He looked scared as I went back to ignoring him and looking at his file. He was nineteen, old enough to be tried as an adult. He’d had a few scrapes with the law as a juvenile, ABH and shoplifting, and he’d served a three-month spell in a young offender institute in Kent. After a few moments’ reading my eyes opened wide in amazement when I read who his stepfather was.
“You’re Barry Mates’ stepson?”
“Yeah. He married my mum three years ago.”
“Bad news about Mates. We’ve not found whoever shot him last Wednesday yet.”
“Don’t bother.” He leaned forward. “I stabbed the person who shot him.”
What? Glett shot Mates?
He saw the disbelief etched on my face. “Yeah, the bastard did. That’s why I said I owed him one when I stuck him just now.”
This was too unreal. I’d heard earlier Glett was dirty. Now I was being told he was involved in killing Barry Mates. What was happening? If he’d really done this, it put paid to my hope he was doing something undercover. “Why would he do that?”
“Matey knew the whole story about those cars and who’s really behind it. Police had been to see him – you and Glett – and Glett thought he was gonna talk. He didn’t like the fact Matey named Big Dunc while you were there. You mentioning terrorism spooked him, so Glett took him out to stop him talking, protect those higher up in the family. Glett gets paid to protect them. So, with Matey dead, the one who nicked the cars also dead, they were safe. They couldn’t be implicated.”
He was the second person in only a few hours to tell me Glett was dirty. But, before I believed it, I wanted more authoritative corroboration than just hearing it from two losers like Mahoney and Mick.
I then remembered, in Mates’ office last Tuesday evening, he’d glared at Glett and had said something like, You of all people know what goes on in here. Was Glett more familiar than I’d realised? The thought dawned on me: Glett had heard what had been said when I’d spoken to Mates, so had he told someone in the family, and had they given him the word to take him out? Had Mates’ act of naming Big Dunc effectively sealed his own fate?
“Gary White was stabbed last Wednesday evening, same day your dad died. You stabbed him, didn’t you?” I wasn’t asking him.
The look on his face told me he knew he’d been rumbled. “Look, we’ve already got you for knifing a police officer,” I stated formally. “That’s a wounding with intent charge at minimum right there. There’re several witnesses, not to mention the club’s CCTV. There’s no way out from under this one. I saw you do it, and my testimony alone’s gonna send you down. But things could go a little easier for you if you cooperate, tell us what you know.”
Mick sighed. He was bound for prison and he knew it. Stabbing a police officer in front of several witnesses meant he was done for. He was looking at several years inside, and even longer if Glett didn’t pull through. But he could still do himself, and us, some good if he was smart.
After a silence of several seconds, he finally spoke.
“Yeah, all right,” he agreed. “I was told just to give the bloke a kicking, but he was a mouthy little bastard and tried it on. He came at me, so I stuck it to him.”
“Several times, from the cuts on his body,” I remarked. “You really did a number on him, didn’t you? Who told you to do this?” Mahoney had already intimated who’d done it.
“Who d’you think?” he said as though I were stupid. “Glett did. I didn’t know my stepdad was dead at the time, though. I only found out later on he’d been killed.”
“Why so many cuts? Why didn’t you just stab him?”
“Like I said, he came at me. I just lashed out a few times, but he just kept coming, so . . .” He shrugged as if to say you know what happened.
“What did you use?”
“A knife. Just as well I had it with me.”
“Was it just you there?”
He shook his head. “Had a mate with me. He sat in the car and was only gonna step in if White looked like he was gonna get away.”
A mate. I knew who. “Drake Mahoney.”
He looked surprised I knew the name, but then nodded. Mahoney had lied about this, so he was going down for this as well.
“You mentioned cars just now. What cars are you on about?” I already knew, but he didn’t know that.
“The ones used in them bombings last week. Matey was asked to organise stealing a coupla cars, so he did. Cars were picked up by whoever wanted them. Glett knew the person who was behind it all.”
