The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Matt Miller suggested I took the day off. I agreed it might be easier. ‘People will start talking about you two,’ he laughed. ‘But make sure you get to Hampstead tomorrow, the Murder Squad want to talk to both of you.’

  Kevin had made a break-of-dawn phone call to Tom Cochran, the Armoury Quartermaster Sergeant and explained our need. At first, Cochran had suggested we keep the weapon, but Kevin was persistent and his logic was clear. There was no way he could retain the pistol without knowing its history. If it turned out to be stolen and one of us was caught with it, end of. Nobody would ever believe us.

  After a break from the Regiment of many years, it was the third time in as many months that Kevin had passed through the Ministry of Defence Police cordon on the gates of Credenhill. For me, it was all new. As with entry to Scotland Yard, the security checks at the gate were much longer and more involved than I had been used to. We handed over our warrant cards and then waited for a few minutes whilst one of the lads from ‘Goon’ troop – the men who had just missed out on selection and who were considered good enough to do some continuation training before having another crack – jogged across from the main office to escort us.

  As we arrived at the armoury, a familiar voice screamed at the goon for the delay in attending to such important visitors and then dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Tom Cochran was standing behind the armoury counter. A corporal when I had last seen him, he was now the QMS, the Quartermaster Staff Sergeant.

  ‘Sorry ‘bout that, gents,’ Cochran continued as he pulled three large steel mugs from a cupboard behind where he stood. ‘Since those fundamentalist prats decided that New York needed a facelift, we’ve been weighed down with more checks than you’d believe. CO says all visitors on base have to be escorted, no exception.’

  ‘Not a problem, Tom,’ Kevin replied. ‘Just glad they didn’t check my bag.’ He lifted a small backpack onto the counter.

  ‘I told them not to. Last thing we want is some Redcaps getting involved.’ Cochran winked at me as he handed Kevin one of the mugs, the tea splashing onto the counter. ‘Alright, boss?’ he nodded as he took Kevin’s bag, removed the Browning, and cleared the chamber with practised ease.

  I tipped my head in acknowledgment.

  ‘Magazines?’ he asked.

  ‘Two,’ said Kevin. ‘Both in the bag. Quite a few spare rounds in there as well.’

  ‘Where did you get it? Looks clean; a sleeper. Hardly used, I’d guess.’

  A sleeper was a weapon that had seen little use, either for training or in live-fire. Kevin explained that it belonged to an ex-forces lad who now wanted rid of it.

  ‘Want to tell me who?’ Cochran asked.

  ‘Can’t say. Sorry bud,’ said Kevin.

  ‘No worries mate. Heard you two been having some problems and that you got yourself shot, Taff.’

  ‘Word spreads quickly, Tom,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, it does that. So … Bob the Builder. To what do we owe this pleasure?’

  I smiled at the use of my old nickname. ‘Just along for the ride,’ I answered. ‘And I wanted to have a look at the new camp.’

  ‘Seen one, you seen ‘em all, boss. And what about you, Taff? How’s the wound healing?’

  Kevin swung his arm upwards to show the free movement. ‘Not too bad. I was lucky. Bit of nerve damage and stiffness but I’ll be OK.’

  Cochran slipped on a pair of spectacles and then wrote down the serial number of the Browning on a post-it note. ‘Good for you. Nice to see you two took care of business for the murdered lads. Now, give me a few minutes. I can’t check the computer to see if the gun is hot in case someone comes along later and notices, but I can have a run through the paper list. Won’t take me too long.’

  We waited as Cochran walked through into a back room and started flicking through a large file of documents. Sipping the piping hot tea, I peered through the window. In the distance I could see what looked like the new killing house and one of the ranges. There was an exercise in progress. It looked like the DS, the directing staff, were debriefing a team. Four men in black were sat on the deck and from the body language of the DS it looked like they were getting their arses chewed. Nothing changed, I mused.

