The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘And he still has the knife?’

  ‘Apparently … against her back.’

  ‘So, he has control, as we can’t see him or the weapon?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I pictured the scene in my mind’s eye: a trembling, tearful WPC, face to a closed door, unable to see her assailant and fearful that any moment might be her last. She might be trying to keep her abductor talking, trying to build up a friendship, empathy, any kind of relationship that would reduce the possibility of him wanting to end her life.

  ‘Doug has promised to release Carole as soon as you enter the toilet area and he gets to speak to you,’ Mike continued. ‘If he’s true to his word then a decision will be made at that point whether to go in hard or to try and talk him out.’

  ‘Is Doug what I call him?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve agreed so far. We’ve kept it informal and he seems fine with it.’

  ‘Is there a concern he might top himself after he lets the WPC go?’

  ‘It had occurred to us, yes. Somebody upstairs suggested he might want you there to witness him commit suicide.’

  ‘But you decided it was worth the risk?’

  ‘We concluded that, as he doesn’t seem to actually know you, suicide probably isn’t his reason for wanting your presence.’

  ‘But it could be?’

  Mike scowled. ‘That won’t happen on my watch, trust me. If he has the means to end his life then we keep him talking until this all ends peacefully. Nobody dies. Not him, not Carole, not anyone. OK … you ready?’

  My stomach felt tight as I walked the short distance to the toilet door. I tapped gently and pushed. It opened smoothly, quietly. In my ear a calm voice spoke. ‘Good luck, Finlay.’

  I took a step. On the floor, secured with duct tape, I noticed a thin cable. A microphone, I guessed. So the decision-makers could listen in to what was taking place. A second door opened as easily as the first.

  The toilet was quiet. Edging forwards, I started to get a better view of the room. To my left were the wash basins, four of them, with a large mirror behind. On the far wall, two hand dryers. I leaned in. To my right, there were three cubicles, the first two with doors open, the third closed. I could just see beneath it a pair of the soft cushion-soled shoes popular with women officers. As Mike had suggested, the position of the feet put the owner standing with her face against the cubicle door.

  The toilet was surprisingly chilly and smelled fresh, as if it had been recently cleaned.

  I caught sight of two more feet contained in what looked like lightweight walking boots. It looked like their owner was sat, leaning against the wall near the urinals which, I surmised, were off to my right. I shuffled further into the room.

  Sue had her back to the wall. In her hand she held a small notepad. There was writing on it and as she held it up to me I could see the words ‘Leave the talking to me’.

  I nodded.

  She turned toward the closed cubicle door. ‘Doug, we’ve been joined by one more person. In a moment I’m going to ask him to speak to you. It’s the man you’ve been asking to see. But before we go any further, can I ask you if Carole is still OK?’

  A croaky male voice spoke from inside the toilet cubicle. ‘The bitch is fine … as I’m sure she will tell you.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ It was Carole, also from behind the door. Her voice was quavering; she sounded scared.

  ‘And can we confirm what we agreed would happen when Mr Finlay arrived to speak to you, Doug?’

  ‘I said I’d let this bitch go and I meant it. That you, boss? I would nae trust these shites not to send an imposter.’

  Sue nodded to me.

  ‘Yes, I’m Bob Finlay,’ I said.

  ‘Well that’s dandy. But I’ll be needing you to prove that.’ Doug’s accent was strong, possibly Glaswegian, I thought.

  I did my best to pull a questioning face at Sue, raising my hands and extending my open palms to indicate my need for advice. She scribbled quickly on her notepad and, once more, held it up to me: ‘Ask him how.’

  ‘How can I do that, Doug?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll know my brother – you served with him. Mac Powell; remember him?’

  I did. Powell had been a Sergeant on the same squadron as me, a long time ago. He’d been on a different troop but we’d worked together. That was until the day he decided to take on three bouncers at a nightclub in Hereford and had ended up being returned to his home unit, the Royal Scots.

