Marius

by Laurence Todd

  Table of Contents

  O N E Friday

  T W O Saturday

  T H R E E Sunday

  F O U R Monday

  F I V E Tuesday

  S I X Wednesday

  S E V E N Thursday

  E I G H T Friday

  N I N E Saturday

  T E N Sunday

  E L E V E N Monday

  T W E L V E Tuesday

  T H I R T E E N Tuesday, one week later

  E P I L O G U E Monday, six days later

  LAURENCE TODD

  M a r i u s

  The Choir Press

  Copyright © 2018 Laurence Todd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

  The right of Laurence Todd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  The Choir Press

  ISBN 978-1-911589-25-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events in real locations or to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  O N E

  THE EXPLOSION at the north end of Albany Street echoed loudly in the early morning silence. Many windows were shattered, with several residents suffering unexpected cuts whilst they slept and waking up in a panic. A number of cars, parked unfortunately close to a vehicle which was later found to have been packed with several pounds of explosives, were badly damaged, some beyond repair. Mercifully, there were no human fatalities as nobody had been nearby at 3.55 am, and the only casualties were the shredded nerves of residents, though the grisly remains of at least two animals that had been too close to the vehicle, eventually identified as a cat and a fox, were later discovered.

  The explosion had been unforeseen. No warning had been issued by any group, so the security services were still operating on a moderate threat level, meaning that there was always the possibility of a terrorist attack though no specific warnings of imminent attacks had been received.

  But, despite being taken by surprise, ambulances and the fire brigade had been instantly mobilised, and Albany Street was quickly sealed off by police whilst army bomb disposal teams checked all nearby vehicles to ensure there were no more such devices planted in the vicinity, waiting to be detonated. The exhaustive search caused considerable traffic chaos as the rush hour slowly began, because all roads around the area had been cordoned off and traffic had to be diverted away from the east side of Regent’s Park, but it uncovered no further explosive devices, and the clear-up operation began.

  Whilst the area was being searched for more explosives, the Prime Minister, after taking advice from the Head of

  MI5, had decided against holding a meeting of COBRA until more information was known. Security chiefs had been gathered together to discuss what appeared to be, prima facie, just a random bombing. But, as they knew only too well from hard-won experience, no bombing is ever wholly random. There’s always a purpose and a reason behind it. Their task was to find it, as well as to consider whether the terror threat level should be raised from ‘moderate’ to ‘substantial’.

  *

  Nine forty am. I’d been checked through security, which in recent years had become much tighter, though possessing Special Branch ID made the process easier, and I was allowed to enter this hallowed building still in possession of a firearm. I was entering the sanctum sanctorum of British justice, the Central Criminal Court, known to the world at large as the Old Bailey, one of London’s most imposing and iconic buildings.

  The court occupies a venerable place in British history. The statue of the Scales of Justice atop the dome of the building is, along with the Statue of Liberty, one of the two most iconic statues in the world. That’s because, rather than just being an image of something or someone, it actually represents something meaningful; the scales of justice are held in one hand and the sword of retribution to smite the wrongdoer in the other, and Lady Justice herself stares enigmatically ahead. Instantly recognisable, this is one of the sights most overseas tourists want to see and photograph when they visit London.

  I waited outside court number one in the main part of the old building. This courtroom had seen many notable trials down the years, several of which had resonated in the public consciousness. In 1969 the Kray twins had been sentenced to life imprisonment in this very courtroom, as had the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, in 1981. The infamous Lord Haw-Haw had also been tried here in 1945 and, not too many months back, Commander Neville Thornwyn, my ex-boss, had been sentenced in the very same courtroom to twenty-two years for offences relating to bribery and corruption, the longest ever custodial sentence given to a serving police officer of his rank. Not long after he’d been sentenced, it’d been discovered he and John Paine, another member of his team, the team I’d served in for over three years before being promoted and transferring across to Special Branch, between them had an account in a Caribbean tax haven containing in excess of £1.5 million, the outcome of years of graft. This they’d referred to as the Fund. Paine was now also in prison, serving eight years.

  I’d dressed appropriately for the occasion, as I’d been strongly urged to do: a smart jacket and trousers, plus crisply ironed shirt and a tie. I was at the Bailey to give evidence in a trial concerning a break-in at the warehouse of a major arms manufacturer. The firm, Bartolome Systems, had taken over a smaller weapons manufacturer which was going out of business, and was planning to expand its Wembley warehouse premises to accommodate its newest weapons acquisitions. This had led to mass protests by groups as diverse as the Campaign against the Arms Trade and Quakers for Peace, plus CND and the Socialist Workers Party.

  For all such premises, security was usually tight, but somehow eight demonstrators had managed to penetrate the security fencing surrounding the warehouse one evening, which on its own had caused an outbreak of hives for some at the top of the security pyramid. They had been able to force open a window and enter the premises, and do so without setting off any alarms. Once inside they’d caused considerable damage to fixtures and fittings. They’d also poured a highly dangerous acid into several boxes of specialised weaponry, which had caused damage running into the tens of thousands. All eight persons had been arrested onsite and, after committal proceedings in the magistrates’ court, arraigned to appear at the Old Bailey.

