Marius

by Laurence Todd

  But I was intrigued by the third couple, Matt and Kimberley Green, from Southampton. They’d been reported missing two days after the date of the explosion which’d supposedly wiped out the McGreely family. They’d last been seen getting into their car in a Morrisons supermarket car park. Both were in their mid-thirties; neither was in poor health or in any kind of trouble, financial or otherwise. Both had good jobs, him as an architect and her as a physiotherapist. According to their families, friends and neighbours, they were a lovely couple and nobody could fathom why they’d just disappeared, especially as Kimberley was four months pregnant. They’d been considered high-risk and an extensive search had been launched, but no traces had ever been uncovered.

  Their car had been retrieved after being found in the Wightlink Ferry car park in Lymington, used by passengers who weren’t taking their cars across to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. Whoever had parked the car had boarded the ferry but hadn’t returned for it and couldn’t be traced. Police had searched the island but no traces of the Greens were found. The car had been checked for fingerprints, but only those belonging to Matt and Kimberley Green could be identified. I checked their files and discovered there’d been no activity on their bank accounts or credit cards after they’d left the supermarket. A search of the car had found several bags of groceries in the boot. Why do the shopping if you’re planning to disappear? For my purposes, Southampton was close enough to Dorset to make them potential contenders for being the victims I was looking for.

  I brought up McGreely’s file again. In interviews for the London Evening Standard story after the accident, friends and neighbours said the McGreelys had told them they were heading for the West Country and were planning on just cruising around. They’d no set destination. An investigation had revealed they’d spent one night in a B&B in Wimborne Minster, which they’d paid for by credit card. No other spending on the card or withdrawals on their bank accounts had been recorded, and they’d not been seen since. This wasn’t too many miles away from where the crash had occurred.

  McGreely had been in the Dorset area at the same time as the Greens had vanished. I was wondering how their paths might have crossed. If it was them, how might the Greens have had the misfortune to come into contact with Cormac McGreely? I was speculating on potential scenarios when I heard my name being called.

  “McGraw, call for you,” someone yelled from across the room.

  I took the call and received a major surprise. A voice I recognised but hadn’t expected to hear from was on the line.

  “I’m in central London, and I’ve something you might want to hear.”

  “Where in central London?”

  A pause of a few seconds. “Outside the National Gallery.” I told him to go to the Clarence, a pub at the top end of Whitehall where I usually met my journalist friend Richard Clements.

  “Where is this place?”

  “Look directly ahead, you’ll see Whitehall. Walk straight along, you’ll see it on the left. It’s five minutes from where you are.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I hung up, had a quick conversation with Smitherman, then left to meet Charles Doyle.

  *

  The pub was doing good lunchtime business inside but there were still two empty tables outside. I entered and saw Doyle at the counter. We nodded to each other. I bought coffee and a large sausage roll, wincing at the prices. As a student I could have drunk all night for the same amount. I sat outside and waited; I certainly wasn’t buying him anything.

  It was a sunny but cool autumnal day, partly cloudy sky and slightly windy but still pleasant enough to want to sit outside. I sipped my coffee, looking along Whitehall. There were still plenty of tourists and student parties holding maps walking in both directions. I tried not to laugh when I heard an earnest-looking Scout group leader, holding a tourist guide and pointing towards Trafalgar Square, saying to the dozen Scouts behind him, “The Houses of Parliament are just up here, according to this map.”

  I was struck by the irony of sitting in Whitehall waiting for an IRA man. Just along the road from here, in February 1991, from a van parked in Horse Guards, an IRA team had fired a mortar rocket into the garden behind 10 Downing Street, which, in a straight line, was probably only 250 or so yards away. Given it had been taken with no clear view, the shot had been a good one and the rocket had landed very close to the Cabinet Office window, where the war cabinet was discussing the Gulf War. Fortunately, the windows were bombproof and no one had suffered more than minor injuries, though the bomber had escaped. I remembered this because my father had been in London on a business trip that same day, and his taxi had been caught up in the traffic chaos in the immediate aftermath as police sealed off the area. He’d been very late for the meeting he was there to attend.

