The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  The staff officer was sat behind a large desk chatting hurriedly on the telephone. The surface of the desk seemed laden with more paperwork than Grahamslaw hoped to ever see in a year. He noted the starched crispness of the man’s uniform, how young and how efficient he seemed. A perfect front man for the most senior policeman in the metropolis, he thought.

  ‘He’ll see you straightaway.’ The staff officer pointed to the Commissioner’s door.

  Grahamslaw stepped forward confidently. He wasn’t too worried. He and the Commissioner went back a long way. Many would have called the two men mates, if it were possible for anyone so successful to truly have workplace friends. Grahamslaw had long ago accepted that ambitious people often sacrificed close relationships in their desire to get to the top. He wasn’t expecting any special favours should the news be bad, but he knew the Commissioner well enough to trust that they would be treated fairly. For Parratt though, Grahamslaw realised, it was a ‘once in a blue moon’ experience to get the royal summons.

  It wasn’t a bollocking that they received. Far from it, in fact.

  The Commissioner ordered coffee before asking about progress on the enquiry. After a brief chat and reassurance that all was being done to trace the missing terrorist, he moved on to the reason for the summons.

  ‘Why have you been checking on Richard Webb?’ he asked.

  As the Senior Detective, it was Grahamslaw who replied. ‘We found his birth certificate in a Bayswater hotel we turned over last night.’

  ‘What do you know about Webb?’

  ‘Nothing, yet. We’re waiting for a call back from the Irish Special Branch.’

  ‘You won’t be getting one. I’ve just had a call from the Chief Constable of the RUC. That birth certificate is the first document to surface after the burglary at the Castlederg SB office.’

  Grahamslaw was dumbfounded. He looked at Parratt and back at the Commissioner. ‘We didn’t think there had actually been a crime at that office.’

  ‘There was, believe me. You’re aware I’m leading an enquiry into the shoot-to-kill allegations against the RUC?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The burglary took place at our enquiry offices. Part of that investigation involved an allegation dating back to 1980 that the SAS murdered a group of men near a village outside Castlederg. Webb was the only surviving non-military witness to that incident.’

  ‘Was he IRA?’ asked Grahamslaw.

  ‘Oh, yes. He was convicted and spent the next few years in the Maze … that was before he escaped.’

  ‘In the big break-out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it the same Richard Webb on the birth certificate, you think?’

  ‘Possibly. Your call this morning alerted me as Webb’s was a particularly interesting case. After the Maze prison escape, he disappeared. We wanted to speak to him as part of the enquiry but never got the chance. To tell you the truth, we had given up on him. It was only when his file was taken from Castlederg last year that I asked for any intelligence on him to be forwarded to me.’

  ‘Was his birth certificate with that file?’ asked Grahamslaw, sitting forward.

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Do you know anything more about him?’ asked Grahamslaw. Even after all his years of experience, knowing he was close to a solution was still a thrill.

  ‘Plenty … where would you like me to start?’

  ‘Anywhere that gives us a hint why his birth certificate turned up behind the bath in a hotel room used by an Arab terrorist?’

  The Commissioner took a deep breath. ‘It’s a fascinating story, Bill,’ he said. ‘One of survival and adaptability. According to MI6 intelligence records, Richard Webb escaped to Pakistan following the Maze breakout in 1983. He was next heard of thousands of miles away in Afghanistan, as a member of a group who fought against the Russians. After that, nobody heard of him for years. Not until 1996, when his fingerprint was found on a lorry used to bomb the Khobar US Army barracks in Saudi.’

  ‘I thought the attack in Saudi was carried out by Muslim extremists?’ Grahamslaw asked. ‘Are you saying the IRA were involved in it?’

  ‘Not at all. You’re missing the point, Bill. Webb had moved organisations. The IRA was long behind him. By 1996, he had moved to the Al Q’aeda group.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ said Grahamslaw, as he and Parratt exchanged glances. Both seemed to sense where the conversation was leading. ‘Were there others who made the same move?’

  ‘None that we learned. He was one of a kind, I think.’

