by Matt Johnson
‘Can’t say I’m too surprised. I was the oldest by far and my CV kind of let me down.’
Cutts flicked through a file on his desk, appearing to re-read what had been said about me. ‘Feedback was good: says if there had been more places you’d have been in with a shout. It suggests a posting where you can act up in the rank and then have another go.’
‘I bet they say that to everyone who dips out. What do you think?’
He took a deep breath. ‘If I’m honest, I think it’s not just your age and length of service that work against you.’
‘Something else?’
‘Your history. Before I took command of this team, Mr Grahamslaw filled me in on what happened to you last year and how you ended up here.’
‘You think that influenced the board?’
He closed the file and placed it in a drawer. ‘I think you’re a damn good cop, Finlay, and it’s clear our Commander has your back. But, let’s just say there are people in the job who thought you should have been prosecuted.’
There was little more to be said. I extended my thanks and headed back to the main office.
Nina and Matt were in the corridor grabbing coffee and a cake from the tea-lady’s trolley.
Nina looked at me, expectantly. I guess my face told it all. ‘No good, eh?’ she asked.
‘Better luck next time, I guess.’ I did my best to look upbeat.
‘Not a chance. I had to sleep with all three of the board to get them to turn you down!’
I laughed. Matt laughed. Even the tea-lady laughed.
‘Well, at least you can enjoy the weekend,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve just had the DCI from Kilburn on the phone. They’ve been trying to catch up with Costas Ioannidis for months. Well pleased, he was, and he’s agreed to take over the enquiry. We’ve got a weekend off to enjoy some down time.’
Chapter 3
Jenny’s reception to my phone call came as something of a relief. She took the disappointing news well and was honest enough to admit that she hadn’t really expected me to be successful. And, perhaps to soften the blow she’d anticipated, she’d arranged for us to have a drink that evening with my old friend Kevin Jones and his girlfriend, Sandi, so I had something to cheer me up.
Ron Cutts was right, of course, especially regarding the legality of some of the things Kevin and I had been involved in. The preceding year had been amongst the most difficult I’d ever known. Everything had changed the day I’d been at home with Jenny and had answered a telephone call from Nial Monaghan, my former CO at 22 SAS. I hadn’t heard from Monaghan in many years and what he said to me that evening threw my life up in the air. And my family, having discovered I wasn’t the ordinary former soldier they’d thought, had been drawn into a fight for survival so dangerous that I came very close to losing them.
And then, just when I’d thought the threat was at an end, I’d gone with Kevin to visit the widow of a former colleague murdered by the terrorists who’d been targeting us. On the face of it, we were simply helping her dispose of a trophy weapon, a pistol her husband had retained after leaving the army. But we’d been handed a document – the ‘Al Anfal’ report – which turned out to be so sensitive, so secret, that even knowledge of it placed a person at risk of being silenced by the Security Services. The report had been discovered by an ex-military team called Increment, who had been working in Afghanistan during the war with Russia. They had forwarded it to their MI6 controller but, before doing so, they’d photocopied it. Somehow, one or more of them must have realised its potential value and had tried to hawk it to the press. That decision had cost them their lives and our attempts to discover the significance of the document had very nearly resulted in us suffering a similar fate.
Our MI5 family liaison officer, Toni Fellowes, had uncovered the truth. Monaghan had been given the job of clearing up the leak and had set about it in the way he knew best. He’d then used the ruse of an official MI6 black op as an excuse to target Kevin and me in the mistaken belief we were both guilty of having had affairs with his late wife. It was a mistake that cost him his life.
As was my habit, I picked up an evening paper and, on the underground journey up to Cockfosters, read it from cover to cover. I still found that crowded trains were a cause of some discomfort. The combination of noise, heat and the crush of people was an anxiety trigger I knew was best to avoid. Reading the paper was a coping strategy I’d learned. By immersing myself in newspaper articles, I could ignore my surroundings.