  As a result of this attack, security had immediately been stepped up around Whitehall and Westminster. Gates preventing open access to Downing Street by the public had already been installed two years earlier. These were immediately reinforced after the attack and they were now guarded by armed police around the clock.

  Doyle came outside with a pint of Guinness and a cheese and onion sandwich. He clearly felt the cold because he was wrapped up in a thick jacket, woolly scarf and flat cap. We sat silently for a few moments whilst he began his lunch. I watched the party of Scouts at the top of Whitehall looking across the square, trying to identify which building was Parliament.

  “Were you serious about your offer concerning Rory?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Yeah, I was.”

  He ate some more of his sandwich. For the moment I delayed eating my sausage roll.

  “Last night I spoke to someone about what you’d said,” he began.

  “Okay.” I nodded.

  “This person is someone I know well. He’s involved with the Chackarti family; you could say he’s an important man in their line of work.”

  “Do I get to know the name?”

  He shook his head. He paused again, finishing his sandwich.

  “He told me something you people would very likely want to know,” he said, staring directly at me. “You’re sure Rory will be transferred?”

  “Whatever you tell us, if it checks out and we get a result, he’ll be in London within a month. That’s been guaranteed by my boss.”

  He paused yet again.

  “You wouldn’t be lying to me, now, would you? Not trying to make me look like an eejit?” He looked me straight in the eye. It was a cold, hard stare; a look that would kill had a Kalashnikov been to hand.

  “No, I wouldn’t be.” I held his glare.

  “And Shelia?” He sipped his Guinness.

  “Same. She’ll be freed the same day Rory gets to London.”

  He sat back, looking contented. It was probably taking all his fortitude to negotiate with a Special Branch detective. But at his age, what was left of his family now took precedence in the list of important things in his life.

  “Okay. I’m going to trust you on this.” He drank more Guinness.

  “I’ve a name for you.” He paused. “It’s Gary White.”

  Gary White. The name immediately resonated with me. I knew that name, but I couldn’t remember why.

  “Why’s this name one you think I’d wanna know?”

  “Because he’s the man who stole both the cars used in those two bombings.”

  I breathed out. This was a name I definitely wanted to know.

  “You talked to someone in the Chackartis. Does this mean they were involved in the bombings?” I asked in a loud whisper. I was surprised.

  “No,” Doyle assured me, shaking his head. “No, definitely not. This person was simply asked to procure some vehicles for someone. No names were given or mentioned. Someone at the top of the family gave the say-so, and this person was asked to steal the cars.”

  “Did he know why?”

  “I don’t know. I’d say probably not.”

  “Did your contact say who ultimately got t
he cars?”

  “I wasn’t told that.”

  The Chackartis in bed with a reawakened IRA unit. Was this something sanctioned at the top of the family? Bombings were some distance from their usual raison d’être of peddling counterfeit goods, pushing drugs and illegal shylocking.

  “I did hear, though,” he said quietly, leaning forward so our heads were only two feet apart, “the very top of the family hierarchy were not happy about what the two vehicles were used for. The family don’t want to be implicated in any bombing campaigns. That’s why this person was willing to tell me a name, knowing I’d probably pass it on; I mean, why else would I be asking? He wants nothing to do with terrorism.”

  It was small comfort hearing bombings were not official Chackarti family policy.

  He finished his Guinness and stood up.

  “Thanks for this,” I said. My coffee was now cold; so was the sausage roll. “I meant what I said about your son Rory.” I looked him in the eye as I spoke.

  He nodded and walked away towards the square, passing the Scouts group now on their way back, led by an embarrassed-looking troop leader. I set off in the opposite direction to Doyle, eating a cold sausage roll as I walked along.