  ‘Was he anything to do with the Iranian Embassy?’

  ‘Nothing. He was in the Maze at that time.’

  ‘And he never went back to Ireland?’

  ‘No … never.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask if you’ve seen the briefing report on yesterday’s car bomb?’ asked Grahamslaw.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘The victim was an MI5 officer called Monaghan. He had copies of police files on him. Early on in this enquiry, we thought that the attacks on our men were linked to files on former SAS soldiers that were kept at Castlederg.’

  ‘Unlikely. No SAS files were ever kept at Castlederg, but I do remember Monaghan,’ said the Commissioner.

  ‘You knew him?’ Grahamslaw raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I knew of him. He was the SAS Commanding Officer at the time when Webb was prosecuted. He gave evidence at the trial. The only other soldier to take the stand was given a cipher code to keep his identity secret. But, to get back to Webb. It wouldn’t be an unreasonable conclusion that he could be behind these bombings.’

  ‘And this other soldier is the one who killed the IRA men with Webb?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And … sorry if I’m sounding a bit slow, here. Are you saying that this soldier was the sole military survivor?’ Grahamslaw frowned.

  ‘No, I’m saying he was on his own when he was ambushed.’

  ‘He took on the terrorists on his own?’

  ‘Yes, but it was an unusual situation. According to the evidence at the trial, he was the officer in charge of the local SAS troop and was on his way back to his base from a meeting when the IRA attacked him.’

  ‘An officer, you say?’ Grahamslaw was on a roll. What had started as a gut feeling that there was a connection between the SAS soldiers was now beginning to gather substance and momentum.

  ‘That’s right … a Captain.’ said the Commissioner.

  ‘Do you know his name … this Captain?’ Grahamslaw asked, trying to keep his voice level.

  ‘I do … but you know I can’t say.’

  Grahamslaw had guessed the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway.

  ‘Was it Robert Finlay?’

  ‘Fuck.’ Parratt said, then choked, as he realised who he’d sworn in front of.

  The Commissioner blinked in surprise before turning back to face Grahamslaw. ‘Something tells me that was more than a random guess, Bill.’

  ‘Sir. Yes sir, sorry for swearing an’ all,’ interrupted Parratt. The Commissioner waved his hand. ‘Finlay is in the job now. He’s the Inspector that survived two car-bomb attempts. He’s the very bloke we’ve been following around London hoping he’d lead us to the Arab.’

  ‘Well, that is quite a coincidence.’ The Commissioner again turned back to Grahamslaw. ‘Bill, what do you know about Robert Finlay?’

  ‘Only that he was one of the SAS lads at the Iranian Embassy. He’s been in the Met for a long time and kept his past secret.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know too much about Finlay, but what I can tell you is that when Webb ambushed him, back in the early eighties, Finlay was on his own against four IRA men armed with Kalashnikovs. He killed three of his attackers before being injured himself. Webb’s own brother was one of them.’

  Chapter 92

  As we pulled into our drive, I heard the telephone ringing inside the house. I hoped it wasn’t Jenny’s mother wanting to make plans
to bring Becky home. As much as I wanted to see our daughter, I was exhausted and ready to hit the sack.

  ‘That’ll be my mum,’ said Jenny as she opened the front door to the cottage.

  I feared she was right. It looked like any idea I had about catching up on sleep was going to be frustrated. We were also going to need to sit down and decide what to do in response to the news from Kevin. I’d been thinking about it on the journey back from the hospital. If Kevin was right, and recent events were indeed linked to the embassy, we were both going to need Grahamslaw’s help.

  I had a look around outside. Everything looked normal.

  Jenny called to me from inside the front door. ‘It’s for you.’

  I headed indoors and picked up the phone. It was Grahamslaw, the very man I needed to speak to.

  ‘How’s Kevin Jones?’ he asked. ‘I heard you’ve spent all night at the hospital.’

  ‘Not out of the woods but he’s tough,’ I said. ‘He’ll pull through. Is he why you rang? I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait. Something’s come up. Can you speak freely?’

