The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Job done,’ Costello muttered quietly.

  Five minutes later, as two men in hoodies hurriedly descended the stairs at Marble Arch tube station, the first ambulance raced past on its way to the carnage.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Selfridges?’ said Grahamslaw, croakily.

  ‘A car bomb and a second device in a motorcycle,’ said Parratt.

  ‘So that’s what the two escapees from Stoke Newington were up to,’ said Grahamslaw.

  For the second time in a week the phone had interrupted a decent night’s sleep. This time it was Mick Parratt. He was already at Marylebone Police Station.

  ‘Any casualties?’ Grahamslaw asked, sitting up in bed.

  The phone went quiet.

  ‘Mick? You there?’

  ‘I’m here guv … there’s two. More of our lads. The night-duty Inspector from Marylebone and one of his PCs.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. Standing next to the secondary device when it went off. Never had a chance. We’d cleared the area by the time the main device in the car went off.’

  ‘Fuck it …’

  ‘You might say that, yes.’ Parratt sounded subdued.

  ‘Next of kin?’ asked Grahamslaw.

  ‘The Inspector lives in Enfield. Wife and kid. PC is single with parents down in Devon, somewhere.’

  ‘OK, Mick. Get the local duty officer from Enfield to call me. I’ll go and do the death message with him.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, guv. I can handle it.’

  Grahamslaw knew his Superintendent was right but gauged from the tone of his voice that the death of three police officers in a week had got to him. He would do the death message himself. There were times when responsibility came with command. This was one of them.

  ‘No. I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘And best get the chief from the Devon force on the phone as well. He’ll want to arrange a visit to the PC’s parents.’

  The drive to Enfield took Grahamslaw a little under an hour. Mick Parratt called him in the car and filled him in on the details of the bombing.

  A coded bomb threat had been called into Marylebone a few minutes before the explosion. Parratt had managed to interview the call handler. The PC reported that a male, Irish voice had given the codeword ‘Thatcher’ and had warned of a device planted in a blue Peugeot outside Selfridges.

  The Sergeant in the police control room had checked the code with Special Branch. It hadn’t been recognised but, as was normal procedure, the Duty Inspector had attended the scene. The car had been located, a cordon set up and the explosives disposal officer called out.

  With the exception of the duty officer and one PC, all the police officers were safely around the corner when a secondary device had been triggered. It had been contained in a motorcycle. The Peugeot had exploded about twenty minutes later.

  The casualties had been named as Inspector Robert Bridges and PC Giles Duncan.

  Grahamslaw found the news of a second bomb especially disturbing. Traps laid for the emergency services were commonplace in Northern Ireland. On the mainland, the tactic was virtually unheard of. It was a worrying development.

  It was getting light as Grahamslaw arrived at the agreed rendezvous point in Enfield. The local duty officer was unable to attend and had, instead, sent a uniform Sergeant and a WPC to assist with the death message. They were waiting at the end of a street of terraced houses.

  The WPC led the way to the door. As the Sergeant knocked, he turned to Grahamslaw. ‘This has got to be the worst job in the world, guv,’ he said, rapping on the door for a second time.

  A few seconds later, the hallway light went on and a female figure could be seen descending the stairs.

  Grahamslaw took a deep breath. This was not a day that any of them would care to remember.

  Chapter 24

  I’d just sat down to write up the young burglar’s complaint when the first transmission came over my personal radio about the explosion in central London.

  There had been a lot of reports in the press about a new terror campaign. It looked like they might be right. Sitting at a desk in Stoke Newington, there was little I could do except hope that no one had been hurt.

  The remainder of the night passed off relatively quietly, one highlight being a foot chase when an eagle-eyed PC spotted some burglars as they climbed over the roof of a chemist. They had arms full of barbiturates, which they had been hoping to sell.

  Very little information came through about the bomb. There were rumours that a police officer had been killed but no confirmation. At six o’clock I handed over to Dave Heathcote. He’d heard about the explosion on the early-morning news. Yes, he said, it was being reported that a policeman had been killed.

  Driving home that morning, I felt deeply troubled. The sense of foreboding, a feeling that something was going to go wrong, was rolling around somewhere in my chest, pressing on my stomach and reaching up into my throat. What Heathcote had said about the victim being a cop had acted as a catalyst, a trigger that brought back unpleasant memories. I had to work hard at clearing my mind of pictures of torn and mutilated bodies, the victims of bomb blasts. They were flashbacks – sights I had seen; sights that no one ought to see. Their horror never left me.

  Combat fatigue it used to be called, although in recent times it had been given more up-to-date labels. For me, it had taken the form of dreams. They started just a week after that firefight near Castlederg, twenty years before.

  At first, there was just one dream that repeated several times over the course of a week. I was driving the Rover with the pursuers behind me. The Rover would lose power, I would coast to a stop and open the car door to run. Then, as I started to move, the air around me would take on a resistant quality that rendered movement virtually impossible. The harder I tried to move, the heavier my body felt. Within a moment the terrorists were on me. Blind panic gripped me, raw fear. This was it. They were about to kill me. And then I would wake up.

