The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Do you need any kit?’

  ‘No, we’ve got body armour, a Browning and a nine-mil’ Beretta. Kev’s also got a suppressed MP5. We’ve some flash bangs and a Remington pump in case we have trouble getting through the door, but we plan to go in quiet.’

  ‘Abseil kit to get down?’

  ‘We’ve got two sets of the Rollgliss locking brakes, good as new.’

  ‘Christ … I don’t suppose I should ask where that lot came from?’ Monaghan smiled. ‘Ok, when can you be ready?’

  ‘Tonight, if necessary,’ I answered. ‘We just need word from your man when the target is on his own. And the small matter of the helicopter, of course.’

  Monaghan chuckled. ‘Yeah, that could be a problem, but I think I can swing it. You’ll need a winch man as well. It would have been handy if one of our old boys had his own heli, but so far as I know nobody has. Still, we have a man on air-sea rescue. A Wessex would do I expect?’

  It was Kevin’s turn to laugh. ‘Knew we could count on you, boss, I just knew it.’

  ‘Where can I contact you?’ Monaghan asked me.

  ‘I’m late turn today, Kev’s off. I’ll be at Stoke Newington from two o’clock onwards.’

  ‘OK, I’ll call you there. I’ll need a landing place for the two of you to be picked up.’

  ‘Field at the rear of my cottage. It’s not overlooked and we can be there, ready, within an hour of your call.’

  Monaghan shrugged. ‘That should do, leave it with me.’ He turned away. ‘Oh, just out of curiosity, how are you going to persuade the Irish lads to stay with you?’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘We’ll use a straitjacket. And we’re not going to take both of them, just Costello. At that height I don’t think he’ll struggle too much, do you?’

  We all laughed together. The gravity of our situation was, for a moment, forgotten.

  ‘Why just Costello?’ asked Monaghan.

  I hesitated, uncertain if Monaghan would find our intentions agreeable.

  ‘We only need one to talk, so it makes sense that’s all we take. Kevin and I have discussed it. The other one, we give the double tap.’

  ‘OK. It’s your show.’

  ‘Do you have time for a couple of other questions?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really, but if you’re quick.’

  ‘The ROSE files. How much information do they contain? Neither Kev or me has ever seen one.’

  ‘Enough to be dangerous. They aren’t copies of your full military files, if that’s what you’re getting at, but they do have details of the reasons for you being placed under the ROSE umbrella and where you were placed subsequent to leaving the army.’

  ‘So they definitely don’t have home addresses, phone numbers, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘And what were they doing in Ireland? Surely they should have been at MI5 or Hereford?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ said Monaghan.

  ‘I can’t understand why they were somewhere so risky. Did someone take them there, or send them there, for instance? Have you checked to see if someone has sold us out, perhaps?’

  Monaghan was starting to look angry. ‘Those checks have been done, trust me.’ He now sounded impatient, as if he resented our questions. ‘The files were only in Ireland temporarily. One of our officers placed them into what he thought was secure custody whilst he was lodging at a local hotel. He did have a good reason for having the files with him; that I can vouch for.’

  Monaghan looked away. He seemed suddenly very interested in the wolves in their enclosure.

  ‘What was the reason?’ I asked, keeping my eyes on Monaghan’s profile.

  ‘Sorry, Finlay. That, I can’t say.’

  It was time to test my alternative theory again. ‘Had you noticed the other connection between Kev, me and the other guys?’

  Monaghan turned back to face me, frowning. ‘What connection?’

  ‘I got pulled by the Met SO13 Commander a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Grahamslaw?’

  ‘That’s the one. He told me about Mac Blackwood having been killed as well.’

  ‘What of it? I heard it was a suicide bombing in India.’

  ‘That’s what he said too. What was interesting is that Mac was on Operation Nimrod, just like me and the others.’

  Monaghan scowled. ‘You think these attacks might be related to Nimrod? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You remember the Arab kid that survived the embassy?’ I asked.

  ‘Atta al-Azdi.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I heard the government sent him home and the Iranians killed him.’

  ‘You sure? Grahamslaw says he’s still in prison.’

  Monaghan pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and blinked rapidly. ‘No, I’m not sure,’ he said impatiently. ‘Do you want me to check?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work out who would have a motive for killing blokes who’d been on the embassy job. He’s the only one I’ve come up with.’

  ‘That’s if the embassy is the connection, which of course it’s not. The IRA are behind this, mark my words. There’s no way that any Arab has those missing files.’

  Before I could respond, Monaghan nodded, turned and marched away, a black folding umbrella appearing from his pocket and springing up over his balding head.

  We watched him go.

  Kevin was the first to speak. ‘Forgot to ask him how he’s actually going to sort us a heli.’

  ‘I think he was getting a bit tired of me asking questions, but he seems to have good contacts. I’ll ask him when he calls me. Something puzzles me about Nimrod, though.’

  ‘What’s that then, boss?’ We turned and started to walk back along the pathway towards Euston Road.

  ‘Spooks aren’t idiots. I can’t be the only one to have twigged the alternative connection between the attacks. And why isn’t there an official MI5 effort to find our files? According to Grahamslaw, the Home Secretary now knows about it, so why does Monaghan need us?’