  Jenny had gone upstairs.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, quietly.

  ‘Do you remember someone called Richard Webb?’

  It was a name I could hardly forget. Nightmares from the time, repeated in recent weeks, made sure that the fight with Webb and his friends would, most likely, stay with me for life. It was the closest I had ever come to being killed and the only time I’d ever been shot. I remembered Webb all right.

  ‘I remember him. Why do you ask? That was twenty years ago.’

  ‘It appears he’s back on the scene. Look Finlay, I’m going to level with you. I know that you and Kevin had a picture of an Arab meeting with Costello, and you won’t be too surprised if I told you that I also think it was you two at the St Pancras Hotel the other day.’

  ‘What are you saying? What do you mean Webb is back?’ I asked, starting to sweat, my stomach flipping over.

  ‘We’ve every reason to think that the Arab whose picture you were studying is Richard Webb.’

  A missing piece from the jigsaw dropped into place. The blue eyes. Now I understood. The fear in Yildrim’s eyes when he had looked at me outside the lift. He’d recognised me, realised I wasn’t a simple MI5 runner. He knew who I was. That’s why he ran. Grahamslaw was right. Yildrim was Richard Webb.

  What Kevin had said at the hospital now made sense. Webb’s motive was to find me: I had killed his brother. Now he planned to secure retribution. Finding me was nothing to do with the embassy. Somehow, he and Monaghan must have teamed up. Each with his own agenda, but with a common goal, me. And now he was out there, somewhere, with only one target in mind. I had to make immediate plans. My weapons, I’d need them. I’d have to cancel Jenny’s mum bringing Becky home, move Jenny back again, so much to do…

  ‘Finlay? You OK?’ said Grahamslaw.

  ‘Blue eyes,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that? I don’t get you.’

  ‘The Arab. He has blue eyes. He’s not an Arab at all. You’re right. It all makes sense.’

  The line clicked, just once, as if the upstairs telephone had just been returned to its cradle.

  A sudden scream cut through me. It came from upstairs. Jenny.

  He was here. Webb was here.

  I dropped the phone. My instant reaction was to run up the stairs but, for a second, I froze, uncertain as to what to do. I forced myself to think. Webb would have come prepared. I had no weapon. If I charged in then I would have no way to defend myself or help Jenny.

  Then I remembered the Beretta. I hadn’t had time to return it to the tree hide. It was still under the driver’s seat, in the car outside. I ran as fast as I could, despite it going against everything I’d been taught. I knew that good sense would mean a stealthy approach but that had been Jenny screaming.

  Gun ready, I launched myself up the stairs.

  Chapter 93

  I stopped on the landing, unsure where to start. All was quiet.

  ‘Bastard!’

  The cry was muffled, but it was Jenny’s voice and it came from our bedroom, the one that overlooked the front of the house. There was a muffled thud and then all went quiet again. I eased forward and gently pushed the door ajar. The hinges creaked.

  ‘Looking for something?’ A male voice came from the far side of the bedroom.

  The curtains were pulled closed. In the half-light, I could vaguely make out the outline of a figure. There was no sign of Jenny.

  I was in the doorway, exposed. Whoever he was, he could see me clearly. Where was Jenny? I called to her. There was a murmur, a groan. It sounded like she was gagged. She seemed to be on the floor near the man’s feet. At least she was alive.

  ‘Stand still.’ The voice was controlled, calm.

  I knew that I was at a distinct disadvantage. Even if I could raise the Beretta before the man fired, I had to be sure where Jenny was so I didn’t hit her.

  Unexpectedly, a light went on at the bottom of the stairs behind me. Another man’s voice called out my name.

  I stepped back away from the bedroom doorway, leaned against the wall and glanced back down the stairs. On the bottom step stood a man dressed in military combats and covered from head to toe in twigs and bits of bush. So, there had been a surveillance officer watching me. I’d missed him. Grahamslaw must have heard Jenny’s scream and contacted his man with orders to help.