  Cochran emerged with a triumphant look on his face. ‘Found it. Lost in 1983 during overseas operations. Reported by Sergeant Robert Bridges. His missus phoned in yesterday, said she needed your number. No prizes for guessing that she found it amongst his kit, eh? No … don’t bother to answer that question; at least we know it’s not hot. I’ll get it melted down and nobody will be any the wiser.’

  Kevin expressed our thanks as Cochran stripped the weapon into its component parts and then threw them into a steel container behind the armoury counter. ‘I’ll give the rounds to the goons, they can use them up on the range. Fancy a wee dram?’

  Cochran reached into the lower drawer of a desk that faced the opposite wall. When his hand emerged it was holding a half bottle of whisky. It was early in the day but, before we could refuse, the top was off and a large slug had been poured into each of our tea mugs.

  ‘You see the BBC interview with Beaky Collins over the weekend?’ Kevin asked.

  Cochran lifted a levered section of the counter. ‘Come in and have a seat … you could make a squadron out of the number of blokes that wanted to out Beaky over that book. Fuckin’ Cyclone. I’ll give him Cyclone. There are some good blokes that have been trying to make a few quid out of their memoirs, real blades, not some fuckin’ Walter Mitty like Beaky.’ There was venom in his words.

  ‘We heard he laid out a cameraman.’ I said.

  ‘We all saw it. The mess was packed. Beaky was sunk. Wanker even tried to pretend that he was just a stand-in for the real author. He always did have a temper did Beaky … Terry knew it wouldn’t be hard to wind him up.’

  ‘I read the book. It wasn’t bad, if he’d stuck to the truth he might have done well with it.’

  ‘He might yet,’ Cochran laughed. ‘Since all the fuss over it, I heard it’s been selling like hot cakes.’

  ‘Did Terry find out if any of it was real?’ asked Kevin.

  I glared across at him, willing him to drop what I thought was a fairly pointless subject. But Kevin was like a terrier with a bone, he wanted more.

  ‘Oh, it was real, alright. It’s just that Beaky was nae there. Most of the stories in the book were pure fantasy. Beaky bought a few beers, learned a few tales and then passed them off as his own. But most of the stuff the blokes fed him was complete bollocks.’

  ‘Was he ever out in Afghan at all?’

  ‘Yeah, well OK, he was there a bit, I guess. In the book he talks about getting recruited to do a recce for the spooks. That’s all dead gen’. He worked the mule trains in and out of Peshawar Valley. That’s where he met some of our blokes who were doing Increment for MI6. I’m surprised you two never saw him at the base in Pakistan. He was there a few times.’

  ‘The lads exposed him … told Terry, I s’pose?’

  Cochran paused. ‘No, Terry worked it out himself. We don’t have any contact with any of the blokes that went on Increment. There were only about a dozen of them, anyway. Two of them were the Met lads that got killed a few weeks ago.’

  ‘You mean Bridges and Skinner?’ The surprise in Kevin’s voice echoed my own feelings. Having just learned that Bob Bridges was on the covert operations in Afghan, it was a disturbing coincidence to hear that Skinner was connected with the op too.

  A doubt, recently healed, started to reappear. I second-guessed Kevin’s follow-up question. ‘Do you recall any others that went to Increment?’ he asked.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Mac Blackwood for one.’

  ‘Yeah, he was there.’

  My stomach felt hollow. I’d had no idea there was a connection between the dead lads that we’d never considered.

  Cochran continued. ‘There were a couple of others from ‘A’ squadron as well. “Teacup” and “Treacle”, we called them. “Tea
cup” – his name was McNeil, I think. You could ask at the weekend if you’re interested. You’re coming to the wedding, I presume?’

  ‘What wedding?’ I asked.

  ‘Billy, the Fijian. He’s marrying a girl from the town. Party Saturday night, church do the next day.’ He turned to face Kevin. ‘You turning up would be a great surprise for him, Taff.’

  ‘OK,’ he replied. ‘Count me in. Can you sort me a bed on the base?’

  ‘Nae worries, but sorry Mr Finlay, no Ruperts invited.’