  Kevin paused for several moments, mulling my question. ‘Glory, perhaps. Not being funny, but you know what Ruperts are like. Then again, maybe there is an official op. Maybe we’re just the belt to go with the braces.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’ I didn’t sound convinced and I wasn’t.

  ‘Jenny came round OK then?’

  ‘Yes … actually it was her that talked me into getting involved.’

  ‘Good for her … I won’t lie to you, boss, I’m brickin’ it. It all seemed a bit surreal when we first spoke. Now … well … how about you?’

  I smiled and winked. ‘When we were younger, the only thing that scared me was when we were planning a job and one of you Sergeants used to say “trust me, sir”.’

  The smile returned to Kevin’s face. ‘Fuck that. What used to scare me was one of you bloody Ruperts saying “based on my experience” …’

  ‘Or when I unfolded a map?’

  We laughed. They were old jokes, the product of a relationship between officers and soldiers that had produced many a gag. Winding each other up, having a crack, telling a joke. It all helped to deal with the fear.

  Kevin threw his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

  Together, as friends, we headed out of the park.

  Chapter 48

  The late-turn shift started quietly.

  As the lads were heading off onto the streets, I had to go to a meeting with the local street robbery squad at which assignments and tasking were being decided for the next week. My guys were going to be on a day shift so we had to be given a job.

  It was decided that we would do some uniform patrols in the Dalston Market area and a Sergeant with some PCs would run an observation on the market cash dispensers. Several times in the previous week people had been robbed after collecting money from the hole in the wall. The robbery squad reckoned a same small group was responsible for all the attacks.


  The man running the meeting was the Detective Chief Inspector. If he knew, he made no mention of the Special Branch and Anti-Terrorist Squad observation on the Nightingale Estate. Sometimes, specialist departments like SB thought that local officers shouldn’t be trusted with that kind of sensitive information. In truth, the shooting of PCs Evans and Manning showed it was the local boys who ran the greatest risks – they could walk into terrorists when they least expected it. They were the people who really needed to know and it was they who were generally the last to be told.

  It was eight o’clock before I finished the day’s paperwork. With all that was going on, I still had to do reports on probationer constables, lost property and recommendations for driving courses. Paperwork had never been my greatest love and, at this time, it was distracting me from the plans I was trying to put together to protect my family.

  I’d been listening in to the radio as I worked. The officers out on the streets had had a busy day; as a result, by now, most of the Sergeants were in the station helping with prisoners. Only one was still out patrolling the streets. It was as well to have at least one supervisory officer out and about so the PCs had someone to call up for advice.

  Just as I was reaching the point of paperwork exhaustion, information came into the control room about a steaming gang operating in the area. It was another warm evening. There was a cultural festival taking place in a local street and a funfair was entertaining people in the local park. Everything had gone peacefully until now.

  Steamers were muggers of the worst kind. Using weight of numbers, maybe twenty or thirty lads would rush through a crowd spreading panic. Then they would snatch handbags, jewellery or anything else of value. Anyone who resisted would be punched, kicked or even stabbed so the robbers could get away.

  Just a few minutes after the warning about the steamers, a radio transmission came through that officers from a patrolling Territorial Support Group carrier had made a number of arrests. For once, it looked like the cops had come out on top. Prisoners and arresting officers were on their way to our custody suite.

  As I walked into the custody offices, Steve Clark, the Sergeant-posted Custody Officer looked up from his desk. His face told it all.

  ‘TSG have nicked seven, guv,’ he said. ‘I’ve already got eleven in.’

  I smiled. I knew that a superman with eight arms and two brains would struggle to cope with that many.

  ‘Don’t worry, Steve,’ I said. ‘I’ll book some of them in for you.’

  I was reading legal rights to the second of three prisoners when my mobile telephone rang. I had to leave a slightly perplexed PC with his arrest while I moved out of earshot to take the call. I found a quiet place in the small room used by the police surgeon.

  It was Monaghan.

  ‘Transport is sorted, but it has to be tonight.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘That’s bloody quick. Are the foxes at home?’

  ‘Just one in the den. Not sure which.’

  It was take it or leave it, if we were going to go ahead with my plan.

  I made a snap judgement. Monaghan agreed for the helicopter to pick us up at midnight.

  I returned to helping out in the custody office and for the next hour did my best to concentrate on doing the job I was paid to do. At a quarter to ten, I made it back to my office just as the night shift Inspector was arriving for work.

  Before handing over, I rang Jenny.

  As she answered I decided to pay back the joke she had cracked earlier. ‘The next time I catch hold of you I’m gonna shag the arse off you too,’ I said, doing my best not to laugh as I did so.

  ‘Hello, Robert. I presume you want to talk to Jennifer.’ The voice was hostile.

  It was Jenny’s mum. Oh shit! The voice had sounded so right. I had just presumed. Now I had serious egg on my face.

  As Jenny picked up the phone, I told her what had happened.

  She laughed. I laughed.