  The point in the dream at which I became conscious was always the same and for a few seconds those last moments seemed perfectly real. I would be soaked in sweat and my heart would be racing. Then, as I lay still, the sweat would start to evaporate and I would begin to shiver. My skin would become cold and clammy.

  After the third repetition of the dream, I started to place a towel on the bed sheet to absorb the sweat. Other dreams followed, but the theme was always similar and always ended with a violent, sweat-soaked awakening. Quality sleep, once something I had taken for granted, became a hopeless challenge.

  Over the following weeks, the nightmares faded. Eventually they become a rarity. Just occasionally something would trigger a return. I learned to live with them.

  Then, in March 1988, in the very area that I had been working in Northern Ireland, two soldiers were dragged from their car and murdered by a mob. Like me, the soldiers had been in plain clothes and with only sidearms for personal protection. They suffered the exact fate I had done everything to avoid, the fate I stared at in my nightmares, and that I only escaped by waking up.

  At the time, the news footage of the murder was transmitted, I was a Sergeant manning the front desk at Barnet Police Station and just ending my shift. I drove home in a state of shock. That night and for several months following, my sleep was again interrupted and disturbed. Alcohol provided a partial solution, but at a cost. A developing relationship with a nurse from the St Pancras Hospital failed when she moved out of the flat we had only just started to rent. She said I needed help. I thought I just needed a drink.

  Now, that was behind me. With a new home, a wonderful wife and a new child, it was beginning to look like my memories could remain just that, memories. Since meeting Jenny, I had hardly touched alcohol and had developed such a positive, forward-looking attitude to life that my army experiences seemed almost to be those of another person. I had my family to thank for that.

  As I pulled into the driveway of our cottage, the sun was rising. Grey-blue sk
y was gently giving way to a golden glow. I switched off the car engine and sat for several minutes staring out over the fields. A faint mist clung wistfully to the valley, but a gentle wind was carrying it away. As the flashbacks and sense of foreboding passed, my heart rate and breathing slowed. Within a few moments, all was back to normal.

  I crept as quietly as possible up the old creaky stairs to the bedroom, anxious not to awaken Becky. Jenny hardly registered my presence as I cuddled up to her, stroked her hair and kissed her gently on her exposed shoulder.

  Sleep arrived even before my head touched the pillow.

  The nightmares stayed away.

  Chapter 25

  The bed felt warm and so very comfortable.

  It was a great feeling, sleeping after a night shift. No pressure to meet the deadline set by an alarm clock, just sleep until your body says enough. Or, that is, until your wife brings you a brew.

  I eased myself up the bed, plumped up the pillows and sat up. Jenny passed the tea into my outstretched hand. The first sip was always the best. Hot liquid eased down my throat.

  ‘What time is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Three o’clock, your bath’s ready.’ Jenny sat down on the end of the bed.

  ‘Am I gonna get this treatment every day?’

  Jenny smiled. But it was a half-smile. I sensed she had something on her mind.

  ‘Where’s Becky?’

  ‘She’s sleeping. How was your first night shift then?’

  ‘Busy, very busy. There was a bomb went off in central London. Has it been on the news?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenny’s voice dropped. I was right. All was not well.

  ‘The lad who relieved me this morning heard something about a cop being killed. Was he right?’ I asked.

  ‘You haven’t heard then?’ Jenny seemed surprised.

  ‘Details were sketchy.’

  ‘It’s been on every news channel for most of the day. There were two policemen killed. One was an Inspector.’

  The tea didn’t taste so good any more. Now I understood the reason for Jenny’s subdued tone. She worried about me when I was at work. Most coppers’ partners did. Hearing of the death of another Inspector only made things worse. It made me realise once again how much I meant to her.

  ‘Did they give a name?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise it. He was about the same age as you, wife and grown-up kids. It’s them I feel most sorry for.’

  Jenny moved up the bed and hugged me. I held her tight as we sat for a moment in silence.

  I had a quick shower and put on a bathrobe. As I came down the stairs, the TV news was just starting.

  I sat quietly, transfixed by the scene of devastation. After what seemed an age, the commentator came to naming one of the policemen. I knew the face as soon as it came on screen. As the newsman read out the name, my stomach tensed as though I had been punched.

  The dead man was Bob Bridges. Inspector Bob Bridges.

  I knew him as Sergeant ‘Bomber’ Bridges, ex Royal Green Jackets, ex ‘B’ Squadron 22 SAS.

  I sat in a state of numbed shock as the news droned on. Although I’d known Bomber well, I had hardly seen him in the preceding twenty years. He’d been one of the window entry team at the Iranian Embassy siege. He was pictured in all the papers and even had Maggie Thatcher sign his assault plan at the post-op drink.

  Not long after the embassy, Bomber left the army. Rumours at the time placed him abroad on a covert operation for MI6. I had bumped into him once during a flight stop-over in Cyprus when I was on my way to a job in the Far-East. We only had time to share a quick beer before parting. Bomber was on his way back to the UK. He and a couple of others were escorting a coffin. I presumed it was a body but I didn’t ask and Bomber didn’t seem minded to tell.

