by Matt Johnson
As she looked into my eyes it was as if she was saying ‘Go on, tell me.’ I knew that one day very soon I was going to have to.
For now, I needed time to prepare, time to work out how best to reveal to her my past and explain my secrecy.
To stall for time I told her that Monaghan was now Special Branch, that they wanted me back to do protection duties and I had said no. I hated having to lie.
Jenny seemed pleased I had refused the offer. Then she asked me again if I was telling her everything. I had the feeling she could tell I was being economical with the truth. I said nothing.
Monaghan also drove an Audi. It pulled into the driveway at eight-thirty. I had to leave for the night shift within fifteen minutes. As I went to answer the door I wondered who the old man had found to help.
From the darkness, a few yards from the door I heard a familiar Welsh voice.
‘Salaams, boss,’ it said.
I would have known it anywhere. It was Kevin Jones.
Supervisor at my selection, Sergeant on my troop and one of the first to enter the Iranian Embassy, Kevin and I had spent years together training and on operations. We’d left the army within weeks of each other. Like me, he had joined the police and was now a PC at Hornchurch, where he ran a community beat and a local youth club. He was the only member of the regiment with whom I had maintained any contact.
As I stepped out to join Kevin in the garden, I noticed that the evening air had turned warm and humid and the sky was starting to darken. I could smell rain in the air.
Monaghan waited in the car.
We greeted each other warmly, but Kevin’s face was as serious as I knew mine must be. Kevin was a mate, a good one, and Monaghan knew that. He had played an ace.
Kevin got straight to the point. ‘I think the Colonel’s right, Bob.’ he stared out over the fields as he spoke.
‘It wasn’t fair for him to bring you here, Kev. He knows I owe you … he’s exploiting that to make sure he gets his way.’
‘Water under the bridge, you know that. For now though, I don’t think we have much choice.’
‘It’s a game for young men, not us,’ I said.
‘We’re the ones with the most to lose, boss. Although, if I’m honest, I can think of a few blokes I’d have come to before you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’d have gone for a blade. One of the real hard nuts. I’m not being funny, but I wouldn’t have picked a Rupert like you. And let’s face it, you were never one for getting up close and personal.’
I was embarrassed but admitted to myself that Kevin was right. As an officer – a ‘Rupert’ as Kevin called me – my job had rarely been at the sharp end, and even then it tended to only be a means of gaining experience.
In SAS terms, I was very ordinary. Although I was fairly fit, a reasonable shot and adaptable in a crisis, my real strength had been working behind the scenes, employing my ability to organise. That’s what had earned me the respect of the troopers at the sharp end, the ‘blades’ like Kevin.
‘Monaghan knows that we’re on their list so he’s pressuring us into doing something about it,’ I said.
‘And he supposedly has a contact in the Branch who will tip us off when they locate the terrorist safe house.’
‘He told me that as well.’
‘Special Branch will want to house them first; as soon as they do, we’ll have to go in quick and hope we strike lucky.’
The evening air was becoming damp. It was cooling fast and the wind was picking up. It felt like rain was not far away. I took a deep breath. ‘The answer’s still no, Kev. I have a young family to put first. It needs a younger man. Less ties, fewer responsibilities.’
‘That’s as may be, but there’s got to be a reason the boss picked you.’
‘He told me his reason … it was pretty underhand and I don’t buy it.’
‘Your family?’
I nodded.
‘Look, I think it’s more than that, if I’m honest,’ Kevin continued. ‘I know what I just said about you being a bit of a pussy but … well, you were always different. You remember that day on the Fan Dance, the day I gave you a brew at the finish line?’
‘Best tea I’ve ever drunk.’
‘Well, on that day, we thought you would never pass selection. We reckoned you were too soft and, to be honest, you didn’t fit the officer mould. You weren’t a proper Rupert. You were the first officer we’d seen that was from a grammar school rather than public school.’
‘So, what are you saying? Being a grammar-school boy is what brought Monaghan knocking on my door?’
‘What I’m saying is that you were always up against it. The odds were always stacked against you. We read your file. You were one of only two Sandhurst cadets on your intake who hadn’t been privately educated. You went into the artillery. No officer from the artillery ever passes selection. We had you written off before you even started, but you never gave up, you always made the grade … even if you were never the best.’
‘So, Monaghan came to me because I never give up?’
‘I reckon … and because you were always resourceful, always imaginative. You were always the one who came up with ideas when we needed something doing. He’ll have remembered that.’
‘Well, it’s nice to think that not everyone thought I was useless,’ I grinned.
‘You earned the respect you got, believe me. Besides, there’s one other thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re on the list.’
‘What list?’ I demanded.
‘The same list as me, the target list. The list of files that have gone missing. They’re coming for us, boss. We either run or fight.’
As Kevin headed back to the car to join Monaghan, the sky was darkening. It was time for me to leave for work.
Once they’d left, I quickly nipped into Becky’s room for a goodnight hug, grabbed my briefcase and sandwiches and then planted a quick kiss on Jenny’s lips before running to the car.