  Gary White. That name meant something to me, but I couldn’t remember what.

  Walking back to the office, I thought about Sally Taylor and wondered what she was doing at this exact moment. Thinking about her put a spring in my step.

  *

  “Aha, you bastard, that’s why your name’s familiar,” I said aloud to no one.

  I’d entered Gary White’s name into the database and the response made it clear why I knew it. He, along with a couple of others, had been a minor player in Red Heaven’s attempt to plant a bomb near to the Albert Hall last year, the one which’d earned Simon Addley twelve years in Belmarsh and cost Dennis Reagan and David Kader their lives.

  Through covert surveillance of both men, we’d discovered White’d asked his stepfather, Jimmy McGlinchey, to do some driving for him. What White hadn’t told him was that he’d be driving explosives, including illicitly acquired hydroxilyn, across London. Jimmy was a career criminal, and I’d once been part of a team who’d arrested him and his two accomplices after a break-in at a Majestic wine shop, but he wasn’t a terrorist, so I’d interceded and told him in no uncertain terms not to get involved. He hadn’t.

  White’s file suggested he was now working in a minor capacity for the Chackarti family, driving and doing other low-level work as required. His address was still in the same tower block in Stepney with his mother and Jimmy.

  I drove fast to Stepney, the siren clearing a path for me. Jimmy McGlinchey answered the door to the flat.

  I showed ID. “Gary White. He live here?”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t in.” He sounded almost as pure cockney as Tyler Watts.

  “You know where he is? It’s very important I find him.”

  “Nah, mate, went out last night, didn’t come back home. Probably at his girlfriend’s place. Stays there some nights, doesn’t he?”

  “Where does this girl live?”

  “Dunno. His mum knows, but she ain’t in either. I can ask her when she gets back, she ain’t got her phone on her. She’s just gone to the shops, though, she won’t be long.”

  “Please do, this is extremely urgent,” I stressed. I wrote out a number and passed it to him. “Call this number when you find the girl’s name and address. As I said, it’s imperative I talk to him. Don’t tell him police wanna talk to him.”

  “Okay, mate, will do. Is he being naughty again?” He looked concerned.

  “Just call me, eh?”

  He then scrutinised me carefully for four seconds. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, you do.” I smiled at him.

  “That’s right,” he stated with certainty. “You’re that Special Branch copper told me what you thought Gary was asking me to do that time.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “Is he up to that again?” He sounded alarmed. “His mum’ll go bloody mental.”

  “You did the right thing staying away.” I didn’t answer his question. “Anyway, call me soon as you know something.”

  Back at the car, I decided not to get a uniform to watch the tower block and alert police to White returning.

  I was speeding west along the Commercial Road when my phone buzzed. Much as I was hoping it was Taylor, it wasn’t. It was Jimmy McGlinchey, a very poor substitute. I put him on speakerphone.

  “I got that address you wanted. You ready?”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “It’s flat five, 28 Antill Road,” he said slowly, spelling out Antill. “It’s just off that road going up towards Victoria Park, in ’ackney.”

  I knew exactly where it was. “What’s this girl’s name?”

  “Helen someone or other, wife doesn’t know her surname. Gary says she’s a student in London somewhere, but I don’t know where she studies.”

  “Thanks for this. As I said, don’t tell Gary police came to the flat looking for him. I don’t want him disappearing off the face of the earth.”

  “No, I won’t.” He rang off.

  I hit the siren again by Aldgate East, turned sharp right onto Whitechapel and followed it along Mile End Road, then turned left at Mile End tube station into Grove Road. I switched off the siren when I turned into Antill Road, parked about three houses along from 28 and walked back. There was a short path leading to the front door, strewn with empty cigarette packets, fast food wrappers, a couple of soiled condoms and several empty cans of Foster’s lager. Not even drinking decent beer. The wheelie bin reeked of something unwholesome and was jammed to overflowing, which explained the use of the floor for litter. On the wall by the front door, there were several buzzers with names, but there were no numbers. The names listed were surnames and I didn’t know Helen’s.