  The man in the bedroom spoke again. ‘Throw your gun into the room, Finlay. It’s you I want, not your wife.’ The accent was Northern Irish and he knew my name. If it was Richard Webb, he had dropped all pretence at being an Arab.

  My eyes were starting to adjust to the half-light. As I tried to weigh up what to do, previously abstract shapes started to gain stronger form. A man was standing in the far left corner of the room, opposite me and near to the window. He had dark clothing on. In his right hand, he held an Uzi machine pistol with the barrel pointed towards me. Again, I looked back and gently raised my finger to my lips. I needed my new friend to stay quiet.

  Abruptly, a burst of gunfire split the air. Plasterboard pieces dropped from the ceiling in front of me as bullets passed through. I flinched, my ears immediately ringing from the deafening roar of the gun. The surveillance officer stopped in his tracks. I looked back toward the gunman.

  ‘Throw your gun on the bed … now.’ The Irishman’s voice was strong and gave no sense of fear or nerves.

  I couldn’t do what he asked. To surrender my weapon was to submit to my fate and allow my tormentor to take control. While I retained the Beretta, I still had a chance. I glanced behind me to where the camouflaged figure was creeping slowly up the stairs. Then I saw it. From beneath his jacket he produced a pistol. A Glock. An idea immediately sprung to mind. There was a chance. I leaned through the door and threw the Beretta onto the bed.

  ‘Tell your friend behind you to walk into the room, Finlay.’

  I swore under my breath. My plan had hit the buffers. Somehow, the gunman must have been aware that I had help. I gestured to the camouflaged man to do as he was asked. He did, and as he passed me, he carefully slipped the pistol into my hand. I strained to keep my face straight and control the tremendous surge of hope that I now felt. Not only was I now armed again, but the gunman didn’t know.

  I kept my hand behind my back as I held the Glock ready. It felt like a Model 17, 9mm, standard police issue. I hoped it had a round in the chamber ready. As I slipped the grip into my palm, I could feel the small safety catch lever contained in the trigger.

  ‘Stand facing the wall where you are,’ the gunman told the surveillance officer. ‘Put the bedroom light on, Finlay. I don’t want you to miss this part.’

  I leaned into the room, found the switch with my left hand and flicked it on.

  Richard Webb was standing in the far corner of the room with the Uzi pointing at Jenny. She lay on her front on the floor in front of him. Even with the
years that had passed, I now recognised him. It was odd that things hadn’t clicked at the St Pancras hotel. To my right, the camouflaged cop was standing with his hands held high, facing the wall. He was too far away from Webb to consider any form of surprise attack. I could only just see Jenny on the opposite side of the room behind the bed. Webb seemed to be pinning her down with his foot.

  ‘Hello, Richard. Long time, no see,’ I said, trying to sound calm as I cast my eyes around the room. Webb was alone. I had to buy some time, find a chance to turn the tables on him.

  Webb smiled broadly. ‘Christ, you’re one of a kind, Finlay. I’m standing here planning on killing your lovely wife and you greet me like a long-lost friend.’

  ‘My wife has a name, Richard. It’s Jenny. She’s a mother, just like you have, and she has a child, a little girl called Becky.’

  Webb laughed. ‘Don’t try your fuckin’ negotiator tricks on me, Finlay. I heard what that cop said … I was listening to the phone call. He warned you to expect me. Well, here I am … here to do you and your little wifey. Who goes to heaven first don’t bother me.’

  ‘Came as a bit of a shock, I suppose?’ I replied. He was right about what I’d said, the longer we talked the greater the opportunity to distract him and allow time for the help that would by now be on its way.

  Jenny tried to move again and then groaned as Webb increased the pressure that his foot was exerting on her back.

  A surge of anger hit me. That was my wife, my innocent and vulnerable partner, who was now experiencing a danger of which she had no understanding or appreciation of why it was happening. I relaxed my shoulders and controlled my breathing as I struggled to be calm, to stay controlled. I knew what I had to do and I knew that I would only do it well if I stayed detached. But with my heart racing and my chest tightening, it wasn’t proving easy.