Jenny tried to slow me down. She was curious about the visitors but she accepted my promise to explain the following day.
I would either have to think up something pretty convincing or tell her the truth.
The first spots of rain were falling as I pulled out onto the lane.
Chapter 30
Dollops of rain patterned the car windscreen.
The sky was turning prematurely dark as black-and-grey storm clouds gathered overhead. The lane was narrow and, distracted by the sky, I nearly hit a verge on the tight bend outside the Coach and Horses pub in the village nearest to the cottage. Lightning flashed from somewhere ahead and to my left. Moments later I caught the faint sounds of distant thunder as it rumbled over the tranquil fields.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
The approaching horizon looked ominous and menacing. I was heading straight towards the storm. For a moment I pulled in and stopped. The old 2CV Citroen never had liked the rain. Checking my watch, I realised that I didn’t have enough time to get back to the cottage and collect the Audi. I pushed on.
As I turned onto the A1, the crash of thunder mingled with the roar of the peak Sunday-evening traffic. Weekend visitors and holiday-makers on their way home.
All at once, the heavens opened. Clouds gave up any attempt to hold back, releasing their contents in sheets of seemingly solid water that bounced off the tarmac and clattered on the soft top of the 2CV. I kept to the slow lane next to where the hard shoulder had become a fast-running stream of water and debris.
I had to slow down to below thirty. The wipers couldn’t cope and I could hardly see where I was going. Out of the side window I caught a glimpse of several women in a hotel car park racing towards the reception door. One of them held what looked like a magazine over her head in a vain attempt to shield her hair from the worst effects of the deluge. The shoulders of her dress were soaked and as she ran, the ground threw up splashes to add to her misery.
/> The rain battered against the roof and windscreen as if furious at being left outside. My left foot started to feel cold; feeling beneath the dash, I grimaced; water was leaking through from the windscreen. My eyes returned to the road just in time. I was suddenly faced by the rapidly growing rear end of a lorry. I braked hard and swerved left as I came to a halt on the hard shoulder.
I sat still, listening to the rain, my heart pounding in my chest. Closing my eyes for several seconds, I murmured a silent ‘thank you’ prayer to God for giving me quick reactions.
I started off again but, just as I was about to pull back onto the road, the rear wheels of an articulated trailer ploughed through the deepening surface water, sending a grey wave crashing down onto me. For a few moments the brave little car kept going, then the water hit the electrics. The engine coughed, spluttered, picked up momentarily and then died. I coasted to a stop.
I took a breath and counted to ten.
It seemed that events were conspiring against me. This was not a good place to be stuck in a broken-down car with the heavens pouring out their contents.
Cars, caravans and heavy lorries roared passed, the slipstream causing the Citroen to rock on its soft springs. There was no sign of an emergency telephone and the high verge next to the hard shoulder hid any clue as to nearby help. I tried the starter motor. It turned, there was plenty of power, but the engine didn’t fire. Resigned to my fate, I reached for the mobile phone.
Once I’d told the police station I was going to be late I just sat there. In truth, there wasn’t a great deal of choice. I had a can of WD40 in the boot but I was buggered if I was going to get out in this weather. I would just have to sit it out.
For the next ten minutes, there I sat, alone on the motorway with just my thoughts and the traffic thundering past as the rain lashed down.
In the enforced solitude, Kevin’s words came back to disturb me. We were on a list, a target list. Two old mates had been killed in just a few days, and then at the funeral, the new regiment CO had told me, quite clearly, not to get involved. I wondered just what the hell I should do.
For a few moments, I had the overwhelming urge to go and hide, to run away until everything got back to normal.
The way that Skinner had been targeted troubled me the most. A drive-by shooting. That was very specific, very personal. A face-to-face between gunman and victim.
The bomb that killed Bridges could have happened to anyone, but somehow the killers had found Skinner’s home. I knew they could have followed him, but what if they hadn’t? What if the killers knew where he lived? What if they knew where I lived?
I switched on the car radio. It was linked directly to the battery and still worked. John Peel was doing a sixties special. Penny Lane was playing. Confused, surreal images washed through my mind as I listened to the words.
More songs followed. I Am the God of Hell-Fire … Itchycoo Park … It’s All Too Beautiful. I was lost in a time before adulthood. I remembered my childhood well. The girls. The parties. Oh, to be able to turn back the clock, I thought. Now it seemed so very far away.
The ten o’clock news came and went. I didn’t hear it. Only a certain kind of song could break through the kind of misery I was experiencing.
And it came. It’s always struck me as strange how at certain times in your life songs can take on great significance. As I sat in the dark, with lorries and cars hurtling past me, it was Garth Brooks’ If Tomorrow Never Comes that triggered the tears: ‘…will she know how much I love her…’
There were two girls in my life now and both meant the world to me. As I listened to the song, tears running down my cheeks, I knew there was no turning back. I was going to have to tell Jenny.
I banged my fists on the steering wheel and screamed in frustration. ‘Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!’
As if prompted by my display of frustration, the rain stopped almost as suddenly as it had started. I tried the engine again. The starter turned over and over. No joy. If the WD40 didn’t work, I was in for a long walk.
