The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  There wasn’t. We were on our own, and we knew it. And I knew what I was facing.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I need some pipe … something like a hosepipe, about ten inches of it, maybe. And something like a balloon that we can tape onto the end.’

  ‘What for?’ Lynn asked.

  ‘We need to drain the blood from his pleural cavity.’

  ‘What … like make a hole in his chest, you mean?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’

  ‘How about a biro? I’ve got one in the car. And I think there’s a hosepipe in the back garden.’

  ‘Biro’s too narrow … garden hose too big … something inbetween. Do you have a stethoscope in the car?’

  ‘Petrol siphon pipe do you?’ said Josh.

  ‘Perfect. Lynn … this was a brothel. Have a look around the other rooms … I remember seeing some condoms somewhere, and be quick … both of you.’

  As I waited, I taped down the fourth side of the plastic square now covering the entry bullet wound to Al’s chest. His chest movements had become very fast and shallow. I knew what was happening. His pleural cavity, ruptured by the bullet, had now filled with blood and air, so his diaphragm was losing the means to operate. We needed to get the blood out from that cavity, and we needed to do it fast.

  I pulled Al’s shirt back so as to expose the sides of his ribcage and moved his left arm up and away from his chest. I’d seen this demonstrated several times in theory but only the once in practice, and I’d never done it myself. Placing my hand into his armpit, I used its width to estimate where I was going to have to cut. ‘Between the seventh and eighth ribs,’ I said, talking myself through what I was about to attempt.

  Josh appeared behind me with a small length of clear hosepipe.

  ‘Clean it, best you can. Use one of the alcohol wipes.’

  Lynn came barging into the room. ‘Got one,’ she yelled, as she thrust the sealed foil packet into my hand.’

  ‘Open it up and tape it over one end of the tube, quickly.’

  As Lynn did her job, I reached for the scalpel and then felt for the softer area between Al’s ribs. My hand shaking and slippery with blood, I struggled to grip the slim metal handle. As the point of the blade touched Al’s skin, I uttered a silent prayer. Then, it was too late. I was in.

  ‘One inch cut, just the skin, no deeper.’ The words of our medic instructor – drilled into me nearly twenty years before.

  Although he was now semiconscious, I felt Al wince in pain.

  Next came the separation of the muscle fibres to allow access to the pleural membrane. I tried to picture it in my mind as I placed the scalpel to one side and switched to using the forceps. Gently, tentatively, I worked my way in, levering the muscle tissue aside until I felt a solid resistance. Pushing harder, I prayed again. Then … the sound I wanted to hear as the membrane succumbed to my efforts. It popped, just loud enough for me to hear it. I was there.

  Quickly, I reached for the petrol hosepipe and squeezed it into the hole I had created. For a second, nothing happened. Then a small ball of dark red blood appeared just near my trembling fingers. I resisted the temptation to push the tube further in. If the lessons I remembered were right, the blood should exit along the pipe, fill the condom and then, as the pressure in the cavity reduced, Al would be able to breathe. With the tube sealed to the outside air, and as his diaphragm started to work, air would be prevented from being drawn in to fill the void.

  Blood began to flow, slowly at first, and then in greater volume. It was working. I held the tube tightly in place and watched to see if Al reacted.

  He did. No more than thirty seconds from the moment I pushed the pipe between his ribs, his chest started to expand. At first the movement was barely noticeable, but with every subsequent breath he became stronger and the breaths deeper. After a minute or so, his face started to gain colour.

  I closed my eyes to say a silent thank-you and, as I did so, became aware of movement behind me. Two paramedics.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  The paramedics worked speedily and efficiently, replacing my homemade chest drain with a non-return device designed specifically for the job. I sat back against the upturned bed and watched as they worked. I was totally exhausted.

  A few minutes later they lifted Al onto a stretcher and carried him out to the waiting ambulance. Lynn decided to go with them.

  With Josh’s help, I got to my feet and, returning to the front garden, we found a colleague of Lynn’s in the process of pulling a sheet over the body of the gunman.

  ‘Hold up,’ I said. ‘I just need a quick look at him.’

  As I suspected, it was another of the men who had arrived in the UK with Petre. I guessed the one who had escaped was Marius. That was the second time he had gotten away from me.

  As we stepped back, Josh took hold of my arm. ‘What you did in there was pretty awesome, guv,’ he said.

  I didn’t answer, my thoughts, elsewhere, promising myself there wouldn’t be a third time for Marius.

  ‘Something tells me you’ve done that before.’

  I smiled. ‘Grew up on a rough estate, Josh.’

  He laughed.

  Within half an hour of Lynn downing the gunman, the street was sealed off and the area was alive with searching police officers. An SFO team arrived about twenty minutes later. Josh and I left it to them to clear the two houses and do the initial search of the priest hole. It only took them a few minutes. They used a K9 – a police dog trained to work with the firearms teams. The dog went first to check the house before the SFO team swept through.

  Half an hour after the dog went through the door, I followed Josh through the gaping hole in the floor to explore the hide.

  As we finished, I pulled myself from the concealed chamber and brushed the dust from my trousers.

