by Matt Johnson
I did my best to keep him still. ‘Steady, Rupert, ambulance is on its way.’
Rupert groaned again and then slipped into unconsciousness, his head on my lap
I remembered his words, and prayed they weren’t his last.
Chapter 54
The journey in the ambulance seemed to last an eternity.
New PCs are often sent with the paramedic crew to help and in case the victim should die. When I’d first joined the Met, I was no exception. With the extra lessons the army had given me, every now and then I’d been asked to help the occasional ambulance crew. With one paramedic driving, the other would often struggle. They were sometimes glad of the extra pair of hands.
This time, with my old friend on the stretcher, the paramedic told me to sit still and leave it to him. Rupert’s breathing was shallow. Although he’d been unconscious, he looked in a lot of pain. I found out later it was due to four broken ribs, but at the time I was panicked at the thought that his lungs were filling with blood.
When we got to the hospital they put me in a special room for relatives and brought me some sweet tea. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked a wreck. I was covered in dust and had huge, grey bags under my eyes. My hair was matted with dirt and I needed a shave. I headed for the nearest toilets where I did my best to clean myself up and look less scary.
I often talk to myself in the privacy of the bathroom mirror. It’s like having a twin brother as your advisor. I ask myself questions, run through ideas and use my ‘twin’ to help me make decisions. On this day my twin looked pretty sad. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He told me that I looked like an old man who had been up all night doing things that were more suited to those younger and fitter. We agreed on one other thing: I needed my brain testing.
Over the next three hours I read more women’s magazines than I knew existed. In one there was an ‘Are you suffering from stress?’ questionnaire. My score was nearly off the scale. It was no wonder I looked so ill.
Finally, news filtered through that Rupert was OK. He’d been admitted into a private ward and had regained consciousness. There was an armed guard on him and, no matter how much I argued with the two PCs, I was not allowed in. As I was heading off to call a cab, the casualty doctor came out to reassure me that Rupert’s injuries weren’t life threatening. Broken ribs, internal bruising and concussion meant he would be back on his feet in a few days.
It was great news.
I took a cab back to the cottage. The driver was a chatty beggar. When I told him where I wanted to go, he warned me that I wouldn’t be able to get through to the village. ‘Place is crawling with coppers. Say it’s a gas explosion they do. I reckon it’s an old wartime bomb,’ he said, as we waited at the roadblock.
He was right, we couldn’t get through. Not even when it was my car and my home.
After running the gauntlet of cordons and regular checks to see if it was OK for me to proceed, I made it back to the cottage just before midday. The search teams were just finishing in the garden. Anti-terrorist forensics had taped off the driveway and what remained of the car. There wasn’t much left of the little Citroen. Its mangled and scorched remains lay on one side, the twisted metal testament to the power of plastic explosive.
A search of the field backing on to the house was just being brought to a conclusion. Nothing had been found. That was lucky for me.
As I approached the blue-and-white taped cordon, Commander Grahamslaw emerged from the broken door to my home.
‘Hello, Finlay.’
He was stony faced, his walk slow and deliberate. If he knew anything, he wasn’t giving it away easily.
‘Sir.’ I wasn’t sure if the Commander meant to reassure me or arrest me. I knew I looked tired. I wondered if he would also be able to see the fear. Was the stupid game all over?
I looked around at the broken windows of the cottage. The rendering was torn and gouged where flying metal had struck the walls. The paint on the woodwork was scorched and blistered. It was a real state. Jenny was not going to be impressed.
Grahamslaw seemed to read my thoughts. ‘Bit of a mess I’m afraid, good job we got to you in time.’
He smiled, although it looked contrived. I guess he was wary of my reaction. I decided to play it cool.
‘Yes. I’m in your debt,’ I answered. I didn’t return the smile, though.
‘Would you mind telling me where you were last night?’ Grahamslaw’s eyes now watched me carefully.
I knew I was going to have to be cautious. The Commander was a seasoned campaigner, an expert interviewer. I knew he was looking for any change in my body language or indication that might give something away. I resolved to make sure there was none.
‘After late turn, I came straight home,’ I said. ‘Watched some telly and turned in.’
‘You didn’t go anywhere else after work?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Your neighbours are reporting they saw a helicopter overhead here last night. Know anything about that?’
I forced a laugh. ‘Not a thing, I was out for the count. Did something happen?’
‘You could say that. Two men who looked like they’d dropped straight off the back of the Iranian Embassy building tried to knock off a terrorist cell last night. I wondered if you might know something about it?’
‘Not a thing, sir.’ I kept my voice strong and respectful. ‘You said “tried”?’
‘Yes, they were compromised by an SO19 firearms team. One of the SO19 boys got shot for his trouble.’
‘Was he hurt?’ I asked.
‘Yes … he was killed. Family, three kids.’
That did it. I hesitated. Fatally. I’d tripped and wasn’t able to conceal my stumble. Rupert had told me the lad was OK. I’d expected Grahamslaw to say the same. He’d tricked me and seen the moment of confusion on my face. It was the clue he’d been hoping for and I’d given it him. He now knew that I was in this deeper than I’d let on. From now on, if Grahamslaw didn’t arrest me, he would be watching me closely.