  ‘I remember him, Doug. Good soldier he was.’

  ‘Aye … a good soldier. He was that. And he thought a lot of you. He lost his place in the SAS for fighting, but it was you that stopped him getting charged and taken to the civil court.’

  ‘It was self-defence. He was attacked – three against one…’

  ‘You went out on a limb for him when others turned their backs.’

  ‘I do remember him saying he had a kid brother,’ I lied, and immediately regretted breaking another of the golden negotiator rules – don’t lie, unless you have to; and then don’t tell a lie that is easily exposed. I cringed, even as the words came from my mouth.

  ‘My brother’s mate told me you can be trusted. You’re OK, he said. If I ever needed help I should go to you.’

  ‘Your brother’s mate?’ I asked, in search of a name.

  ‘Brian McNeil. You worked with him too. My brother and him went back a long ways.’

  For a moment I was silent, grateful the earpiece I wore wasn’t able to pick up my increased heart rate. Brian McNeil. The missing Increment soldier Toni Fellowes had been so keen to trace after discovering the real reason for the murders of his friends. He and Chris Grady were the last surviving members of the Increment patrol responsible for the appearance of the Al Anfal document.

  ‘McNeil?’ I asked. ‘I thought he’d been killed.’

  ‘Unless it was his ghost who visited me a few weeks ago I’d say he’s very much alive.’

  A few weeks ago. So, McNeil was alive and, not only that, he was in the UK. My mind raced. Although I now knew why Doug Powell had asked for me, I had a huge new problem. I needed to find a way to contact McNeil – to warn him what had happened to the others, and to get some answers to questions that still worried me over what had really been going on when he and his friends had tried to sell the document to the newspapers.

  Right now, though, I had to keep Powell talking. And then I had to find a way to speak to him out of earshot of the Negotiation control room.

  ‘So how do I prove this is me, Doug?’ I asked. ‘You’ve managed to get me here … and it is me, I assure you.’

  ‘Tell me how my brother was killed.’

  I frowned. Sue scribbled another note: ‘Be honest – if you can!’

  ‘I don’t know how he died, Doug. When did it happen?’

  ‘1988. Lisburn. You remember that?’

  ‘I was out of the army by then, Doug. I joined the Met in ’85. I moved on, didn’t really stay in touch.’

  ‘I didn’t know that … thought you’d have known. I heard about the attacks last year … Brian told me it was the same man my brother and he had worked with. They really rated you, you know. When this shit happened you were the first person I thought of. I guess I’ll just have to take the risk.’

  ‘How do you think I can help you, Doug?’

  ‘Hoped you of all people might understand. I’m in deep shit, I know that. I just want people to understand.’

  ‘Will you let Carole go before we start to talk, Doug? I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. Then we can chat, if that’s OK?’

  There was a deep sigh from behind the door then a click; it sounded as if the lock had been released.

  It had. Carole’s feet shuffled backwards as the door started to open.

  Sue was scribbling furiously. I glanced across to her. ‘Keep calm. I’ll take C. Keep talking. Tell D I’ll be back soon.’

  I nodded to show I understood. By now, Carole had
been in the cubicle for a considerable time. Throughout the whole awful experience, she must have been in fear for her life. Now Sue wanted her out of the way, and quickly.

  A small hand appeared around the cubicle door as it started to open.

  ‘Promise me there’s nobody waiting to rush me, boss,’ said Doug, quietly. He sounded subdued, defeated.

  ‘It’s just me and Sue out here, mate. Sue is going to take Carole outside and then she’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘OK … Don’t let me down now, boss.’

  ‘You have my word, Doug.’

  Carole’s face appeared. Her eyes were bloodshot. Lines of dried black mascara ran down her pale cheeks. I beckoned her towards me.

  As she squeezed around the partially open door, I saw her hands were shaking. I knew the thoughts that would be going through her mind: Will he change his mind at the last moment? Will they try and rush him? Will he hurt me?