  The dug-out was devilishly simple in its construction, yet almost impossible to detect. In both of the semi-detached houses, the ground-floor, front-room floorboards had been removed to allow a six-foot-deep void to be created under each room. A four-foot-high tunnel linked the two. Each contained a small cot, a cupboard and enough tinned food to last a man for several weeks. There was bottled water, a small sealed chemical toilet and several books.

  The builder of the modern-day priest holes had even provided an electricity supply by splicing into the mains feed before it reached the meter. From above, there was no clue that there was anything beneath the floor. If it hadn’t been for Lynn Wainwright offering us the use of a huge crow bar to try and loosen the floorboards, the two men hidden within might well have remained undiscovered.

  The idea of there being a hide beneath the floor had occurred to me after reading the estate-agent listings Jenny had left for me. One had described an old rectory with a priest hole as one of its ‘original features’. The skip in the back garden of the brothel house had been a clue, and, combined with my thoughts of hiding places in walls and under floors, my suspicions had been triggered. The earth the skip contained had to have come from somewhere. It reminded me that the hide beneath Kevin’s shed must have produced quite an amount of spoil as well. With no obvious landscaping in evidence, a hidden cache under either the garage or the ground floor seemed to be a possible answer.

  I had wondered if we might make a gruesome find. The question was still unanswered as to where the retired and exhausted slave girls went once they had served their useful purpose. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the chamber might conceal living people, or that they might be armed.

  That was my mistake.

  Chapter 63

  Waiting around in police stations was starting to become part of my daily life. With a gunman killed, a PC badly wounded and a murder suspect on the run, I wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  After cleaning off the worst of the dirt from the modern-day priest hole and doing my best to sponge Al McCulloch’s blood from my trousers, the first thing we were told to complete was a duty statement. While events were still
uppermost in our minds, Josh and I were ordered to sit at opposite ends of the local CID office at Ealing and describe everything that had happened both inside and outside the traffickers’ hideout. I was just at the point of describing when Lynn shot the gunman, when my telephone started buzzing in my pocket.

  It took me several moments before I was able to understand the hysterical scream, and a number of angry sentences before I actually recognised the voice. It was Gayle Bridges. She was in a rage. Amongst the insults and threats, the words ‘betrayal’, ‘bastards’ and ‘search’ seemed to figure. Getting a word in to respond proved impossible. Before I could speak, the phone went dead. She had hung up.

  I sat for a moment, wondering if I should leave it or call back straightaway. At the opposite end of the office, two older detectives in dark suits had walked in and were chatting to Josh. From the matching ties, I guessed they might be from the Complaints Branch, CIB.

  Gayle’s anger seemed aimed at me. For several seconds, I stared at the phone before scrolling the menu to ‘Return Call’. I took a deep breath before tapping the button.

  Engaged. I waited and then tried again. Same result.

  I wondered why she was so angry. With her husband’s pistol safely returned to Hereford, it had to be about the document she had given us. For a moment I felt guilty. She had said it had value, but as yet we didn’t know why.

  I took another deep breath, blew out my cheeks and exhaled slowly. The suits were now sitting down with Josh. I had time to find out what Gayle wanted. On the third attempt, the call connected.

  She answered almost immediately. ‘What?’ The anger was still plain in her voice.

  ‘It’s Bob Finlay, Gayle. You just rang me.’

  ‘I know that. I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Err … it’s just that I didn’t quite catch what you said. Well, it sounded like you’re cross about something?’

  Gayle sighed expressively. There was a pause. I imagined her pacing up and down the hallway of her house, frustrated by the prospect of having to repeat herself.

  ‘I’ve called Kevin Jones as well. Gave him what for.’

  ‘Is that why your phone was engaged when I called you back?’

  ‘Yes. He says you knew nothing … says he’s going to look into it.’

  ‘Into what, Gayle? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s your lot. Coppers … filthy boots, all over my carpets … pawing through my underwear … they even looked through my rubbish bins.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They turned up at my house. My mother was here. Christ, it was so embarrassing. They had a warrant to search they said. Claimed they had information I had a gun in the house … they searched everything. They even went in the attic.’

  It took several minutes to tease the whole story from Gayle. It wasn’t so much hysteria and anger, more that she felt powerless and humiliated. Her only previous experience of police officers had been the friends of her husband that she had met socially.

  Somehow, word must have reached the local station that Bob Bridges had a trophy weapon at home. A few days earlier and a search of the loft would have revealed where Bob had concealed it – in the box with the Arabic documents. No doubt, if they had found the gun, the papers would have been seized as well.

  From Gayle’s description, they had all been CID and had turned up earlier that morning. Gayle and her mum had been taken completely by surprise. Seemingly unconcerned by Gayle’s protests, they had probed, sifted and scoured through every drawer, cupboard, box and container in the house. They had removed books from shelves to look for hollowed-out hiding places, flicked through the pages of magazines and even removed doors from hinges to look for secret compartments. It had been a thorough job – unusually so.