Today, one article in particular drew my attention. It was about a missing literary agent – Maggie Price, who I knew represented an author by the name of Chas Collins. About a year before, Collins had brought out a book called Cyclone. The book had caused a bit of a storm, especially when the author’s claims about his work in the SAS Regiment had been exposed as lies. He’d since dropped out of circulation, but rumour had it he was working on a follow-up book.
Maggie Price had recently disappeared, and, when superglue had been discovered in the lock to the front door of her home, the papers had been full of the story, with some incredible conspiracy theories being aired. All kinds of ‘experts’ had come out of the woodwork, from former detectives through to supposed friends of both the agent and her author. All had different theories, from a random stalker to a hit by an assassin hired by an underworld crime syndicate. The truth was, nobody knew what had happened.
Maggie Price lived in rural Essex, so the Met had only been involved in a support role, helping to interview her friends and associates. With no ransom demand received and stumped as to how best to proceed, the Senior Investigating Officer had made an appeal on the BBC Crimewatch programme the previous night. I hadn’t watched it, but several people at work had been talking about the case. The connection to the Collins book had been mentioned, as had the story that the author had gone into hiding in Belgium, fearing for his life. The SIO had made a public appeal for him to get in touch.
I had my own opinion on how successful that appeal was likely to be. Those of us who knew Collins of old also knew that if he didn’t want to be found then he wouldn’t be. Despite the false claims in his book, he’d still been a good soldier and would know how to look after himself.
The newspaper article, written by the reporter Max Tranter, and following up on the publicity caused by the Crimewatch appeal, was a good one. Tranter had been doing some digging of his own and had made a connection between the Price case and a murder that happened about two miles away from her home, the day before she was reported missing. A young man had been found shot dead on a quiet, country lane and Essex police were working on the premise that the killing was drugs related, the victim having possible connections to east London drug dealers. Max Tranter, however, had an alternative theory. He argued that it was too much of a coincidence that two major crimes could occur so close together without there being some kind of connection.
I wondered if he might be right. Maggie Price certainly had some shady connections. I’d met her the previous year at a wedding; the same event at which I’d last seen Chas Collins. The bride on that day was Marica Cristea, a young woman I’d met on holiday, and who’d been kind enough to invite Jenny and me to the ceremony. In different circumstances those facts might have been irrelevant, but in the weeks that followed I came to learn that the Cristea family were part of a gang of Eastern European criminals whose expertise extended from slave trafficking through to gun-running. That they could have been behind Maggie Price’s disappearance was a distinct possibility.
What I’d learned about the Cristeas had helped me play a part in breaking up their sex-slave operation in the UK – one reason I wasn’t likely to be on the family Christmas card list. In fact, I’d surmised a long time ago that I would be wise to avoid any further contact with them. They suspected I had attended the wedding as a police spy. And while they were wrong, my guess was that, if we ever met again, they were unlikely to listen to my explanation with much sympathy.
That said, the
solution was simple. Make sure it never happened.
Chapter 4
Howard scanned the notes on his desk.
If there was one very important thing he had learned in his life with the Security Service, it was to be thorough. Be it the creation of a cover story, a fake identity, the logistics supporting an operation, even an answer to a parliamentary question; all warranted appropriate diligence.
And yet, he was troubled. The job was done, complete, and what had at first appeared to be a situation likely to threaten both the national and his own personal security had been averted. The irritant that was Chas Collins had been removed, his manuscript recovered and both he and his literary agent had been taken care of. But things hadn’t gone as smoothly as they ought to have done. Grady had very nearly been compromised and the Belgium side of the clean-up had experienced unexpected delays when Collins had proved hard to locate. And now there was yet another problem.
As Howard sat back in his chair and arched his back in an attempt to ease the discomfort that had settled there during the last hour, the grey telephone on the desk rang twice and then stopped abruptly, interrupting his train of thought.
