by Matt Johnson
As I headed to St James’s Park tube station, I ran through Mellor’s words again, wondering if he had a point. He was right, of course. Kevin’s claim did seem almost too fantastic to be true.
Heading towards the down escalator, I came across a familiar face on duty at the ticket barrier. A man who seemed to really enjoy his job, I had often exchanged a few words with the guard who now made to wave me through and onto the platform. This time though, as I automatically reached for the warrant card that would allow me free travel on the underground train system, I was reminded that I no longer had that privilege. I was suspended, my ID was in a Complaints Sergeant’s briefcase and I would have to pay for a ticket.
‘Forgot my card,’ I mumbled, apologetically.
‘No worries, mate,’ he answered. ‘Go on through, I’ll vouch for you.’
I hesitated, and thought better of taking him up on the offer. It would be just my luck that this would be the very evening I’d run into a ticket inspector on the journey or at my destination when I left the train. Then, any plea for clemency due to a forgotten warrant card would likely as not fall on deaf ears and I would be fined. Far easier, I thought, to buy a ticket.
Far easier, of course, if you had enough money or a credit card. I’d never worried about the cost of underground rail travel, given that it was always free, and I very nearly found myself embarrassed at the ticket office when I discovered how much fare prices had increased. It was only thanks to a pound coin found deeply buried in a forgotten pocket that I managed to scrape together sufficient change to put together the required amount.
‘Don’t say I didn’t offer,’ quipped the guard, with a broad grin, as I headed to the platform. I didn’t stop to chat, not this time. I had too much on my mind. Not least of which, what I was going to tell Jenny.
Wrapped up in my thoughts, feeling alone and confused by events, I guess I had a pretty reasonable excuse for being distracted. As it was, I hardly noticed my surroundings, let alone the people that came and went nearby. If I had, I may have registered the man walking down the steps about twenty-five yards behind me and the military bearing to his walk. And I might have noticed the dark windcheater jacket, the same jacket I’d seen a stranger wearing as I sat on a bench in Regent’s Park not two hours previously.
But I didn’t. I didn’t register anything.
Chapter 48
The evening was quickly drawing in and, as I walked into the car park at Cockfosters train station, I saw it was now almost empty, most of my fellow commuters having headed home somewhat earlier than I had.
A single amber street light illuminating the exit and entry had very little effect in the further recesses of the expansive tarmac. On its own in the dark, face into the fence adjoining the railway track, the Citroen sat looking rather lonely.
I pulled the phone Toni had given me from my pocket and brought up Kevin’s mobile number. I tapped the ‘call’ button in the vain hope that I might get through to him but, not too surprisingly, there was no response. I glanced at the sky, a slight damp smell in the air suggesting the rain affecting central London was on the way. Not any time soon though, I hoped.
The train journey had given me time to think about what I was going to tell Jenny and what I was going to do next. The more I’d considered what had happened, what had been said during the interview and what I knew to be fact, the more confident I became that Mellor had no real evidence to justify my suspension and, given time, he’d have to concede that fact and I would be able to return to work.
For Kevin though, things were very different. Until he’d decided to escape custody, I would have been reasonably hopeful that my friend might have had a chance. Now though, he was finished, of that there was no doubt. And, while I thought I understood why he had decided to escape, I knew that any chance he might have had of convincing a jury effectively went out the window the moment the first smoke grenade was thrown. Now, all the pieces came together to create a picture of a man who was more gangster than cop, more guilty than innocent.
I had just turned the key in the driver’s door of the car when I sensed someone close behind me. I hadn’t noticed anyone else enter the car park from the train and, as I checked reflections in the glass of the car, I saw nothing. No movement, no sign of anyone nearby but still the sensation persisted. I turned slightly and picked up my briefcase, all the while scanning the shadows for any sign of danger.
A movement in the rear passenger window caught my eye, the outline of a figure … and then I saw him. Instantly, I knew I was in trouble. Dark windcheater jacket, tall. The words ‘Regent’s Park’ had barely formed in my brain when he lunged toward me.
Fear lent speed and strength to my reactions. I swung the briefcase hard to buy time and space. It connected, somewhere in the upper body area and that was all I needed.
I ran, back to the light, back to the station.
But not for long. My attempt to buy time hadn’t worked. Although adrenalin drove my leg muscles hard, I hadn’t covered more than a few yards when I felt my trailing leg held in a firm grip. I tumbled forwards, crashing heavily onto the tarmac, my elbow and right shoulder taking the full force of my fall. A burning, searing pain in my shoulder stunned me for a moment as the breath was forced from my lungs. I rolled. My body was hurting but I wasn’t done yet, not by a long chalk.
My attacker was powerful, but I was scared, and that fear lent me strength. Although my senses told me this wasn’t a mugging, I hoped I was wrong. I wasn’t – I learned that in the seconds that followed, as I struggled to free myself from the skilled moves he demonstrated. Everything I tried, every twist, every dig, every attempt at a bite, all proved fruitless. He knew what he was doing.
And then I realised. He wasn’t trying to hurt, just to restrain. Not once had he done anything to actually injure me. I stopped fighting, and his grip lessened.