  Something rankled with me, though. Gayle mentioned the questions the lead officer had asked: Had any of her husband’s former army colleagues been in touch? Had anything else been removed from the house? These questions, and the professionalism of the search seemed more in keeping with the activities of the Anti-Terrorist Squad … or Special Branch, not a small team of local CID officers.

  Gayle had jumped to the conclusion that Kevin and I had been responsible for the invasion, which was why we were the targets of her wrath. Kevin had managed to convince her otherwise and, by the time my call with her ended, she was calming down.

  I was left with an uneasy feeling. Things didn’t seem to add up.

  Chapter 64

  Complaints Branch kept us hanging about for three hours.

  Everyone had to write statements, complete suspect descriptions and sketch a drawing of the shooting scene before the Complaints Investigation people would allow us to depart.

  Word had reached the media world quickly. Within an hour, PCs posted to perimeter control were being approached by local hacks keen for an exclusive. Not long after, the press was turning out in force. Extra officers were called in to deal with the growing throng as they jostled and manoeuvred for the best position to secure a photograph. A large white van with an aerial projecting from the roof signalled the arrival of the first television crew.

  From the hospital came good news. Al, the injured PC, was expected to pull through. The police station itself was a hive of activity, its yard crammed – the shooting having resulted in a lot of people being called into work.

  I was watching Josh Bonner trying to get into our car in the Ealing police station yard so we could head back to Hampstead when Kevin called me.

  It sounded like Gayle had also given him a real ear-bending. I told him I would need to check, but it was my guess that the search team was either from the National Crime Squad or the Met Complaints Unit. Someone may have given them a tip-off. I wondered if anyone else had known about the pistol that Gayle had asked us to lose for her. It would be easy enough to find out. All searches were recorded on the Met SO11 database for intelligence use.

  It was nearly three o’clock before we made it back to New Scotland Yard. The office was empty apart from Matt Miller, who was on the phone, trying to persuade someone to let our squad have some extra staff. Nina was on the phone trying to get hold of Lynn Wainwright.

  Once the Complaints Department scene investigation was complete, the Major Crime Team would need a statement from Lynn, as she had been the only person at the scene to get a decent look at the fleeing gunman. Apparently, Lynn wasn’t answering her mobile phone, so Nina had contacted her office in the SO19 North London base at Old Street Police Station. They confirmed that Lynn was on duty the following morning and would be available for interview after her post-incident debrief. Nina made an appointment. She also wanted Lynn to look at some photographs of known Romanian criminals and at a few Immigration Control stills to see if she could pick out the escaped gunman. The squad were hopeful that the suspect was one of the men recently seen entering the country through Heathrow.

  I offered to go with Nina. At first she seemed reluctant – irritated even, by the suggestion. But Matt overheard her talking to me and pointed out that, as I had been with Lynn at the time of the shooting incident, it made sense that I should also go. Just before Nina headed home, we arranged to meet at King’s Cross the following morning. I would take the tube in to work and Nina would pick me up at nine.

  With Matt busy on the telephone, I made some calls to see if I could find out anything else about the search at Gayle’s house. I drew a blank – no record of either a planned or a recorded search. I hung up the phone and sat back. I must have looked frustrated. With my chin sat firmly on my chest, I had my hands across my stomach, fingers entwined.

  ‘You OK, Bob?’ Matt asked.

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said. ‘You remember the Marylebone Inspector who was killed in the Selfridges bomb in September?’

  ‘Sure. Friend of yours, Nina said.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, his widow was turned over by some of our guys this morning. Full search, gave her a real fright. Said they were looking in case he h
ad left a trophy weapon behind in the house.’

  ‘They find anything?’

  ‘No … and I can’t establish who they were. I wanted to find out who was the lead on it; they really put the frighteners on her. A few words of apology might help avoid an official complaint.’

  ‘Nothing on registry?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Nobody has even flagged the address as being of interest and definitely no mention of a search.’

  Matt thought for a moment. ‘Get a copy of the warrant. Even the Complaints Unit or the army SIB have to have one. That will tell you who did the spin.’

  ‘Great idea.’ I picked up the phone to call Gayle. The army Special Investigation Branch hadn’t occurred to me. It would explain why there was no register of the search.

  The call to Gayle Bridges, however, produced further frustration. The detective in charge hadn’t left a copy of the warrant. Matt Miller’s conclusion didn’t make for comfortable hearing. No register record and no warrant might mean it was the Security Services.

  Then, to completely spoil the day, Kevin Jones called again. He was with Rod Skinner’s wife. Rod had been shot dead on his driveway not long after Bob Bridges was killed. The Skinner home had also been searched. It sounded like the same team. Again, no copy of the warrant had been left and no weapon had been found. But, from what Rod’s widow was claiming, it wasn’t just weapons that they were looking for.

  In a box of her late husband’s personal effects, the search team had found some documents. As soon as they had been shown to the lead detective, the search of further parts of the house had been abandoned. It looked like they had found what they were looking for.

  Although June Skinner had never seen the documents before, she had glimpsed them when the detective had pulled them from their box. She described one as about two inches thick … with a front cover written in Arabic.

  Chapter 65