He waited. Five seconds later, the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver.
‘Sir,’ he began, having already guessed the identity of the caller.
‘Do you have it?’
‘We do. Both targets are black-bagged. And it was as we’d thought: Collins was trying to be clever by avoiding electronic back-ups. He and Mrs Price had the only hard copies and we have them both.’
‘Very good. Your usual efficiency, Howard.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ If only he knew, Howard thought.
‘Have you had a chance to look through the draft?’
‘I have. Your decision proved correct, the book would have exposed a crucial aspect of our Islamic intelligence-gathering operation.’
‘We can count ourselves lucky.’
‘Indeed.’ Howard took a deep breath. There was no time like the present; and it appeared the Director was in a good enough mood to handle the news. ‘There is a new problem, however.’
‘A related problem?’
‘I’m not certain at this stage, but quite possibly,’ Howard said, and heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line.
‘Presumably, your mentioning it means it’s something I need to know about?’
‘I think it’s best you do, yes,’ Howard answered.
‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘Very well. Someone has Googled the name. I had a notification from GCHQ a couple of days ago.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Do we have a source?’
‘Not as yet. But I’m working on it.’
‘I predicted this, you will recall. There really were too many potential leaks.’
‘And I’ve always argued we needed to be proactive. Ask any decent surgeon – sometimes it’s necessary to destroy good tissue to ensure the whole tumour is removed.’
‘You’re referring to the two policemen?’ said the Director.
‘Amongst others – all represent potential exposure risks.’
‘We’ve had this debate before, Howard, I don’t intend to repeat myself.’
‘I understand. I’ll keep you posted with regards to the Google search.’
The Director ended the call. Howard replaced the telephone receiver and then flicked through the scattered papers in front of him until he found what he was looking for. It was a photograph of a group of heavily armed soldiers in desert fatigues – some standing, some crouched – posing at the rear of a C-130 transport aircraft. He studied the photograph for a moment, mentally ticking off the names as he scanned the faces.
Finally, his gaze came to rest on one man. He half smiled as he muttered quietly to himself. ‘Soon, old friend,’ he promised. ‘Very soon.’
Chapter 5
Arriving at the pub I looked in through a window and saw Kevin and his girlfriend, Sandi, talking to Jenny. My daughter Becky was perched on his left hip, her tiny arms on his shoulder as she looked up at him with her puppy-dog eyes.
As I walked in Becky dropped to the floor, ran to me and, as I bent down, did her usual trick of squeezing my neck so tight that I struggled to breathe. I swept her up and nibbled her ear.
‘Urgh, Daddy. Stop that, it’s disgusting,’ she said, her tiny hand wiping away the evidence of my misdemeanour. I then sneaked a quick look into the crib sat on a table next to where I was standing. Our new daughter was sleeping soundly. Despite my promotion disappointment, I couldn’t help but count myself a fortunate man.
An hour later, I was outside enjoying a breath of fresh air when Kevin found me.
‘Gutted at failing the board, boss?’ he asked.
‘Not really. It’s the way it goes. And it’s been great catching up with you and Sandi, by the way. I’m glad you could make it at such short notice.’
‘Jenny can be very persuasive … There’s another reason I came, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘We need to talk.’ Kevin’s face turned suddenly serious. There was an urgency in his words that immediately troubled me.
‘Something up?’ I asked. ‘I noticed Sandi seems a bit distracted.’
From his jacket pocket, he removed what looked like a plastic button with a couple of wires hanging from it. He held it up in front of me. ‘Know what this is?’
‘I know what it looks like.’
‘Sandi found it in a faulty plug socket, hard-wired into the mains. It’s a listening device. Finding it has really shaken her up.’
‘You’re living together now?’ I floundered a little, buying some thinking time as I grappled with the implications of what Kevin was saying.
‘Not yet, but it’s on the cards. What about this, though? It’s a bug – someone has been keeping tabs on me.’