  I didn’t reply, but I wasn’t surprised.

  ‘Why the questions about the Increment lads anyway?’ Cochran continued.

  ‘Nothing, really. Just something that Bob Bridges’ wife asked us to check out,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Something interesting … or something valuable?’ Cochrane looked us both in the eye as he asked.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You should,’ Cochran answered. ‘There were stories that those lads brought back something very valuable from Afghan; something they planned to sell when the time was right. It’s said that a man with the right contacts could make a lot of money from it.’

  ‘What … gold or something?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Nobody knows; like I said, there were just stories. Maybe it was treasure or an artefact … or some kind of weapon. Who knows? But if you’re onto something, I know where to find a buyer.’

  As we headed home, I had cause to think deeply. Confirmation that Mac Blackwood was in Afghan was enough to drive a cold shaft through my heart. The causal factors we had been searching for before Monaghan was killed had apparently been answered when rumours of the affairs with the CO’s wife had surfaced. But that hadn’t answered the question over Rod Skinner’s murder. Rod had the kind of face that only a mother could love and was the least likely of blokes to have chased married women. I had accepted the affair theory as gospel, particularly when the attacks stopped after Monaghan’s death. Now, though, Cochran had cast doubt upon that assumption. And Increment had just thrown another factor into the puzzle.

  Chapter 49

  MI5 offices, New Scotland Yard

  Toni was falling behind and a prolonged telephone conversation with Finlay’s wife hadn’t helped. Jenny had called for a chat, something she was perfectly entitled to do and which, as her liaison officer, Toni had encouraged. And, in routine circumstances, she would have been happy to oblige, but these weren’t normal times.

  Toni had listened with limited interest as Jenny reported her husband having had a number of recent conversations with Kevin Jones. She’d confronted him about it the previous evening and Finlay had, apparently, reassured her that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. But Jenny wasn’t convinced; she thought the two men were up to something. Toni did her best to sound sympathetic, assuring her that it was most likely nothing to worry about.

  There was some good news as well. Robert Finlay’s sleep problems seemed to have eased. He had returned from the dive trip happier and more relaxed. However, Jenny was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that her husband had secrets and had expressed her fear she and Robert might drift apart. Toni reminded her that the police counsellor had warned that Robert’s behaviour might sometimes appear odd and that she needed to give him time.

  ‘Odd is right,’ said Jenny. ‘While we were in Romania, I saw some handcuffs and heel marks in one of the Cristea cars. I pointed them out to Robert, but he didn’t seemed to have noticed them. He still seems pre-occupied, in a world of his own. Sometimes I speak to him and he doesn’t even hear me.’

  But then, perhaps in an attempt to demonstrate the conflicting sides to her husband, she described an incident at the wedding in which he had disarmed a gunman, showing, quite clearly, he could think and act clearly in a crisis.

  ‘He seems to have a bit of an Achilles heel when it comes to recognising danger,’ Toni had suggested, all the time thinking that her faith in Robert Finlay to handle problems had been endorsed.

  With Jenny wanting to continue to chat about her husband, Toni needed to be patient as she tried to move the conversation on to the trip – the Cristeas and what Jenny had seen and heard.

  She managed to learn that Jenny had met Collins and that he was planning to stay with Cristea Publishing if they could agree a deal. But, otherwise, there was very little about Collins himself. The conversation ended with some news. Jenny had been house hunting … and she had found somewhere. At least this part of her current workload was going well, Toni thought.

  For the remainder of the morning, Toni knuckled down to work, only pausing to refresh her coffee mug. Then, just at the point where it looked like she had caught up with things, Nell remembered she’d promised to deliver a message. Finlay had called. He’d apparently had a run-in with one of the Cristea men near the scene of a murder and had recognised the man from the wedding.

  ‘He was asking why he hadn’t been warned about the Cristeas,’ Nell said, in a pointed tone. ‘He wants to talk to you … and he sounded angry.’

