The anti-terrorist squad had forced the door to the house open and, entering Ferguson’s flat, they’d found McGreely on the floor holding his nose, which was bleeding profusely, and an officer sprawled across the floor, out for the count. McGreely had been arrested and taken to Paddington Green, and I’d been put into an ambulance.
“Stimpson’s really pleased with this arrest. He’d not long been in MI5 when the Libyan debacle happened, and he was a junior member of the team who investigated Ferguson. He was also part of the team looking at the aftermath of Arndale. Evidently he’s always believed Ferguson was guilty of being involved but couldn’t definitely prove it, so you’ve vindicated his belief, DS McGraw. You’re finally in his good books.”
He was smiling, as though I should be pleased hearing this. But I didn’t really care what Stimpson thought. Praise from him meant nothing to me.
“Where’d they take Ferguson?” I asked.
Smitherman looked straight at me and took a deep breath, looking like a doctor preparing to give bad news.
“He wasn’t there,” he said flatly.
“What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” I was amazed at what I’d heard.
“Exactly what I said. The officers found only you and McGreely in the flat, no one else. He’d obviously slipped away after he’d laid you out. He probably went along the corridor, down the basement steps and out the back door, and there’s no CCTV there, so, if that’s what he did, we don’t know which way he went. Police looked all round and did a canvass but couldn’t find any trace. He didn’t take his car, that’s still parked out front of the house, so local police’ve been contacting all the taxi firms in that area, seeing if anyone picked up a fare early yesterday afternoon around there, but they haven’t heard anything back yet.”
“But how could he just slip away like that?” I said, more to myself than Smitherman.
“Don’t know,” he said, shrugging, “but that’s what he’s done. Speculation is he had another car parked out the back and escaped in that. But we’ll get him, don’t worry about that. There’s a watch on all airports and ferry terminals. We’ll get him if he tries slipping out the country.”
Smitherman was sounding confident, but I didn’t share that confidence. I knew we were dealing with an expert in counter-terrorist techniques, the man who’d partly trained me in what I knew, and he knew better than most how to stay out of sight while being hunted. I suspected if Harry Ferguson wanted to stay hidden, he’d already prepared the means to do so, and had a safe house and all the appropriate documentation in place to facilitate any escape route.
But at least we had McGreely. I wanted him to tell us who’d been the driver of the car causing the crash, and how Matt and Kimberley Green had had the misfortune to encounter him. I especially wanted to know the story of how Harry Ferguson’d hatched the plan to spirit him away and convince the world he was dead.
“What’s McGreely said so far?” I asked.
“Nothing. Refuses to say a word, hasn’t even acknowledged his name. He just sits and says nothing. He’s old-school hardline IRA, refuses to acknowledge the police or the courts of what he calls an occupying power. You remember the hunger strikers in the early eighties? Starved themselves to death in their struggle to be treated as political prisoners and to wear their own clothes rather than prison uniforms? McGreely’s from that strain of IRA man. I suspect we’ll get nothing out of him. They’ll keep trying, of course, and they’ll hold him for as long as they can, but . . .” He spread his hands. I knew what he was saying.
“What about inside the flat? They find anything?”
“Two bags packed with clothing and toiletries, ready for his trip abroad. Four tickets for the seven o’clock sailing from Dover to Calais, all booked in the name Ferguson,” he said. “His flat was searched thoroughly but nothing found of any value, nothing incriminating. They didn’t find your service revolver either, so we’re assuming Ferguson’s armed.”
“He’d have any spare passports, driving licences, things like that, safely stashed someplace else, like a safe house. He’s a counter-terrorism expert; probably had an escape route planned for years.”
“Quite likely,” Smitherman agreed.
I was deflated to realise Ferguson had managed to evade capture, but I still knew about Glett. I could trace a line right from Gary White up to Ferguson, and this included Glett. Maybe we could get something from him about how this all went down. Maybe a deal could be worked out, because I still wanted absolute proof before I believed he was dirty police. I desperately wanted to believe his involvement with Drake Mahoney was because he was working undercover. If he talked, and the situation resolved itself in the way I hoped it would, perhaps the case would produce something positive after all.
“I’m gonna go see Glett later today. I need to talk to him about the case. Several things are bothering me.” I wasn’t going to share what I’d heard about Glett just yet.
“Not today you won’t.” Smitherman shook his head, looking concerned. “He took a turn for the worse a few hours ago; he’s got an infection around the wound and it’s serious. It’s not looking good at the moment, but doctors are doing the best they can.”
“Oh, Christ.” I took a deep breath.
“Yes, indeed. He’s in His hands now. I’ll keep you posted.”
Glett was dirty, if Drake Mahoney and Mick were to be believed, but I wanted more proof than just the word of the likes of those two. Whatever the case, though, he didn’t deserve to be hovering between life and death like this. The thought struck me again: had it been me who’d stepped forward to arrest Mick rather than Glett, it could’ve been me in his place right now.