He spoke. ‘Are you done?’ The voice was strong, the accent that of a Scot, a Glaswegian.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘If ye’d stop fightin’ ya fuckin’ dobber, I’ll tell ye.’
‘OK, OK … just let me up.’
‘Nae chance, pal. You stay right where you are, dae ye ken?’
I understood. I was face down, nose to the dirt, one arm pinned beneath my chest and the other held firmly by a skilled adversary who now sat atop of me. I knew when I was beaten. I did my best to nod.
‘Now … are ye listening?’ he continued.
I nodded again.
‘OK … I’m McNeil. Taff Jones says you’ll know the name.’
‘Teacup McNeil?’
‘The same. But I’ll nae have a Rupert use that nickname, ye hear?’
‘OK, sorry … is Kevin with you?’
‘Don’t you worry about him. He’s safe enough. I’m here because we need something from you.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked. ‘I have to speak to him.’
‘All in good time. Now, seeing as ye now know who I am, I’m going tae let go of your arm but, any funny business and you’ll be back on your face, ye ken?’
I did, and true to his word, as I made clear my realisation that my life and good health was no longer under threat, McNeil pulled away from me and stood up.
I stayed sitting as I checked my elbow and shoulder. It was sore but nothing appeared broken.
‘You’ll heal soon enough,’ he said.
I brushed off my jacket, stopping almost immediately as a sharp pain ran up my arm. I checked my hands. The knuckles of my right hand were deeply grazed and, in the half-light from the station, I could make out what looked like fragments of grit lodged in the skin. My fingers were stiff. I flexed them, the resulting pain making me wince.
‘We need the document,’ McNeil said.
‘I guessed as much. Kevin asked me to try and recover it for him.’
‘Did you get it?’
‘I saw you…’
‘At Regent’s Park? Aye, I thought ye did. I was with you all the way fro
m Kentish Town. Why did ye walk rather than catch the bus?’
‘I needed some space.’
‘Aye … I guess you did. I saw what ye did at that tower block and I spoke to a couple of the PCs who were manning the check point. The lad you talked down is a friend of mine.’
‘I know, he told me,’ I said. ‘He’s Barry Powell’s kid brother.’
‘That’s right. I remembered what ye did for Barry and told Doug you would help him if he ever found hisself in a jam.’
‘So you turning up at Kentish Town wasn’t a coincidence?’
‘Correct. Dougie told me what had happened with the WPC and how you came to his help. So, when I heard from his missus what he was intending to do this time, I knew they’d likely call you out to talk him down. I just waited till ye finished and then followed you.’
‘Doug is a good lad.’
‘Aye, he is. But right now we’ve a rather pressing problem. I want the document you recovered from Dr Armstrong’s house.’
‘It’s gone,’ I said. ‘The local lads found it before I got there and handed it to Special Branch. They passed it on to MI5.’
McNeil’s shoulders slumped. ‘Bollocks,’ he said, quietly. ‘You’re sure?’
I maintained the lie. ‘Completely. I checked Armstrong’s house and couldn’t find it. And then I heard from the MI5 woman who looks after Kevin and me that her boss had produced it at a meeting.’
‘Ach shit. That’s nae good news.’
‘Mind telling me what’s so damn important about that document?’ I probed, hoping to find out what McNeil already knew.
‘I’d have thought you’d know. Lots have heard it’s a treasure and, to some extent it is. It’s what the document reveals that gives it value.’
‘Details of a terrorist group?’
McNeil smirked. ‘Maybe … maybe not. Some say it’s far more than that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I have no bloody idea, Mr Finlay,’ he said, angrily. ‘And if I did, would I have asked Kevin to have gotten it translated fae us?’
Surmising that the conversation was over, I pulled my legs up and rolled onto my side.
‘Stay where you are a minute.’ McNeil raised his left hand to me and with his right removed a small phone from his pocket. He pressed in a number and was answered almost instantly.
I heard a tinny voice asking if I had ‘it’. McNeil explained briefly that I didn’t, and my explanation as to why. He then leaned toward me and handed me the phone.
A voice greeted me. ‘Hello, boss.’ I recognised it immediately.
It was Kevin.
Chapter 49
‘Hope he didn’t scare you too much,’ Kevin said.
I looked up at McNeil, who appeared to be checking the car park in case anyone had seen the irregular way our get-together had started. He looked relaxed, as if what was happening was all in a day’s work.
‘I’ve had better days,’ I replied. ‘So, do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? I’ve just been dragged over the coals by Mellor because he thinks I must have been involved in your escape.’
Kevin laughed. ‘That man’s a first-class prat and if he thinks he can stitch me up with Sandi’s murder he’s gonna be sadly disappointed.’
I asked how the escape had been organised and how Kevin had managed it, but he wouldn’t be drawn. It could wait until later, he said. For now, he needed another favour. He asked about his hide and the weapons and kit it had concealed. When I confirmed they remained undiscovered, he asked me to bring them to him.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Moel Prysgau.’
‘The house near the Brecon Beacons? That’s crazy. You’ll be spotted there.’