  Chapter 50

  It was getting late. The list Dave Batey had asked Toni to compile was taking a long time to finish. The daily duty state helped to jog her memory, as did her diary, but there were several gaps. Lapses in memory might be perfectly acceptable in routine circumstances, but in this case, Batey would be expecting a complete record, no exceptions … no gaps.

  She had set Nell to work on the Cristeas, wanting to know more about them before she returned Finlay’s call. It wasn’t long before her researcher had dug up enough to make it perfectly clear that Finlay should never have been allowed to travel to the wedding. The new material also explained what Jenny had said about handcuffs and heel marks in the Cristea car.

  That had resulted in an awkward phone call. But the policeman had taken her apology surprisingly well and, in what had turned out to be a much easier conversation than she expected, she ended up increasingly angry at herself. She’d let her enthusiasm cloud her judgement and, in her ambition to secure a departmental coup by locating Chas Collins, she’d made a careless mistake. She thanked God that nothing worse had resulted.

  Her offer to have Nell research information on the Cristeas that only the Security Service might have access to was well received; and she accepted that, in the circumstances, it was the least she could do. Finlay even thanked her, and a potential row was averted.

  Another idea Nell was working on was one from Stuart – a rather crazy notion that Monaghan might have faked his own death. It seemed a bit far-fetched, but, to keep her assistants quiet, Toni had requested a hurry-up on the DNA tests for the body found in Monaghan’s bombedout car in order to cross-match them with some hair samples Stuart had found in the former officer’s flat.

  Recalling the Director’s wish to be kept informed, she typed a brief synopsis of developments into an email. She decided to include the notion of Monaghan having staged his own death and the steps she was taking to check the idea. It was a fanciful hypothesis, but it was the kind of thing the Director had specifically asked to know about.

  Finally, at a little before midnight, she reached the point of a final run-through of her diary report to Dave Batey. She was just about to sign her report when a sudden, horrible thought crossed her mind. There was just one time – one fleeting moment – when her pass had been out of her sight.

  It wasn’t something that she dare put in writing.

  For several moments she sat mulling over the idea that had occurred to her. Right or wrong, the implications were considerable. It might even be better to forget about it. But the more she thought, the more feasible the notion became.

  Hands shaking, she flicked through the department directory for Dave Batey’s home number. But as she picked up the telephone to dial, her innate caution stopped her. It was quite possible that her department telephone was being monitored. She replaced the receiver and went to find an empty office.

  It wasn’t difficult. Within a few minutes, she found an u
nlocked door to a secretary’s office, and a safe telephone. Checking the corridor was clear, she dialled Batey’s number. For several moments there was no answer. As she waited, her heart began to accelerate.

  Where was he, she wondered? Perhaps he wasn’t at home?

  She was just about to give up when the call connected.

  Chapter 51

  Murder squad office, Hampstead Police Station

  DCI James Bowler was just finishing a summary of the interim forensic report when Nina pushed open the door to the squad office. A projector was displaying an enlarged picture of the bloody scene that we had walked in on at Relia’s flat.

  The room fell silent. As all eyes turned towards the door, Nina introduced the two of us. One or two nodded their heads in greeting, most simply turned back to face the DCI.

  Bowler beckoned Nina to join him in front of the assembled AMIT – the Area Major Investigation Team. ‘Perfect timing,’ he said. ‘You know more about our victim and the trafficking world than any of us.’

  For the next ten minutes Nina summarised what she knew of Relia, the circumstances of her being in a police-provided flat and what had happened when we had turned up to show her some mugshots. None of the detectives present had any previous experience of the sex-trafficking trade and even fewer had any grasp as to the scale.

  Considering the fact that she was caught on the hop, I thought Nina did a pretty good job. A lot of questions were asked and it was clear that some were critical of the poor level of protection that had been given to Relia. As a victim of trafficking and a key witness to a hugely lucrative criminal activity, most present expressed the opinion that Relia ought to have been looked after – moved further away from the Euston brothel where she was found.