“Inside the family?”
“Nah, someone outside. I mean, yeah, the order came down from someone in the family.”
“Who?”
“Big Dunc,” he said after hesitating for a few seconds. “That’s why Glett was pissed off, he didn’t want Dunc’s name mentioned ’cause it could lead back to him.”
“And who else?”
“When Dunc asked Matey to do it, he was with some posh bloke. I saw him once coming out of Ehmat’s house when Matey and I had to go there for something. Bit of a fat bastard he was, chain smoking all the time. It was him wanted the two cars. They were used for those car bombs a week ago.”
Harry Ferguson?
“Glett knew this person?”
“Yeah. It was him who told Matey about this bloke, whoever he is.”
Harry Ferguson and Paul Glett? The thought then hit me. This was what Ahmed Chackarti had meant by having both political and police protection. Glett was said to be on the Chackartis’ payroll and, if it was Ferguson, this confirmed he knew who the bombers were and was helping them to remain invisible. It was now obvious one of these two had tipped off the residents in the Kidbrooke house and told them to make themselves scarce as police were closing in on them. My money was on Ferguson.
I left Mick alone for a moment and went to a nearby office. I contacted Smitherman and asked him to get a picture of Harry Ferguson sent through to me at Wood Green station. I told him I’d explain why I needed one later. Inside two minutes it arrived. I went back to the interview room.
“Recognise him?” I showed him the picture. He looked closely at it.
“Yeah, that’s the fat fuck I saw at Ehmat’s house,” he said after a few seconds.
“You’re absolutely sure?” I wanted there to be no doubt whatsoever.
“Yeah.” He nodded.
Mick had been helpful, and I was gonna repay him by putting him on the spot.
“Are you prepared to make a statement to that effect, testify to that in open court?”
“What’s in it for me if I do?” Was that a sneer?
“You’d be doing yourself a favour, that’s what. We’d recommend you don’t get sent to a maximum-security prison. Police wouldn’t raise objections to you pleading guilty to manslaughter in both offences if Glett dies. You’ll still go down, but you’d be in a less stringent environment. Police will put in a quiet word, say you’ve cooperated in solving the case, so when your barrister puts in his plea of mitigation, judge’ll take your giving evidence into account.”
He sat back and grinned inanely. He seemed pleased with what he’d heard. But I wasn’t about to tell him a High Court judge is an independent entity, is bound only to what the law says and is absolutely within his rights to refuse to accept any recommendations police or any others give to him. They’re exactly that: recommendations. They’re not instructions. The judge’d consider the weight of evidence, draw his own conclusions as to the charges levied, and weigh up where the interests of justice lay.
Also, if the prosecution objected to a plea of manslaughter in the case of Gary White, and refused to accept it, the charge would be murder. The fact Mick had also stabbed a police officer would be something a judge would frown upon and, for myself and every other police officer in the country, I’d be praying the judge ignored what police asked for. If Mick drew a life sentence, as would then be a certainty, I would not be heartbroken.
But, thinking he was on to a good thing, Mick
made a statement to a CID detective about everything he’d done, though he didn’t mention Glett’s name, apart from acknowledging he’d stabbed him earlier today. He also admitted stabbing Gary White but said White had attacked him and he’d stabbed him in self-defence. He was led away to be charged, and to be remanded until he could be brought before the magistrates’ court.
Before returning to the office I checked up on Glett. He was still in surgery and for the moment was in a stable condition, though he’d lost a lot of blood and was very weak. But he’d been lucky; the knife had not hit any of his main arteries or organs and so, with the appropriate recovery treatment, he’d be up and about again before too long. I left a message saying I needed to see him again, as soon as he was able to receive a visitor.