I glanced back into the pub. Jenny was back near the bar, chatting with Sandi, who I noticed was glancing nervously out towards us. ‘Do you want me to check on it?’ I asked. ‘The tech lads up at the Yard will know exactly what it is.’
‘I know what it fuckin’ is, boss,’ Kevin said, impatiently. ‘What I want to know is what it was doing in my house and who was at the listening end.’
‘Have you checked the rest of the house?’
‘Not yet. I thought I’d ask you first. And maybe Toni Fellowes could have MI5 do a sweep.’
I thought about the idea. Toni was still, technically, our MI5 liaison officer, despite the enquiry into the attacks on Kevin and me having been wound down. In normal circumstances she would have been a good first call. But things were a little different now – Toni had moved on, been promoted to departmental head and was now based at the MI5 headquarters, Thames House.
‘We’re assuming, of course, that Toni Fellowes didn’t plant it?’ I suggested.
‘I don’t buy that,’ he answered. ‘A few weeks ago I came home and had this weird feeling someone had been in the house. One of the chairs in my dining room looked out of place – not where I thought it had been when I left. At the time, I kind of dismissed it, but now I’m wondering.’
‘Careless if someone was planting surveillance kit, wasn’t it?’
‘Back in the day, we even photographed the insides of the target home to make sure everything went back as it was before we got there. If our Security Services were behind it, they were unusually sloppy.’
‘Which is why you don’t think it was Toni?’ I asked.
‘Correct. I was hoping we could ask her. If you’re not happy with that, I’ll ask her myself. Maybe you should get your place checked as well?’
‘It was swept when we moved in as part of their routine checks, but I’ll ask, yes. Can you leave it with me for now?’
Kevin nodded, his jaw tight. ‘I’d prefer that, to be honest,’ he said, quietly. ‘You’re better with words than me and I’d most likely go off on one, because I’m telling you now, I’m not going to be a sitting target this time, waiting around f
or whoever it is to do what they’ve got planned.’
‘Are they likely to have heard anything we’d prefer them not to have done?’ I said, trying to ease the tension.
He grinned, confusing me as he did so. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘Well, if it’s anything about the kit stashed under my allotment shed then, no. I don’t talk to Sandi about that. But, well … let’s just say that if someone was listening in they might have had an education in bedroom Olympics—’
‘Enough!’ I stopped Kevin in full flow. He’d hinted previously at the unusual games Sandi liked to play and I needed no details. ‘One of these days one of her sons will catch you two and then you’ll be sorry.’
I took the bug from Kevin’s open palm and slipped it into my trouser pocket. ‘Leave it with me. It’ll have to wait until Monday, but I’ll ask one of the geeks from the Technical Support Unit if they can give us any background on it. In the meantime, you could ask Hereford to do a sweep for you.’
Jenny appeared in the doorway. ‘You two having a secret meeting?’ she asked.
I turned to her and smiled. ‘Surprising how much we had to catch up on. Kevin was telling me that Sandi and the boys are to move in with him soon.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, Kevin.’ Jenny put her free arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘I am sooo pleased for you.’ Her left hand held a wine glass, now nearly empty. It was one of several that had passed her lips. Kevin raised an eyebrow as he turned back to me. If I read his thoughts correctly he was thinking we were lucky not to have been overheard and it was a good job I was the one driving home.
As we returned to the pub, it was clear it was time to leave. Becky looked tired, and I imagined that, along with the baby, both she and Jenny would be fast asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows.
I was right. But, for me, it was nearly an hour after arriving home before I also felt able to turn in. What Kevin had said, and his idea about the listening device, were preying on my mind. Thinking a nightcap might help, I opened a bottle of whisky that Matt Miller had given me. It was one of his ‘specials’, a Welsh brand called Penderyn that hadn’t yet gone into commercial production. He always kept a bottle in his bottom drawer and it had become something of an office favourite.