  Later, I heard that he had joined the Met. That story was confirmed when we crossed paths one morning in the canteen at New Scotland Yard. We were both Sergeants at the time and about to spend the day at the Notting Hill Carnival. We shook hands, had a quick chat and then went our separate ways. After that we bumped into each other a couple of times and, although we exchanged pleasantries, we never became true friends.

  The phone rang. It broke the trance.

  Jenny came out of the kitchen. ‘That’ll probably be for you. I forgot to say – someone phoned earlier.’

  Jenny looked down at me as I turned away from the television screen. Seeing the stunned look on my face, she frowned, then her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. ‘You knew that Inspector didn’t you?’

  The telephone rang for a few seconds more, ignored by both of us, then stopped.

  I heaved a sigh. ‘He was in the army with me, one of my Sergeants. We bumped into each other several times before I went to Royalty. I didn’t even know he’d made Inspector. I can’t help wondering what his wife and kids are going to do.’ I felt my eyes starting to fill up.

  Jenny knelt and once again wrapped her arms around me.

  ‘Who was it that phoned?’ I asked at last.

  ‘Said his name was Monaghan. And that you two go back a long way.’

  ‘He was Bob Bridges’ commanding officer – mine, too. Did he leave a number?’

  ‘No, he said he was at work and would call back later.’

  I wasn’t too surprised that Monaghan had been in touch. He was now with MI5, transferring there from the army rather than retiring. He would want to talk about Bridges.

  It was six-thirty before he called again. When I picked up the phone I immediately recognised the educated voice with its gentle Irish accent.

  Even though we hadn’t spoken in nearly two decades, there was no ‘how are you’ or similar preamble. Monaghan came straight to the point. As I’d anticipated, he wanted to know if I had heard the news about Bob Bridges.

  I told him I had seen the news report on television. He filled me in on exactly what had happened.

  ‘The way you describe it, boss,’ I replied, ‘it sounds like a secondary device.’

  ‘That’s my assessment. The random selection of a rendezvous point and the placing of the motorcycle bomb, probably afterwards, suggest that police were the target.’

  ‘It’s worrying.’

  ‘Do you think Bob Bridges could have been a specific target?’

  ‘Is that likely?’ I asked.

  Monaghan’s brief silence showed how concerned he was. ‘I wouldn’t have said so, but now I’m not sure. That’s why I phoned you. Can we meet? … Soon, preferably.’

  ‘I heard you were running the ROSE office now.’

  ‘You heard right. Where did that come from?’

  ‘One of the lads I’m still in touch with. He mentioned it a while ago. I’ll be going to the funeral, if that is soon enough?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  The call ended as abruptly as it had begun. A quick goodbye, but no pleasantries. It was typical of Monaghan.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Jenny asked as I put the phone down.

  ‘He wanted to know if I would be going to the funeral.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. There will be a lot of people there. Bridges was well liked.’

  ‘So, what was that about a secondary device? What’s one of those?’

  ‘Monaghan thinks that the bombers might have been targeting the police. The primary device draws in the emergency services and the second device targets us.’

  ‘That’s awful … disgusting.’ Jenny seemed to mull over the idea before asking, ‘And what is the ROSE office?’

  ROSE was an acronym for a branch of MI5: ‘Rehabilitation of Service Expertise’ was what it stood for. What it did was relocate specialist military personnel who were at risk from terrorists or enemy Security Services. They also looked after retired MI5 and MI6 officers whose secret knowledge would have been of use to foreign countries. Another of their jobs was to take care of former SAS soldiers who wished their past lives to remain a secret. ROSE looked after me.

 
But Jenny wasn’t aware of that part of my history, so, detesting, as always, that I couldn’t tell her the whole truth, I gave her a sanitised version of what ROSE did, making sure I left out the references to military intelligence and Special Forces.

  Later that evening, we talked at length about terrorists, bombings and what my new role would involve. Jenny was adamant that she didn’t want me to end up like Bob Bridges, even if it meant a return to the job I had been doing before.

  I did my best to reassure her. She seemed to accept my rapidly thought-through explanation that no terrorist in his right mind was going to pick an area such as Stoke Newington when there were far more high-profile targets in central London.

  I just hoped I was right.

  Chapter 26

  Two days later, Monaghan phoned again, this time in the afternoon. He wanted to meet that very evening.

  There was something about the urgency for the meeting and the tone of his voice that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Something was wrong.

  We arranged to meet at Monaghan’s members club at seven. I told Jenny that we were discussing the arrangements for Bomber’s funeral.

  At quarter to seven, I was exiting Leicester Square tube station and heading along Gerrard Street. I was early.

  I’d memorised Monaghan’s directions: ‘Second turning left, thirty yards on left, down stairs to an oak door, number 6A.’ I found 6A easily. There was no nameplate, no bell, nothing at all to hint at what lay within.

  The door was answered by a muscular man dressed in black dress trousers and shoes with white shirt, maroon waistcoat and black tie. I recognised the type: ex-military, senior NCO probably. This was the right place. The doorman politely asked my business.

  ‘My name is Finlay, Mr M is expecting me.’ I used the introduction that Monaghan had insisted upon. It sounded a bit James Bond, but the doorman didn’t bat an eyelid. The door was opened wide.