*
In the office I brought Smitherman up to speed with what had been an eventful morning and lunchtime. I told him about my belief Harry Ferguson was somehow behind the bombings, and that I had someone who could place Ferguson coming from Ehmat Chackarti’s house, which was why I had needed Ferguson’s picture. I also mentioned I’d a source who’d told me of the suspicion Ferguson was implicated in the IRA obtaining Semtex, though there was no tangible proof of this. Another source had told me of the Chackartis’ involvement and I’d had it confirmed one of the family’s ruling council was involved, though not the family itself, as Ali Chackarti frowned upon terrorism. For the moment I didn’t mention Glett as I wanted to be absolutely one hundred percent positive before I brought the curtain down on another police officer.
Smitherman listened intently as my spiel lasted over ten minutes.
“Ferguson, eh?” he said through gritted teeth. He nodded sagely for a few seconds. “I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence.” He fixed me with the sternest stare. I knew what that look meant. Talk and you’ll be back directing traffic. “You remember, last week, asking Stimpson what made MI5 believe in the existence of an IRA sleeper cell?”
I nodded.
“It’s Ferguson. He, and the fact McGreely went missing fifteen years back, is their belief. McGreely was one of the two IRA men in Libya when the Semtex was acquired. Both in Libya at the same time? That’s why there was always doubt in official circles about McGreely supposedly being dead. MI5 believes Ferguson and McGreely were in contact after he was supposed to have perished, though they haven’t told me any more than that.”
There was now more than enough prima facie evidence against Ferguson. “Shall I go bring him in?”
“Yes, do that. We need to talk to him about this. I think, though, and don’t quote me on this, there might be some kind of deal about to be offered to him.”
“A deal?” I wasn’t liking this.
“Yes. He gives up McGreely, if it is McGreely out there, and he points out where whoever’s got the Semtex has buried it, assuming our suspicions are correct, and he helps us close this case up, the likelihood is he’ll get shipped off somewhere.”
“That’s a pretty scabby arrangement, sir,” I said. “This case has cost several lives so far, which includes two innocent couples down in Dorset, and they’re gonna let him get off with that? I was also told one of MI6’s agents was killed in Libya to get hold of the Semtex.”
He seemed surprised I knew about the agent, but he didn’t comment.
“It won’t be our decision, DS McGraw,” he said with some feeling. “We’re part of a chain of command. I follow orders, as do you. You don’t have to like them, but you do have to follow them. That’s how this thing works.”
He spoke firmly in a this isn’t up for discussion, DS McGraw voice. I let it drop.
“Go bring Ferguson in and we’ll take things from there,” Smitherman said. “I’ll inform Stimpson.”
*
To Eton Avenue again. I parked on the opposite side to his flat, a little further back along the road. I sat in the car for a moment, considering the enormity of what I was about to do. Ferguson was a legend in the field of intelligence, especially concerning terrorism. I’d had several talks with him about terrorist issues over the past few years, including two in the past ten days. Talking to him was an occasional, though very stimulating and often rewarding experience, and I nearly always learned something from him.
It then dawned on me. This, of course, would explain why he’d contacted me last Wednesday, asking about progress in the hunt for the bombers. I’d mentioned McGreely’s name. Had Ferguson then tipped him off?
Someone was pulling the strings behind the latest rounds of bombings, and all the evidence suggested it was Ferguson. He was the link between this IRA sleeper cell and the Chackartis, and I’d heard from someone inside security he was suspected of being involved when the IRA obtained Semtex. There was absolutely a prima facie case for him to answer.
I wasn’t sure why, but something told me to wait a few more minutes. My every instinct as a police officer said I should sit and wait a while longer. I did.
I could see his flat. He lived in a three-storey house which had once been a family home but had since been converted into luxury apartments, and his was on the ground floor. I watched the people walking along towards the site of the farmer’s market on the west end of the avenue, which wasn’t open today. I tried to imagine his reaction when I explained why I was here. Would he try and resist? I was unsure if he’d be armed but realised it was a possibility, so I called for back-up, explaining who I was and what I was there to do, and stressed the urgency of my request.