‘No, not the house. The bothy up in the forest. The one we used that time before heading out to Peshawar.’
I remembered it. Bothies were a form of mountain refuge that I’d made use of during several training exercises. Less like a house, more like a tent with walls and a roof, bothies had no beds, sinks, lighting or even a tap. They represented the most basic of living conditions. But what they lacked in luxury, they more than made up for in terms of privacy. Seldom, if ever, visited, bothies only attracted that rare breed of person looking for hermit-like living in an environment where man seldom went. And Moel Prysgau, set in a remote valley in the Brecon Beacons, had the additional advantage that it commanded an excellent view of the only track available to approach it. So, if unwelcome visitors appeared, a quick escape into the mountains could be made. For Kevin, it looked an excellent choice.
‘I’m suspended, Kev,’ I added.
‘I’m not surprised. Mellor made it clear in my interview that he was after both of us. We’ve been on his radar for quite a while it seems. How soon can you get here?’
‘If I can square things with Jenny, I should be able to get to you tomorrow.’
‘That would be handy. The lads that exfilled me are suggesting a move to Spain in a day or so.’
‘Not on a commercial flight, I presume.’
‘One of them has a boat.’
‘Who are they?’
‘All in good time, boss. I’ll tell all tomorrow.’
McNeil had moved to stand over me. I handed the phone back to him and, after making a quick arrangement to join Kevin the day after me, he ended the call.
‘How did Kevin get a phone?’ I asked, as he pulled me to my feet.
‘No idea. It wasn’t his, that I can tell you. He told me that he had your new number from when you gave it to him at the court but he’d forgotten it. He remembered mine, so we arranged for me to intercept you.’
‘Intercept? Is that what you call it? I thought you were going to kill me.’
McNeil leaned close to me and smiled sadistically. ‘Trust me when I say this, boss. If I’d been intending to kill you, you would nae be standing here talking to me.’
Chapter 50
‘No trace at all, you say?’ Bill stopped chewing and stared toward the restaurant door.
It wasn’t often they got together more than twice in a week, but these weren’t ordinary times. There was a lot to go through, a lot to discuss.
Toni sprinkled some extra Parmesan onto her half-finished pasta. It looked like her choice of meal had been a better one than her dining partner’s. He had picked the steak and, from the look of the faces he was now pulling, it wasn’t the best one he’d ever experienced.
‘None,’ she replied. ‘Stuart tells me, according to the vice squad, Martina Proctor is no longer active. Steak a bit chewy?’ she asked.
Bill leaned back in his chair, gently placed his knife and fork on his plate and then reached for the glass of red wine near his right hand. ‘You noticed?’
‘I couldn’t help it. Do you want me to call the waiter?’
He sniffed. ‘No, leave it. I’ll manage. Bit of a coincidence, you think? About Proctor.’
Toni scooped the last of her pasta onto a spoon. ‘I’m not sure what to think. He could have bought her off but, given what else has happened you can’t blame me for thinking the worst.’
Bill drained his glass and glanced around the almost deserted restaurant. It looked like he was ready to leave. ‘Get your man to dig deeper, I’d suggest.’ He waved politely to the waiter. ‘I’ll get this, Toni,’ he said.
She smiled and was about to drain her glass as her handbag started to buzz. Her phone was ringing. She glanced down to the seat next to her where the illuminated screen told her it was Nell. She pressed the button to reject the call.
The flat was just a few minutes’ walk and, as they strolled arm-in-arm, Toni thought about what Bill had said. He was right, even if it turned up an innocent explanation, finding out the fate of Howard’s prostitute would answer a question.
The phone started buzzing again.
‘I’d better take this,’ she said. ‘Nell seems to want me for something and you know what she’s like.’
They stopped outside the gated entrance to
a block of newly built flats. As Toni pressed the ‘answer’ button, Bill moved a short distance away, allowing her to speak freely.
Nell dispensed with any pleasantries. ‘It was that Superintendent from police complaints who you said has it in for Jones and Finlay.’
‘Superintendent Mellor? And what is it you think he’s done?’ Toni asked.
‘You asked me to find out more about the listening device we found in Sandi Beattie’s home? Well we did. Stuart helped me get entry to the Police Complaints Unit records.’
‘How did he do that? I thought you said they were stored in their offices?’
‘They are. We broke in this evening.’
‘You did what?’ Toni exclaimed.
‘Oh, don’t worry. It was quite fun, really. And nobody saw us. I took pictures of the records using my phone. Both the devices – the one in Kevin Jones house and the one in the Beattie house – were shown as still being in the stores.’
‘So we don’t know who took them out?’
‘Superintendent Mellor had access to them. It has to have been him.’
‘But he didn’t sign for them?’ Toni insisted.
‘No, but there are too many coincidences for it not to have been him.’
Toni sighed. They were getting close, but they weren’t there.
‘There’s something else,’ Nell continued. ‘But I need your help with that.’
‘What is it?’
‘The document Finlay brought back from Wales, the one that was connected to the deaths of all those soldiers. I think I may have found something, but I’d need to take a proper look to compare the original with the translation, if that’s possible? Could I have a copy?’