I pulled the keys from the ignition and, as I started to open the driver door, a white police traffic car cruised past. I waved frantically.
They saw me. The blue lights went on as they pulled onto the hard shoulder in front of the Citroen.
I laughed. Emotions were catching up with me. ‘Who says you can never find a copper when you need one?’ I said to myself.
I laughed again, but it wasn’t in humour. It was the kind of laugh that is only just short of a sob. Things were getting completely out of control. I didn’t like what I was being drawn into but could see no way out. And what was at stake was too terrible to contemplate.
Chapter 31
Grahamslaw checked his watch as his car struggled through the traffic on the way to Stoke Newington. It was nearly ten o’clock. The night shift would soon be arriving for work.
They were in for an interesting night. A heavy storm was predicted to hit north London at about half-past ten. According to the forecast, upwards of two inches of rain would be dumped on the capital in less than an hour.
By the time the bad weather arrived, he would be having a chat with the officers who had been working with the murdered PC on the night he had been shot. Losing a fellow officer was never an easy thing. Without exception, every man and woman on that shift would have asked questions of themselves afterwards. Some would have been angry; others would have decided that the job was no longer for them. All would have been affected in some way, most for the worse. They would now want to know how close the enquiry team was to identifying the killers.
Grahamslaw had seen it before. In April 1984, as a Detective Inspector at West End Central, he had been given the job of breaking the news of WPC Yvonne Fletcher’s death to her colleagues. It was a day he would never forget. Yvonne had been working on a vice squad he had been supervising. With a team of fellow officers, her main role was to target the prostitutes that frequented the local area. On the day she was shot, Yvonne had been posted to supervise a small demonstration, a group of people allowed their democratic right to protest over an issue they felt strongly about.
Then, in a moment no one could have expected or planned for, a gunman had opened fire on the demonstrators from a window that overlooked their position. Yvonne had been struck and mortally wounded.
The failure to arrest the gunman and the political decision to allow all the suspects to leave the UK had angered Grahamslaw. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand it, he simply didn’t agree with the principle of permitting people to escape justice.
Within a fortnight, he had applied to join the Anti-Terrorist Squad. His first application had been rejected, the powers-that-be recognising, correctly, that it was a knee-jerk reaction to Yvonne’s murder. Six months later, when he applied again, they accepted that his was a genuine desire to specialise in a challenging field of police work.
Seventeen years later, with four successful promotion boards under his belt, Grahamslaw now commanded the squad that had questioned his initial motivation for joining it. And, as its commander, the responsibility of talking to the dead officer’s colleagues fell to him.
As he approached the rear of the police station, a uniform Sergeant, inside the building, saw him and opened the glass security door.
‘Grahamslaw, Commander SO13,’ he said, aware that in plain clothes he was unlikely to be recognised.
‘I remember you, guv. Sergeant Holbrook. I was on duty the night you were here – when PC Evans was shot.’
‘You’re from the night shift?’
‘That’s right. I’m just getting the postings sorted.’
‘It’s your lads I’ve come to see. Is your duty officer around?’
‘Ah … sorry, guv. That’s our new Inspector, Mr Finlay. His car has broken down on the way into work. I’m just on my way to ask the lateturn Inspector to cover until he can get here.’
‘You have a new Inspector? What happened to young Heathcote?’ Grahamslaw frowned.
‘The chief super has given him an admin job. He’s doing his final late turn today, in fact. It’s him I’m on my way to see.’
‘Lead the way, then.’
Grahamslaw followed the Sergeant up the stairs to the first floor and along the corridor. He recognised the office door they arrived at. It was closed.
As the Sergeant went to knock, Grahamslaw pushed past him, opened the door and stepped into the office.
Heathcote was typing away on a laptop. The office telephone was ringing, but the Inspector seemed to be ignoring the call. He didn’t even look up.
Grahamslaw coughed.
Heathcote glanced up, impatiently. His face flushed and he scrambled to his feet.
‘Hello again, David,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘I’ve come to have a chat with the night shift. I understand from Sergeant Holbrook here that you are likely to be covering it for a while.’
Heathcote looked confused and turned to face the Sergeant, who was now standing in the office doorway. The phone continued to ring.
‘It’s Inspector Finlay,’ said Holbrook. ‘Hertfordshire Police Traffic Control have been on the blower. He’s broken down on the motorway. They’re towing him home so he can use a second car to get into work. As he won’t be here for an hour or so, we were hoping you would cover until he gets here.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Heathcote. ‘Can I answer that phone call?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Grahamslaw.
Heathcote pressed a button on the phone to answer it on speaker.
‘Mr Heathcote?’
‘Yes.’
‘Control room here, sir, Sergeant Tillbrook. Inspector Finlay has been on the phone. Apparently he has broken down on the way in. He asks if you could cover until he can get home and get his other car.’
‘Yes, I know. Sergeant Holbrook just told me. Did he give any idea what time we can expect him?’
‘About midnight, apparently. And there’s a complaint just come in.’