As I closed the call, the door to the building opened and Ferguson came out, holding what looked like a sports holdall. I didn’t think he was off to the gym. He walked towards his car, a midnight blue BMW parked in front of the house, and opened the boot. I got out the car and crossed the road. He was rearranging things in the boot and didn’t notice me coming. I felt mildly apprehensive.
“Going on holiday, Harry?” I said, jovially. “Somewhere sunny, is it?”
I’d caught him unawares, as the surprised look on his face suggested. It was only when he looked up at me that I realised just how big his double chin was.
“Oh, hello, Robert.” I could tell he was trying to sound natural. “Yeah, just off for a few days on the continent. Bit of R&R, you know, need a bit of sunshine this time of year.”
A thought clicked into my brain at that moment. George Duncan, last Friday, had said something about Murray Kirkwall being French. If Harry was the connection between these people and the Chackartis, could this mean they’d been hiding in France?
“I don’t think so, Harry. We need to talk.” I moved closer to him. His expression changed slightly, and he was starting to look apprehensive.
“Talk about what? I haven’t time to talk now, Robert. I have to get to Dover to catch the early evening ferry to France, and I don’t want to get caught up in commuter traffic on the M20.” He was trying to sound unconcerned about what I’d said. “We can talk when I return.”
“It’s not gonna happen, mate.”
I quickly snatched up the holdall by his feet as I spoke, and, by the time he realised what had happened, I was holding his bag.
“Let’s go inside and talk, eh? There’s gonna be a few others joining us in a moment, and we can all go to Paddington Green together.” I smiled at him.
At that moment, he looked strangely different somehow. The man in front of me still looked like Harry Ferguson but, at the same time, it wasn’t him. It was as though a gossamer veil had fallen from his face, and he was standing there as a different person. Was he seeing me as a different person? Was this because he’d now realised why I was there? Was he now going into what’s known in the trade as survival mode?
“Oh, don’t be like that, Harry, you know why people get taken there. But, just think, you’ll be able to see the view from the other side of the table,” I said flippantly. I nodded towards his flat. “Lead the way, pal.”
I was tensed up but alert. I was armed and had checked my gun before exiting my car. The front door was still open,
so my guess was he’d had another bag to collect. We walked up into the house, me keeping my eye on him the whole time. I closed the front door behind us. We entered his flat and went into the lounge, overlooking the road. I dropped his bag on the floor, next to a suitcase.
“Have a seat, Harry, we can talk while we wait.”
He sat on the couch, facing the window. The air was rancid with the smell of stale cigarette smoke.
“So, what’s this about, Robert? Why are you doing this?” His tone of voice was casual but starting to firm up. He was beginning to realise the situation was not in his control.
“Where’s McGreely, Harry?” I asked.
“McGreely? You referring to Cormac McGreely? He’s dead, Robert, you know that, him and his family.” He tried to sound firm and convincing. “They died about fifteen years ago in that fireball in the West Country.”
“Yeah, that’s the official view, and that’s what we thought,” I replied calmly. “But, you see, the two bombings last week were identified by the bomb squad as being McGreely’s handiwork, and that made us suspicious, so the bodies of what were supposedly McGreely and his family were exhumed a week ago and DNA tests were run. There’s no child amongst the victims, and he had a son, aged about seven. Two of the victims have been identified as a man and woman from Southampton, and they’d been shot beforehand. We don’t know who the driver of the car was yet, but we do know it wasn’t McGreely. So, he didn’t die in a fireball, did he?”
I was gauging Ferguson’s response. He was sitting calmly, arms folded, taking everything in and not showing any signs of discomfort.
“We’ve also uncovered an eyewitness to the crash causing the deaths of those five people. Just before it happened, someone got out the McGreelys’ car and it drove off. My bet? It was McGreely, though this doesn’t explain who was driving the car.”
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