  She edged forwards, her face full of anguish, taking tiny, shuffling steps as her feet slid on the floor. Her shoes left a damp trail from where raw fear had over-ridden her ability to retain control of her bladder.

  She stopped. I held out my hand. The message was clear, I hoped: Come to me.

  Carole reached out, her fingers trembling. Her message was also clear: Help me.

  I was about to move forwards when Sue spoke.

  ‘Doug, it’s me, Sue. I’m just going to step forwards to help Carole, if that’s OK?’ She held up a hand to me – a ‘stop’ sign – telling me, in no uncertain terms, to keep still and stay where I was. There was no reply from the cubicle. The door inched further open and, realising she had enough space, Carole started to squeeze through the gap.

  Sue silently mouthed a word to her: ‘Slowly.’

  Carole either didn’t recognise the instruction or chose to ignore it. As soon as she manoeuvred around the cubicle door she bolted for the exit. The door flew open – enough for me to glimpse a male figure in police uniform sat on the toilet seat – and then slammed shut again.

  Sue went after her and, as she did so, she raised two fingers to me and mouthed the words, ‘Two minutes.’

  I nodded. The door to the outside corridor closed noisily behind Sue.

  Silence returned.

  I glanced once more at the cable and microphone that would be relaying every word spoken to the control room no more than ten seconds’ walk away. The cable had been slightly dislodged by Carole’s rapid exit, but, to my frustration, it seemed intact. I still had no way of asking Doug about McNeil without being overheard.

  I looked around the room, trying to decide where I should sit or stand as I continued the conversation. Sue had seemed quite comfortable sat with her back to the wall near the urinals. I guessed that had been her plan, to relax the situation, lower the tension and secure a passive resolution. So far, it had worked. We just needed to get Doug to surrender quietly.

  I decided to stand, although I moved away from the door in case a decision was made elsewhere to make a rapid entry. I doubted that would happen. Even though Doug only had a small knife, he could do immense harm to himself in the few seconds it would take to cross the floor, force open the cubicle and then immobilise him.

  It looked like, for now, it was down to me. I took a deep breath. ‘Just the two of us now, Doug.’ I was just about to continue when a voice sounded in my earpiece: ‘Stand clear of the door. Entry in five minutes.’

  They were coming in hard. The decision puzzled me, but then I wasn’t the expert. My job was to keep Doug alive and keep him talking.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, boss?’ Doug asked.

  I heard the toilet seat creak and a movement from behind the door that suggested he was standing up.

  ‘Is it a bit cramped in there?’ I asked.

  ‘It is, but I’m not so green as I am cabbage-looking. Soon as I step out this door they’ll be in here, I’ll be decked and we won’t get a chance to talk.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Doug … to understand?’

  ‘Ireland,’ he answered.

  ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Ireland. It’s what you and me have in common and why I needed to talk to you.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘What about Ireland?’ I asked.

  ‘Where were you in March ’88, boss?’

  I smiled to myself. ‘Well, funnily enough, I was here … in this very nick. I’d been in the Met a couple of years and I was here working on the crime squad. Why do you ask?’

  ‘March 1988 is the reason I’m in the shit now.’ There was another creaking sound from the cubicle. Doug had returned to his sitting position. I figured I had about four minutes to find out what it was he wanted me to understand.

  ‘Something happened to you?’ I asked.

  Doug laughed, but not in humour, more a mixture of scorn and irony. ‘You could say that. But it could have been worse. I wasn’t beaten to a pulp by a mob and then shot in cold blood.’

  The penny dropped. March 1988: a month and an event burned into the memory of every British soldier. Andersonstown, Belfast: the murder of two Corporals who had inadvertently strayed into the path of the funeral of IRA member, Kevin Brady. Television news teams in attendance had recorded and described a scene of unspeakable horror as the soldiers had been dragged from their car, tortured and then shot with their own weapons. Never before had the British public witnessed such an event. Not that that provided any consolation to the Corporals’ families and friends, but many believed it changed public opinion to such an extent that it acted as a trigger to commence the Northern Ireland peace process.