*
I spent the rest of Tuesday at the desk, looking at the details of a cold case involving death in police custody. The family of the deceased were convinced foul play had been involved, despite strong medical evidence stating the deceased had died from ingesting a quantity of a tainted narcotic, which had included drain cleaner, shortly before his arrest for possession. I reread all statements given, looked at all the evidence and checked if any pertinent circumstances had changed. I talked to the doctor who’d compiled the report, a Dr Kourush Amin, who explained in layman’s terms exactly how the deceased had died. He went into graphic detail on just what impact the drain cleaner had had on the deceased’s stomach lining, which almost made me gag. At least his explanation made reading the medical reports from the hospital where he’d been treated considerably easier, as I was no longer tripping over words I couldn’t even pronounce, never mind understand. I concluded there was no reason to reopen the case, medical or otherwise, and the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure should be allowed to stand.
At the same time I’d been thinking about the few positives arising from the past fortnight’s investigations. I’d discovered who’d killed Gary White, and it was satisfying to know the families of Matt and Kimberley Green would finally achieve a degree of closure. They’d finally know how their loved ones had died and could arrange for a proper burial and memorial service. Most importantly, a sizeable quantity of explosive materials had been recovered and an IRA sleeper unit had been broken up. I wondered briefly if there were any more out there, waiting for someone like Ferguson to reactivate them.
But I was irked Murray Kirkwall, also known as John McGreely, had not been apprehended, especially as I’d even had him in an interview room but hadn’t been able to hold him because Chappy Watts had refused to make a statement. I was also irked the deaths of Gary White and Barry Mates meant it was probably unlikely I’d be able to pin any charges on anyone at the top of the Chackarti family. I knew the role Ehmat had played, but with George Duncan an absolute certainty not to talk, Glett in hospital and Ferguson on the run, I was without the necessary corroborating evidence.
Mick, however, was safely in custody and going to prison. Even without the club’s CCTV, my testimony alone would ensure this, so I had at least something to show for all our efforts.<
br />
My head was much clearer by the time I left to go home.
*
Taylor’s interview with Ian Mulvehill was going to feature in tomorrow’s Evening Standard and, after I’d read her final draft, I concluded it was a really well-written article, which I’d enjoyed reading. She’d also written another piece about the arrest of Cormac McGreely, which had appeared on page five of today’s paper.
Today’s article had expanded upon what she’d written yesterday, containing several pertinent insider facts, though I’d been circumspect in what I’d told her. The paper’s political editor had praised her for the quality of the information in her story. He’d been curious to know where she’d got this information from, which’d included a couple of salient points no other paper had mentioned, but she’d truthfully replied she’d a source inside the usually secretive Special Branch, which’d impressed him. He’d then told her she was in line to become the paper’s next deputy political editor when the current post holder retired soon, which had delighted her. So she was bouncing and very happy this evening, and I was excited and pleased for her.
Looking through her copy of today’s Evening Standard, I noticed an article stating someone named Eduardo de Salvio, aged twenty-one, had been arrested outside St Anne’s school, Pimlico, after being caught in possession of psychoactive substances with a street value of several hundred pounds, according to police on the scene.
We’d had a few celebratory drinks and were laughing and goofing around in the kitchen like a pair of kids; we’d been splashing and squirting each other with soapy water in slowly increasing quantities whilst washing up, and gradually soaking the floor while attempting to load the dishwasher. I rubbed a large handful of soap suds all over her face when she wasn’t looking. She wiped the suds from her face and said, “You’re a dead man, McGraw,” laughing, and was trying to flick me with a wet tea towel when my police radio sounded. I knew immediately it had to be bad news as I wouldn’t be being called back on duty whilst recovering from a head injury, unless there’d been a major terrorist outrage, civil war had just broken out or someone had shot the Queen.
It was Smitherman. He solemnly informed me DI Paul Glett had died forty minutes ago after suffering a cardiac arrest, resulting from the infection which had developed in his wound and had spread alarmingly. He’d been rushed into surgery, but surgeons had been unable to save his life. Smitherman expressed his sincere condolences to me.
All bets with Mick concerning manslaughter were now off the table. He would be facing a murder charge and my testimony would ensure he’d draw a life sentence.
My good mood dissolved in a heartbeat. I leant back against the worktop, closing my eyes tightly and feeling extremely distraught. Whatever else he might have been, and I would now never know for absolute certain, Glett had still been my friend and I was upset at his dying, particularly the manner in which he’d died.
After several moments, thinking of Glett’s untimely death produced thoughts of what had happened to Brian Turley, as his son had confirmed my lingering suspicion his father had committed suicide, feeling he’d nothing to live for. I’d bottled up my grief at Turley’s death and pushed it to the back of my mind, but hearing about Glett released some very painful memories.
I was taking stuttering deep breaths, eyes closed and trying to remain focused, but Taylor sensed I was holding back, so she slid her arms around me, saying softly, “It’s okay to cry, Rob, it really is. Don’t fight it, hun, don’t bottle it up, let it all out, come on.”
I did. I held her tight and shed tears on her shoulder at the loss of two guys I’d counted as my friends. Turley may well have been the architect of his own misfortune, but Glett had simply been doing his job. What was an absolute certainty, though, was that both men had died far too young and I’d lost two friends. Taylor was a rock. She held me the whole time, whispering consoling words in my ear, which was comforting.