  Special Branch had become involved when it was realised several of the protesters were known to be members of a group called Armswatch, ostensibly a pressure group set up to monitor the activities of companies involved in the arms trade. In reality, many of its members were London-based anarchists who believed in taking direct action rather than engaging with, in their words, wishy-washy liberal platitudinisation. Their policy was that, rather than engaging with an arms company already deep in the pockets of the military and political establishment, taking direct action would speak much louder.

  Members of Armswatch were currently involved in another ongoing trial. Several months back, someone believed to be associated with Armswatch had somehow managed to enter the London offices of Bartolome Systems and had stolen documentation relating to sales of weapons to countries in the third world. Two members of the group had been apprehended when offering the documents to a left-wing magazine, hoping they’d be published. To its credit New Focus, whilst salivating at the prospect of publishing the documents, had refused to accept them, as had a national broadsheet newspa
per, which had also tipped off the police regarding the offer.

  Armswatch claimed the documents had been passed on to them by whoever had stolen them. They refused to divulge any names regarding this, but they also maintained the documents deserved to be published as they revealed clear violations of Government policy regarding the sale of arms, which was why they’d accepted them despite being aware the documents had been stolen. They claimed the documents showed clear examples of illegal arms trading, selling weapons to countries subject to an arms embargo by the British Government, plus sales of arms to countries with appalling records concerning human rights abuses, with the risk that arms sold by a British manufacturer would be used against their own populations, contrary to the export rules laid down by Government in this country. The two who’d been apprehended whilst offering the documents were currently awaiting trial under section two of the Official Secrets Act.

  In the trial I was here to give evidence in, police had kept a watch on the activities of certain persons known to be associated with Armswatch and, after a tip-off from an informant inside the group concerning their plans for the night in question, I and several other police officers had entered the warehouse and arrested all eight participants. The moment they’d seen police approaching them, they’d all laid down whatever they’d had in their hands. There’d been no trouble making the arrests. Seven of the eight were Quakers, all with lengthy track records for previous acts of civil disobedience, in a couple of instances going back as far as the early 1960s Aldermaston marches and the Committee of 100, although they were non-violent, claiming they were simply doing the Lord’s work by protesting the immorality of war and were expecting to be arrested. Most accepted the inevitable outcome of their actions and didn’t resist.

  All except one, however. A rather ugly twenty-something shaven-headed participant, sporting a grotesque-looking tattoo on the back of his head, had taken exception to this interference with his liberty. He’d sounded off about fucking establishment-supporting pigs and, as I’d gone to slip the bracelets on him, had turned and thrown a punch at me, which I’d seen coming and easily sidestepped. He’d then turned and thrown a wild, swinging left-right combination of punches whilst shouting expletives at me, both of which had been easy to avoid. His eyes looked almost feral as he began to circle around me. But he was already breathing heavily. He wouldn’t last long.

  “That the best you got?” I scoffed at him.

  Two uniformed officers saw what was happening and made to intervene, one holding a vial of pepper spray, but I told them both to back off. This one was going down the hard way.

  He stared at me for a few seconds whilst breathing heavily, and then made the classic amateur’s mistake; right-handed but standing with the right foot slightly forward, he’d thrown another right cross at me, which left him unbalanced. I sidestepped to my left and, as his arm sailed past my head, I grabbed hold of his right wrist, squeezed hard and twisted it around to his left. As his momentum carried him forward, he had to turn with the flow to minimise the pain. At the same time I grabbed his collar with my left hand, spun him around, ran two paces and pushed him face-first into a large stack of cardboard boxes. Whatever the contents were, they were solid and the skinhead slammed up hard against them.

  “Not the brightest thing you’ve ever done, sunshine,” I said as I slipped the plastic hand restraints on him.

  “Fuck you,” he blurted out, gasping for breath after his exertions.

  As he was mouthing off, I pulled on the hand restraints just that little bit firmer than was necessary, and made sure they were very tight. He grimaced as I squeezed his nose hard enough to make his eyes water and shook his head vigorously for a few seconds. I then flicked him hard on the tip of his nose. His head recoiled backwards. He’d felt that one.

  “No, you skinheaded dick, fuck you,” I said softly so no one else heard it. I only just about managed to resist the temptation to put one in his kidneys when no one was looking.

  *

  Counsel for the prosecution Desmond Rowell QC approached. He outlined the questions he intended to ask, most of which I’d anticipated.

  The jury had already been selected and sworn in the previous day and so, after Rowell had spent almost an hour outlining the prosecution’s case to the jury, I was called to give my evidence, as I’d been the senior officer on the ground when the arrests were made.