  ‘You were at Andersonstown?’ I asked.

  ‘I hope you’re prepared to listen … to try and understand. I’m not stupid, Mr Finlay. I know they’re probably recording this and I know this might be my one and only chance to explain what happened last night. I also know that any minute now, SO19 will come bursting through the door behind you.’

  As Doug spoke and as my own personal memories of that day returned to me, I shuffled across the room and placed my back against the exit door.

  ‘I’m standing against the door, Doug,’ I said. ‘They’ll have to come through me.’

  Video footage from Andersonstown had been on television the day it happened and, such was the public horror, for a long time afterwards I’d tuned into every channel I could, so obsessed was I with understanding what had happened.

  Eight years prior to the murders I had been ambushed by the IRA while returning to my squadron base from a meeting in Castlederg. I had made similar mistakes to the two Corporals, I’d been armed with just a pistol, hadn’t checked my route and I’d nearly paid the ultimate price. I’d been very fortunate. When the firefight was over, three of my attackers were dead and another was on the run. I’d been shot in the foot and had just one round left in my magazine. I’d often wondered whether I would have had the courage to use it on myself. The way the murders at Andersonstown had taken place had triggered nightmares, repeated and frequent. In them I would be ambushed and find myself held down by a tangle of hands that stopped me from moving or escaping. It never ended well. I would see the barrel of my own pistol turned on me, be unable to resist and realise I was about to die. And at that point, I would wake up, soaked in sweat, shivering and with my heart pounding, grateful that, in my case, it was only a dream.

  And now, I found myself wanting to hear what Doug had to say. I knew that by standing next to the door and by telling the listening negotiators where I was and why, I was sending a message the decision-makers were not going to like. But this had now become personal. Doug Powell knew things, things that I wanted to know, and I wasn’t planning on our dialogue ending before he had the chance to tell me what they were.

  I wondered what was taking Sue so long. ‘You were there?’ I asked again.

  ‘I was, but that’s only part of it. I was Royal Scots. We were on QRF that day – the Quick Reaction Force. One of our lads was observ
er on the Lynx helicopter that was doing the eye-in-the-sky job. The crew saw what was going down and called it into the Ops room at Lisburn. We all thought it was another attack by the protestants, nobody realised they were army.’

  ‘That’s what I heard, Doug. They accidentally strayed into an area that had been declared out of bounds. There was nothing you could have done, really.’

  ‘It was only down the road from Milltown Cemetery, for Christ’s sake. The RUC managed to save a terrorist that attacked that funeral, why not our guys?’

  ‘I know,’ I replied. ‘I think everybody at the funeral thought it was another attack like the one in the cemetery, too … So is that behind what happened with you last night?’

  The earpiece voice spoke again: ‘Get away from the door, Finlay.’

  Where was Sue? I thought again. I ignored the voice. ‘So, what happened last night?’ I asked again, trying to change the subject from the Irish murders.

  ‘I lost it. I knew it would happen one day, I just knew it. I lost it at home once when the kids were roughhousing with me. We were wrestling over the remote for the TV. They jumped on me and I had a panic, threw them off, broke the TV screen. The missus went crazy.’

  ‘You have children?’

  ‘Yeah, two – a boy and a girl.’

  ‘Two girls for me.’

  Doug laughed. ‘Stronger sperm, boss. That’s what they say, good seed produces girls.’

  I laughed too. And I hoped the control room were listening. As things stood, Doug and I were chatting and building a rapport. Given time, the negotiating team knew that I would try and move the dialogue onto the here and now, the situation that we found ourselves in and how we might peacefully resolve it. Whoever it was speaking in my earpiece just needed to listen … and to back off.

  ‘So you get the picture?’ said Doug.

  ‘I think so. When they tried the station stamp stunt on you it triggered a reaction.’