Out of the frying pan…
Chapter 55
Costello waited patiently.
Yildrim, the Iranian, had said to meet on the Euston station concourse. He was late. Costello stood in the shadows facing the glass wall of the platform area. He watched as suited city commuters rushed for delayed trains, prostitutes touted for business and vagrants begged for the price of their next drink. He scrutinised all that he saw, looking for signs that they were watching him, checking to see if one particular commuter walked past twice, any clue as to possible surveillance. There was none.
At nine-fifteen, a familiar, olive-skinned figure appeared at the top of the station escalators. His hair was short, black, and his moustache trimmed. The suit he was wearing looked expensive. Costello glanced down at his torn jeans and dirty trainers. He didn’t really like Yildrim, but work was work and payment was due.
Costello maintained his cautious watch as the Iranian walked across the concourse and onto Euston Road. Satisfied that there was no tail, Costello followed at a discreet distance. They turned west, crossed the main road and then went south, down Gower Street.
As Costello passed University College Hospital he realised that his objective was nowhere to be seen. The Irishman quickened his pace and as he reached the nurses’ home entrance a voice beckoned him from the doorway. ‘In here, in here.’
Costello turned in. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk so he got straight to the point. ‘You got the money?’ he asked.
Yildrim was surprisingly angry. ‘You stupid man, you messed up. Now you miss Finlay twice.’
‘What went wrong? That bomb was a good design, never let me down before.’
Costello was confused. He’d been careful to wire the bomb to the ignition system. The only way it could fail was if the wrong person had started up the car.
‘Oh, it went off, just blew up a bomb-disposal man instead. Finlay found it.’
Coste
llo laughed, then immediately stifled his amusement. A young uniformed nurse shuffled past them as they stood in the doorway.
He whispered, ‘That’ll have to do, at least we killed one more.’
‘You didn’t kill him, he’s in hospital, and there won’t be another chance at Finlay,’ Yildrim hissed, his teeth and fists clenched.
‘There’s no more on the list then?’
‘A couple, yes. But it makes little difference; every policeman in the land is now looking for you.’
Costello sighed. ‘Any news of Dominic? I’ve tried to phone him but he doesn’t answer.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Know? Know what?’ Costello was beginning to get angry. Everything was going wrong on this operation.
‘The police have your friend. He is lucky to be alive. Finlay tried to kill him but the police got to him first. He is at Paddington Green.’
‘Fuck it. Now all I’ve got left is that prat, Hewitson.’
Yildrim grinned, exposing a surprisingly good set of teeth. Costello despised the arrogance that it revealed. It was the smile of a man with knowledge, a man with power.
‘The police will, by now, have your friend Michael as well. They have been following him to get to you. It will soon be time for you to leave this country, my friend.’
‘Leave? What do you mean, leave? What about my money?’ Costello demanded.
‘My masters will not countenance full payment as you did not complete your mission, I am sorry.’
Costello exploded. ‘That fuckin’ stinks. You’ve been sat on your arses while I’ve killed three of the four men you wanted. You owe me.’ He stepped in closer to Yildrim, his stance threatening.
The Iranian raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘There is one chance … perhaps,’ he said.
‘And what might that be?’
‘I will need your help … you will need to show me where I can find Finlay.’
‘You want to give the job to someone else?’
‘No … not at all, Declan. I will take care of Finlay myself. I want you to deal with another job. Can you do that simple thing for me?’
‘Shooting or a bomb?’
‘A bomb … another car.’
‘Ok … I’ll need time to sort some Semtex, but if you can get me enough information to identify the new target, I can deal with it.’
‘I will get you the explosive you need. Have you lost your weapons as well?’
‘At the flat, yes. I just have a Browning left.’ Costello patted his jacket to indicate where the pistol sat ready should he need it. It served as a little reminder to the Iranian that he could also use it if crossed.
‘OK, that will have to do. I am truly sorry about your friends, Declan,’ said Yildrim, his voice calm and reassuring. ‘For this reason I have taken a great personal risk. I have money for you, not what you were promised but enough. If you improve your results, I’m sure there will be more.’ Yildrim reached for his inside pocket.
Costello trusted no one. Sensing a double-cross, he reached for Yildrim’s arm, stopping it withdrawing from the inside of the suit jacket. He reached into the Iranian’s pocket and pulled out the envelope inside. There was no gun. He opened the envelope and pulled out the fifty-pound notes and a photograph of a man. Costello flicked through the cash. There was just about a thousand pounds. Small compensation for the shit this job had caused him, he thought.
‘Is this the lot?’ Costello glanced out into the street, then stuffed the notes into his sock.
‘There is a name and address on the back of the photograph. He is your next target. Kill him soon. I will have to find another way to deal with Finlay. Complete your mission and there will be a further payment.’
‘You won’t get another go at Finlay. By now he’ll be in witness protection.’
‘To be sure, Declan.’
Costello scowled at the poor attempt to mimic his accent. Although tempted to register the fact that he wasn’t amused, he thought better of it, turned on his heel and jogged into the night. It was the first time the Iranian had shown any sense of humour. Why now, he wondered?
