natural background of the countryside thrilled him. He admired the designers, men of outstanding vision, men who often never saw the results of their labours except in their mind's eye. They crossed over the stepping stones that led across the top of the small, man-made waterfall and then walked along its banks. The grounds were full of many follies and buildings. Roy turned her left up a small pathway that led to a tunnel.

  "Looks rather dark in there," Emma giggled. "Will I be safe?"

  "Your honour is safe with me ma'am." He could see that she registered a degree of disappointment. It stirred him.

  They moved upwards through the tunnel made from huge stones and came out high on the valley side in woodland. Roy took Emma's hand to assist her, releasing it as they walked along the path. Occasionally the trees gapped affording them spectacular views of the ornamental lakes and gardens.

  "This is beautiful, Roy." She grabbed him by the arm to stop him and direct his attention to the distant view. As they walked on her arm linked his. The pathway continued to follow the contour of the hill. After about twenty minutes Roy turned as if heading down the valley side, and there in the trees was a small, black wooden shelter. Before it was a gap in the trees. The view that it afforded was beautiful. Down in the distance were the ruins of Fountains Abbey, proud in their isolation. People like ants walked round it. Roy and Emma settled on the bench. He opened his bag and removed his thermos. He poured two drinks. Emma cupped the small beaker in her hands, warming them, sipping the coffee and marvelling at the view.

  "I didn't think the youth of today enjoyed things like this, thought they were more into drugs and rave."

  "It's lovely Roy, it really is. Thank you for bringing me." She moved and kissed his cheek. They looked at each other. Roy put his cup down and took hers from her hands. He stood up, lifting her to her feet. He held her and lowered his mouth to hers. Their kiss was deep. Emma's hands wandered around Roy's back, neck and buttocks. Her tongue slid between his teeth and he felt himself stiffen; Emma too felt it, rubbing herself harder against him. He broke away and looked down at the young lady standing slightly breathless before him. He knew he could not carry on even though he wanted to.

  “The coffee will be cold but the view will still be beautiful.” Emma leaned against him, feet on the bench.

  Roy said nothing. He felt nothing. "More coffee?"

  He checked his watch, the afternoon was drawing on. “We must make a move.” They ran down the hillside kicking leaves and laughing, stopping occasionally to look at the mushrooms that grew in profusion, their red caps bright. She ran off and Roy played the game chasing her. The day had certainly blown away the cobwebs.

  Roy dropped Emma at home. She leaned across and purposely kissed his cheek, refusing his lips. "It was just a perfect day, Roy, thank you." She climbed out and closed the door. He drove away.

  Opening the glove box he took out the brown envelope, throwing it onto the warm seat that Emma had left moments earlier; it would not be there long. Soon it would find its way into the hands of the press and the whole ball would start rolling again.

  'GULF, GULF, GULF. FOUND THE PREVIOUS BUNDLES, WELL DONE! YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT THE NEXT SURPRISE MIGHT BE. HERE ARE THE FOLLOWING THREE DUE TO BLOW. I DO HOPE YOU APPRECIATE MY KINDNESS. THE £2,000,000 TO BE IN USED NOTES. £1,000,000 IN STERLING, £1,000,000 IN AMERICAN DOLLARS. PLACE OF HIDING TO FOLLOW WITH DATE AND TIME. DON'T DISAPPOINT. LET ME KNOW YOU APPROVE. PLACE AD IN PERSONAL COLUMN, DAILY TELEGRAPH. 24 HOURS NO LONGER. STATE IF YOU CAN THAT YOU'VE MANAGED TO BRIDGE THE GULF.’

  The nominated newspaper faxed the details to Scotland Yard and a meeting was swiftly organised. Bomb Disposal was sent to the three references that showed their position using GPS co-ordinates as per instructions. There was a great deal of caution and circumspection but they were beginning to know their man. Two of the three bombs turned out to be nothing more than plasticine wrapped in a thin film of Semtex then coated with grease. This gave the general appearance to the detectors that the total package was explosive. However, on these dummy bombs, GULF had wired a small anti-personnel charge to the TPU. It was felt safer to use controlled charges on all three. On this occasion it worked, there was little damage and no casualties.

  The Home Secretary had received clearance for the money to be readied from the Defence Select Committee. Used notes in the denominations specified were packed and stored in readiness for a further communication. It took just twenty-four hours from their receiving the labelled message. The advert was placed, 'The Gulf is bridged. Cross when ready'.

  Roy had, however, planned a surprise, a fourth device that was to explode without warning just before one of the peak commuter times. He was sure that there would be a press release to say that the police and army bomb disposal teams had secured another three bombs and that the battle against the terrorist was truly won. He had allowed a respectable lapse of time to ensure the news had gone to press so that the explosion would coincide with the early papers and hopefully their coverage.

  He had not chosen his usual target; he had carefully put his explosive charges on the Pennine Way footbridge that crossed the M62 west of the Scammonden Dam. H
e had walked the bridge often, marvelling at the view. From its span on a clear day the West coast of Liverpool was visible along with the Welsh Mountains and Winter Hill, to the East Halifax and Brighouse. It was the highest part of the Trans-Pennine route, almost the border between Lancashire and Yorkshire, clearly marked by two pyramid-shaped pieces of dirty concrete decorated with a white and a red rose. The plan was to bring the single spanned bridge down onto the carriageway below.

  The bridge where Mike had been killed was two miles west. This had brought the motorway to a standstill. Engineers assessed the damage and calculated that with metal plating and supports, one lane of vehicles in each direction could safely use the bridge providing a 30mph speed limit was enforced. This was better than originally predicted. It was at first felt that like the previous two blown spans, the heavy goods vehicles would have to detour, the worst possible nightmare for this area of the country. Within two days, traffic was again moving, albeit slowly across this section. It was, though, a long delay and the traffic stretched away up the hill and under the new target. Some were going to be in for a rude awakening as the bridge fell.

  The early October mist was thick at the summit of the moors. Dismal at most times of the year, as winter drew in its unwelcoming arms, the M62, particularly there, was capricious and very brutal. The orange motorway lights swayed in the slight breeze. Traffic was building, the three lanes channelled into one, their exhaust gasses mixing with the morning mist. Many vehicles crept to the hard shoulder to leave the motorway along the A672 which would take them into Oldham. From there they would be able to pick up the A627M and the M62. Some thought that this was the better option. Sitting for twenty to thirty minutes hardly moving was wasting valuable time.

  The police patrolled the outside two lanes ensuring that the vehicles remained in line. Breakdown vehicles stood by, waiting sentinels, ready to remove any that were to falter. The media too had played their part as the broadcasts and news items painted the grimmest picture of travelling this route over the Pennines, but still they came, probably thinking all the rest would heed the advice and the motorway would be empty. Strange how the human race can justify the most irrational of moves.