The tears were cathartic and I felt better soon afterwards. I was drained but I’d regained my composure. I took a few deep breaths, then decided: I was going to commemorate the lives of both men. Rather than mourn their deaths, I was going to celebrate the fact I’d known both of them and be thankful for what each man’d contributed to my life. Taylor agreed this was a positive move and she joined me in raising a glass to both men.
We drank to their memories and, over several more drinks each, I regaled Taylor with amusing war stories about being on duty with Turley and some of his more epic drunken escapades, several of which were now the stuff of police legend, including a number which involved me. But only those stories I deemed suitable to tell a woman. A few most definitely were not, including one I wasn’t particularly proud of my participation in, and I can only hope the woman concerned has now forgotten me or, if not, has at least forgiven me.
On one occasion he’d somehow fallen headfirst into a wheelie bin whilst rat-arsed and landed on top of a pile of smelly fish remains, and, being too drunk to realise he’d thrown up down his shirt, he’d turned up at work still wearing the same clothes and smelling like a vomit-stained fishmonger’s slab. Taylor laughed so much at the story she fell backwards against the couch and spilt a half-full glass of red wine down her blouse, and her expression cracked me up so much I rolled off the couch onto the floor, laughing so much it was almost painful.
Eventually, we collapsed into bed, both of us fully clothed, incapable of sex and still laughing. My head was spinning, as was the room, and we both realised the bed was revolving, so we held each other tight in case the bed tipped us onto the floor. We’d both have sore heads tomorrow morning, but I was happy the memories of Glett and Turley had been commemorated as they would have wanted it. As I will want it when it’s my turn to sail away over the horizon.
T H I R T E E N
Tuesday, one week later
GLETT WAS BURIED yesterday, buried with full police honours. I didn’t go to the funeral, close family only, but I’d attended the memorial service earlier today, as did many other detectives and uniforms who’d known and served with him. I knew his wife vaguely, so I offered my condolences to her. Glett’s DCI was also in attendance, and he thanked me for my fast work apprehending the suspect before he could do any more damage to anyone.
Things had moved in the past few days. Mick had appeared in the magistrates’ court and been remanded in custody. I’d seen him just beforehand and told him the original deal was now null and void. Glett’s dying meant he’d now be facing a murder charge and was looking at a life sentence; there’d be no chance of the prosecution accepting any plea of manslaughter as his victim was a police officer, and he’d also been in unlawful possession of a knife. I told him I’d see him in the crown court when I gave eyewitness testimony.
But, without Gary White or Barry Mates, there was no likelihood of any successful prosecution being brought against George Duncan. I couldn’t connect Duncan to Ferguson either as he’d vanished.
I’d been to see Ehmat Chackarti and he admitted he’d known all along it’d been Glett shooting at him from the garden that Sunday morning, and he said he knew exactly the reason why he’d done it and, had Glett still been alive, it would have been dealt with. I wondered whether Ehmat had put Mick up to stabbing Glett as he’d shot Matey. He’d refused to elaborate any further or answer any more questions and, now Glett was dead, the matter was closed so far as he was concerned. He, of course, denied any involvement of the family in helping the IRA and claimed not to know anyone called Harry Ferguson.
Cormac McGreely still hadn’t said a word after eight days in custody, so, as there was sufficient prima facie evidence to justify it, he’d been charged with several offences under the 2006 Terrorism Act. A not guilty plea had been entered on his behalf as he’d refused to plead. I’d little doubt, in court, he’d stand with his back to the judge throughout the entirety of the trial. For the jury, it would be a futile experience.
John McGreely had still not been apprehended; neither had Harry Ferguson. Bot
h had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth, despite an intensive manhunt for them. But, somehow, I just knew we’d not heard the last of either man.
E P I L O G U E
Monday, six days later
MID-AFTERNOON. I was just back from interviewing a member of Armswatch, who’d been apprehended casually walking away from the London offices of Bartolome Systems in High Holborn, having secreted a bag behind a potted plant in the main foyer and then calmly informed the duty receptionist that the bag would explode in ten minutes. The alarm had been raised and the entire building evacuated while bomb squad operatives had examined the bag and found it stuffed full of shredded magazines and newspapers. He’d claimed it was part of the group’s plan to keep Bartolome’s name in the public eye as, in Armswatch’s view, they were instrumental in arming brutal and repressive third-world regimes, and their role needed to be exposed.
I was typing my report when a message came through on my iPhone.
McGraw, we’re going out tonight. I have news, we’ve something to celebrate. There was a smiling emoji next to the message.
Good news? I typed back.
Yeah, and great news as well. She was obviously excited.
She told me where and when to meet her, at a riverside pub we frequented close to Battersea Bridge Road which, despite there being more yuppies per square foot than any other similar pub in the area, was our go-to pub when something good happened to one or both of us.
I was intrigued. Had she now got the position of deputy political editor? A request to interview a senior political figure granted? A pay rise in the offing?
Twenty seconds later, just as I was starting to think, It couldn’t be, could it? and about to panic, another message came through. No, I’m not pregnant!!! Phew.
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