  My evidence was largely a straightforward reiteration of the events as they’d occurred, as outlined in my statement, which both sides had accepted the veracity of: how we’d found out what was going to occur, our apprehending the defendants in the act of causing criminal damage, our identifying ourselves as police and the actual arrests themselves. There was no mention of my dance with Baldy.

  After fifty minutes, when Rowell had finished questioning me, I answered a few perfunctory questions from Timothy Smythe QC, who was representing four of the defendants. They were mostly procedural and easily dealt with. The judge, by coincidence the same judge as in the Addleys’ trial, Mr Justice Hamill QC, then thanked me for my testimony and informed me I was at liberty to leave, though he reminded me I was still under oath and was not to talk about the trial with anyone.

  Leaving the courtroom, I saw the skinhead sitting with the other defendants in the dock. Walking past, I looked him in the eye and winked at him. He ignored me.

  Smythe was known to the Branch. Amongst others, he’d represented the Addley brothers when they’d been facing charges under section five of the 2006 Terrorism Act and he had helped to get the prosecution’s case stopped by alleging the defendants had been incited to act by an agent provocateur, later identified as David Kader. The trial judge had accepted this claim and, in the interest of justice, had stopped the trial. The defendants in this case would not be so lucky.

  I left the Old Bailey around lunchtime. I was debating with myself whether to just get a coffee somewhere or have some lunch in a pub when I received a message from my boss’s secretary, Anne Bishop, informing me I was wanted at a meeting in Smitherman’s office ASAP. I phoned her back.

  “Why do they need me?” I could see the afternoon slipping away from my grasp. “I’m supposed to be off duty after giving evidence.”

  “Not any longer.” I could just imagine the delight she took in saying this. “This is serious, DS McGraw. You’re aware of what happened this morning, aren’t you?”

  “How would I know what happened? I wasn’t there,” I replied in a flippant tone.

  “Dear God,” I heard her sigh, and I suspected she was shaking her head in despair. Her lack of any vestige of humour was legendary. An apocryphal story about her had it that, when mistletoe was once hung over her desk at Christmas, she’d resorted to working on her laptop in the ladies’ toilet. I believed it.

  “On my way.”

  *

  Smitherman was talking to a couple of people, one of whom was dressed head to toe in army camouflage gear, as I entered the office. Both men then left and Smitherman gestured to me to follow him. We walked along the corridor to the meeting room, where four other Branch detectives were seated around a table. There was a whiteboard against the wall, an overhead projector and an open laptop. I prayed this wasn’t going to be another death by PowerPoint meeting. There was also a pad in front of each chair.

  I exchanged greetings with a few other officers and found an empty seat. I was given a two-page summary of events by Anne Bishop, who gave me a withering look and shook her head. As I perused it, Smitherman called the meeting to order.

  “You’ve all just been given an interim report concerning what’s known about the car bomb in Regent’s Park early this morning, which so far isn’t much. No one, so far as we know, has claimed responsibility for the explosion, and the bomb squad’s still sifting through the debris looking for anything which’d help us. The initial thinking is it’s Red Heaven or Muearada behind it. There’s no definite proof of either as of yet, but we’re scanning the files, seeing if any of these cha
rmers are still around and believed to be operational. So, gentlemen, until we know more, it’s back to doing police work. I want you all out there talking to your contacts, seeing who knows what. Let’s ruffle some feathers, see who or what we can flush out of hiding.”

  This was the general gist of what Smitherman said. What he actually said was much longer and detained us for just over an hour. Happily, only a few PowerPoints were shown, mainly pictures of the aftermath of the explosion and the wreckage of the car, and only a few comments in the report were highlighted. He spoke slowly and surely, and left us all in no doubt as to the seriousness of what we might be facing.

  My afternoon off had receded into the far distance, so I spent the next hour looking at the report we’d been issued. It was largely factual, concerning an estimate of the quantity of explosives which had been used and the damage caused. Forensics had not yet identified what the car bomb could have been constructed from. The vehicle used, a two-year-old Citroën, had been stolen from outside Tooting tube station, South London, four days ago and had been reported missing by the owner. The car was too badly damaged for any fingerprints to be obtained. The police had got a break, however, because, even though the registration number on the car had been switched, it could still be read, and the number was going to be given to the media for usage in news broadcasts, asking people if they’d seen a Citroën with this registration in the last few days.

  I was mostly intrigued by the initial speculation Red Heaven might have been behind the explosion. Since their attempt to cause an explosion outside the Albert Hall fifteen months ago had been thwarted, little had been heard of them, though they were still active on mainland Europe. They still had sympathisers out there, people prepared to trumpet their cause, but most of these we knew about, and they were largely the kind of person who’d soil their underwear if they ever came anywhere near explosives. Carrying out something like this was the preserve of that rare breed: the totally amoral bomber who perceived his actions as a zero-sum game, with innocent casualties weighed against the perceived blow being struck against the state.