  At that moment a forty-something black woman carrying two bags of groceries walked past me and up to the front door. She inserted a key and opened the door. I quickly moved up behind her before the door automatically shut.

  “Stroke of luck, forgot me key,” I said.

  She smiled weakly and walked along to flat one at the far end of the corridor.

  Flat five was up on the second floor. I crept quietly upstairs, withdrawing my firearm and checking it for readiness. Outside flat five I could hear music and two muffled voices inside. I put the gun in the pocket of my leather jacket and knocked loudly on the door. It opened six seconds later.

  “Yes?” The young woman who answered had gorgeous chest-length, thick auburn hair held back by a headband, and wore a Kurt Cobain T-shirt and torn jeans. She sounded very well spoken.

  “Helen?” I asked.

  “Yes, who’re you?”

  I produced ID. “Special Branch, sweetheart, looking for Gary White.”

  “Yeah, well, he isn’t here.” She didn’t sound quite so well spoken now. She attempted to block the doorway. I heard a shuffling noise from the room on her left.

  “Yeah, right,” I said, pushing her to one side. “Get out the way.”

  “Gary!” she screamed like a banshee, and she grabbed hold of the collar of my jacket and attempted to pull me back. I turned and shrugged her off, and she slipped and fell. As I turned back, Gary White appeared from the doorway of the room and threw a punch at me. I saw it coming a split second too late and took the full force of it. It caught me high on the right cheekbone, a fraction beneath the eye. It was a good solid punch, made worse by the fact he had rings on his fingers, and it smarted. I could feel my eye watering. I went back against the wall and dropped to one knee. He attempted to kick me but I rolled out the way and his foot hit the wall. He swore loudly and ran off down the stairs.

  As I scrambled to my feet, his girlfriend jumped at me, screaming and pulling at my hair. I slammed up backwards against the wall with her on my back, which winded her. She groaned, released her grip and dropped to her knees, loudly calling me
a bastard. Ignoring the pain, I ran out and chased him down the stairs, taking them three at a time in places.

  White ran out the front door and turned left. I sprinted after him. He was in socked feet but I was wearing trainers and I was faster. We sprinted past a few startled pedestrians and a woman pushing a pram. I soon caught up and launched myself at him from behind, grabbing him round the neck with both arms. He was unprepared for this, and his momentum carried us another two steps and we both fell forward. He hit the pavement hard on his chest and was winded, exacerbated by the fact of my landing on top of him. I landed awkwardly on my left elbow and a sharp pain went up to my shoulder.

  I recovered my poise quicker than he did and, by the time he realised what was happening, I’d dropped my right knee into the base of his spine, grabbed his shirt collar with my left hand, pressed his face hard against the pavement and pulled each hand behind his back. I slipped the hand restraints on, ensuring they were very tight, whilst at the same time informing him he was under arrest and reciting his rights to him. From the groans of discomfort emanating from him, I suspected he was too preoccupied to listen.

  Dragging him to his feet, feeling the pain in my right cheek and my left elbow, I was sorely tempted to even the score and headbutt him, but there were witnesses around, probably with iPhones ready to record my actions. Besides, there’s no honour in hitting someone whose hands are bound behind their back. I’d wait for a time when his hands weren’t bound, then I’d pop him one. Right now, knowing what he knew was the priority.

  *

  We were in the same room at Paddington Green where I’d spoken to Drake Mahoney two days ago. White was sitting opposite, looking bewildered at this turn of events. Now the adrenaline had slowed down and I was less pumped up, my upper cheekbone was beginning to ache considerably and I could feel a swelling under my right eye, which had now closed slightly. But I’d survive. This wasn’t the first punch I’d ever taken. Right now I had other things to be concerned with, and I leapt straight in.