He was just about to turn the corner onto Euston Road when, from behind came the sound of a car screeching to a halt. It sounded like an impending collision. Curiosity made him stop jogging and turn to look.
It was a police car, an armed-response vehicle. It had pulled up outside the very building where he and the Iranian had been talking not thirty seconds earlier. Two cops were approaching the entrance. Both had MP5 rifles levelled at the doorway.
Costello didn’t need to think about his next move. Quickly, he turned and headed for the nearby tube station. It was time to get off the street.
Chapter 56
I hated going sick with stress. Even the simple act of uttering the words made me feel uncomfortable. There were too many who abused it, took time off at the slightest excuse. In my view, stress was just another word for skive.
Thing was, I had no choice and, in truth, I was stressed; one look in that hospital mirror had confirmed it. With the things that I had to do, I didn’t need the distraction of work.
Chief Superintendent Sinclair called me about an hour after I phoned in. He wasn’t surprised at my decision. Not every copper had to put up with his car and home being blown up by terrorists. He scrubbed my sick report, gave me three weeks compassionate leave and suggested, very firmly, that I allow SO13 to put my family into the witness-protection programme. I thanked him and promised to give it serious consideration.
I spent the first morning after the attack with the Yellow Pages, trying to find a builder. With the dry weather, they were all fully booked. After two hours of phone calls, I struck lucky and found one who had just had a major job cancelled at the last minute. They started the following day.
Over the next few days, Grahamslaw phoned me several times. He wasn’t impressed, calling me a belligerent fool. He agreed with Iain Sinclair that I should allow the police to place my family in a safe house.
By day, I pottered around making cups of tea for the builders and hoping they would be finished before Jenny saw the damage. I hired a car to replace the Citroen and bought a new mobile phone. At night, I slept in the spare bedroom.
The nightmares were back. Same scenario, repeated night after sweaty night. I was back at the scene of the ambush in Northern Ireland. I’d be lying on the ground, wounded and unable to move. A hooded terrorist, gun in hand, stood over me. I would watch, powerless to save myself as he pulled the trigger. Once again, I went through the nightly routine of placing a towel on the bed sheet to soak up the sweat.
The loss adjustor the insurance company sent round was sympathetic, if a little surprised. Insurance men weren’t used to dealing with bomb-damage claims. Still, he assured me that everything would be fine and they would settle up direct with the builder.
To my amazement, repairs to the house were complete inside a few days. The rendering was freshly painted and the door replaced. It looked better than new. The little Citroen had been taken away on a police low-loader to be forensically examined.
I delayed telling Jenny, although I knew I would have to in the end. The attack had been kept out of the press so far, but the locals knew about it, so it was only a question of time before everyone else would. As luck would have it, Jenny hadn’t been expecting to hear from me. If everything had gone to plan, Kevin and I should have been holed up in the Essex countryside with a terrorist to interrogate. With that in mind, I’d warned her not to anticipate any calls.
Eventually I phoned her at her mother’s. I was nervous as the receiver started to ring. Although I’d always got on quite well with Jenny’s parents, after her father had died her mother had tried to get more involved in our lives. It was understandable in the circumstances, especially after Becky was born. But there were times when I wondered just whose child Becky was. At times I would find myself resenting the intrusion and the constant advice. That had led to arguments, with Jen
ny stuck in the middle. Now my relationship with her mum was strained and the bruising to Jenny’s face could only have made things worse. I hoped, therefore, that my mother-in-law wouldn’t answer the phone. Jenny couldn’t tell her the real reason for her staying there, so her mother was bound to conclude the worst. It had to look like we had separated. I could expect the cold shoulder.
I was in luck, however. Jenny answered. It was wonderful to hear her voice. I think I told her I loved her more in those first five minutes than I had when we’d first fallen for each other. As we hadn’t spoken for some days, she had been worried. I did my best to apologise and then, as quickly as I dared, I steered the conversation onto Becky. The news was good. Our daughter was fine and seemed to be taking the upheaval in her stride. Jenny said she was missing her dad. That hurt. I missed her, too, missed having her tiny arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my waist as I carried her to bed. I missed kissing her goodnight and then sneaking into her room to stare at her while she slept. Children are so peaceful when they sleep and Becky was the prettiest sleeper I had ever seen. But then she was mine, and that made her special.
I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to stall much longer, so I broke the news about the house. Jenny went quiet. I probed for some reaction.
‘Jen, are you OK? Say something,’ I said, as I tried to end the silence.
‘Like what, Bob? Like, I’m glad you’re OK, I’m sorry about the bomb-disposal man, like what, like what?’ She began to cry, the words turning to sobs.
I felt completely impotent. I wanted to hold her and reassure her, but what could I do on the end of a telephone line? Nothing. There was no choice, I would have to go and see her. I hung up before she could try to persuade me otherwise.
It was nearly midnight as I pulled into the drive. Jenny answered the door, her mother having gone to bed. We hugged, the embrace was warm and lingering, the kiss that followed passionate and reassuring. We were going to be OK. No matter what life threw at us.