  Once again the tension of the moment was diffused. Jenny promised to apologise for me. We chatted, flirted, teased and laughed. I desperately wanted to tell her how much I adored her, but I didn’t. Not because I wasn’t feeling it but because I wanted to say it all face-to-face, with my arms around her.

  Jenny explained that her mother had assumed, as we feared, that I had caused the bruise to her face. She had given the story that a horse had done it, but it had been clear that her mother didn’t believe her. When this was all over, we were going to have some explaining to do. But for now, that would have to wait.

  I explained, as briefly as I could, that the fight against our would-be killers was about to start that night. She wouldn’t be hearing from me for a couple of days.

  As I put down the phone, I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  I shrugged the feeling off. I had to win.

  And I would win, for her … for Becky.

  Chapter 49

  Before leaving for home, I arranged to pick Kevin up from a car park near Epping Forest.

  He was waiting for me.

  If everything went to plan, the helicopter would drop us back near where Kevin had left his car. We would then use it to transfer our prisoner to the safe house, in Essex, where Kevin would start persuading him to tell us what we needed to know.

  We were in the large field behind my house when, at exactly midnight, I heard the familiar rotor beat of an approaching helicopter.

  ‘Sounds like a Sea King,’ said Kevin. ‘Nice and reliable and a good strong winch.’

  I shone my torch into the night sky to confirm our presence. ‘I wonder how he managed to arrange it?’ I asked.

  ‘Who gives a toss, so long as they get us out safely and can keep their mouths shut.’

  The heli was coming in quickly, so any further conversation was stifled by the downdraft. Within a couple of minutes of hearing the aircraft approach, we were in the air and on our way to East London.

  We didn’t speak to the crew, the noise of the wind and rotor blades saw to that, but it was clear from the hand signals and preparation that took place on our approach that they were used to working with Special Forces teams. To them, we were just another secret-service operation.

  As we headed towards the city, I watched the ground. Beneath us, people were going about their daily lives in complete ignorance of what was happening above them. At this late hour, most of them would be heading off to their beds.

  The darkness of the countryside, interspersed with narrow strips of street lighting, soon began to give way to the brighter and more complex conurbation of London. In a few minutes, we would be above our target. Sheltered in the flat, he wouldn’t be expecting an attack from above; he wouldn’t even hear our approach. And, yet, I still had that sense of foreboding that had been troubling me for some time.

  Perhaps it was those angels, the ones that Jenny placed so much store in. Perhaps, they were trying to warn me.

  I should have listened. Less than five minutes after setting down on the roof of Alma House, we were compromised.

  Our arrival went perfectly to plan. Within a minute of attaching the winch cable, we were down the two flights of stairs, through the flat door and had a Browning stuck up the sleeping terrorist’s nostrils. Quiet, efficient. No fuss. Hand signals and no words. Just like the old days.

  And just as Monaghan had predicted, the flat only contained one person. But it wasn’t Costello, the man that we really wanted, it was McGlinty.

  He offered little resistance. As soon as he saw our black kit, the young Irishman behaved as if he were facing the grim reaper himself. He was co-operative and obedient to our instructions. Not that everything went smoothly. Getting him into the straitjacket should have been easy. In fact, it proved a bit of a challenge, and a frustrating, even humorous episode followed due to Kevin and I having differing ideas on how actually to apply the device. But after some sweat, a bit of muttered swearing and even a little joke about dislocating shoulders, we had the jacket in place.

  I
left Kevin with our trussed and gagged target and went to check all was clear. I carefully opened the door and took two silent steps onto the landing.

  My worst fear stood facing me. An SO19 specialist firearms officer, in black kit and holding an MP5 carbine had just arrived at the top of the staircase on the opposite side of the landing. Behind and below him, I saw another SO19 cop with a ballistic shield and a third with a shotgun.

  I froze.

  What the hell now, I thought.

  It was a situation I should have planned for but hadn’t.

  The leading officer stopped advancing and stared at me. I stared back. My heart was beating fast, my brain working faster. My vision seemed crisper and my mind clearer than it had in months.

  My nemesis was dressed in the latest body armour, ballistic helmet and respirator. I was wearing my kit from the 1980s. But I knew what he would be thinking – and that gave me an edge.

  To him, this was ‘blue-on-blue’ – another police team had got there beforehand.

  The situation was desperate, so I knew I was going to have to disappoint him. We needed to escape, and I needed to buy us some time.

  I raised the MP5 and fired.

  I aimed very carefully. More so than I had ever done before. Three quick rounds, one into the man’s armoured chest plates, two into the wall behind to scare the others. It would hurt but not kill.

  As the shots echoed down the staircase, I saw my target roll backwards down into the others. Amongst the panicked shouts, black-clad figures fell, dropping equipment and weapons as they clattered noisily down the concrete stairwell.

  Kevin must have heard the shots. He ran past me and was up the stairs like a jack-rabbit, even before I had time to start thinking about what I had done. Of McGlinty, there was no sign.

  For a moment I stood transfixed, as the significance of what I’d just done hit me. I felt sick, panicked. I was a cop. I’d just shot another cop. What the fuck was I going to do now? What if I’d misjudged the shot and killed him?