The Becket Approval

by Falconer, Duncan

  ‘I’d rather help search for the ambushers,’ Pandi said.

  ‘And last time I checked I was in command here and you will do as you are ordered. Let me tell you all one thing in case you have not considered it. This is going to be the most high profile incident that has happened to this force in many years. I can’t even think of anything like it, other than during war time. Everything that happens, every action we take, every word we say will be recorded and examined by every authority in the country, all the way to the top. Is that understood? So from this moment on, stay sharp, do your duty and keep your mouths shut unless you are asked.’

  Judging by the expressions that faced him, the commander was satisfied his exhortation had been well received. ‘Okay then. Let’s get organised. All of you get your gear. Make sure your weapons are ready for use. We’re going up the hill to search those woods. Go!’

  ‘Do we have to wear our body armour?’ one of them asked. ‘It’s very heavy and that’s a steep hill to climb.’

  ‘What would you prefer if someone starts shooting at you?’ the commander asked sarcastically.

  The man shrugged, not looking entirely convinced. ‘The ambushers have gone,’ he said.

  ‘Idiot! Go! Wear your armour!’

  The men walked off.

  ‘Shall I take the car or the truck?’ Pandi asked.

  ‘The car. And have all of your equipment. Make sure you have your weapons ready. Look sharp. Do you know who you are going to talk to?’

  ‘Our headquarters.’ Pandi shrugged as if it was obvious.

  ‘Who?’

  Pandi shrugged again, this time because he wasn’t sure.

  ‘The highest possible rank you can find. And what will you tell them?’

  ‘That this happened. Five of our men shot dead by unknown ambushers.’

  ‘Correct. Ensure you report that I am in immediate pursuit and that we need as much support as possible. Tell them to send the army. Remind them that as we are near the border the attack could involve foreign nationals.’

  ‘You mean it could have been Serbians?’

  ‘Anything is possible. But don’t say that in your report. We have no idea who it was until we find evidence. Get going.’

  Pandi hurried off to get his gear while the commander joined the others who were ready to go. He was handed his body armour which he pulled over his head, grabbed his rifle and walked to the edge of the clearing that opened up to the vista. ‘Move out! In a line!’

  The men got into position either side of him.

  ‘We walk down to the bottom then up the other side. When we reach the trees I’ll give fresh orders. Keep your eyes open. Concentrate. We’re looking for any signs. If you see fresh tracks or anything you think could be evidence, call out and we’ll stop and assess what we have. Any questions?’

  The men were looking at the ground ahead, some thinking about the hard work it represented, others worried about meeting the killers.

  ‘Let’s go,’ the commander ordered and he set off down the slope.

  Pandi left the cabin with his gear and headed for the police car. He glanced over at the BMW to see the father sitting in the open door. As Pandi reached his vehicle there was a single, sharp gunshot. His immediate thought was that his colleagues had engaged the ambushers. He heard voices. Shouting. There was a scream of extreme anguish.

  Pandi dropped his stuff except for his rifle and ran to where he could look down on the others. They were halfway down the slope, in short shrubbery, scurrying around. One of them was lying still, face down in bracken.

  Another shot echoed across the open ground and one of the men flew back as a bullet blew out between his shoulder blades. The others started to run back up the hill the way they’d come.

  Pandi felt helpless. He aimed his rifle at the woods but couldn’t see anything to shoot at. Another shot rang out and another officer fell dead. Three seconds later a shot killed one more.

  Pandi considered running to the car and driving off to get help as the commander had ordered. But that would mean deserting his colleagues. That was one of the things his brother and uncle had lectured him on; the patrol was a family. Everyone looked after each other. That meant not only drinking together but also fighting together.

  He looked down the slope to see two men left – his uncle and the commander. They still had a way to go to reach the top. He knew what he had to do.

  He ran to the truck, scrambled into the back and to the PKM machinegun. It wasn’t loaded. An ammunition box was on the floor. His hands trembling, he ripped it open, pulled out the long belt of linked bullets, raised the top cover, slapped the bullets onto the feed tray, dropped the cover, wiggled the bullets because the tray wouldn’t shut properly, raised the cover a little, adjusted the bullets, slammed the cover back down where it clipped into place. He pulled back the cocking lever against its heavy spring, aimed at the trees and pulled the trigger! The burst of power shook the weapon and his entire body as bullets spat loudly towards the woodland and empty casings flew into the air around him. The sound was deafening. He was on full automatic, like the weapon. He kept hold of the trigger, letting loose an endless stream of copper coated lead, holding on with all his strength. He could see branches snapping and bits of debris flying up as bullets ravaged the trees. All he could hope for was to distract the ambushers enough for the others to get back to the top of the slope. If he was lucky he might hit one of them. Every fifth bullet was a tracer that shot into the wood like a laser, lasting a couple of seconds.

  Pandi was unable to see that the commander and his uncle were already dead, face down in the bracken with holes in their backs. The commander had managed to get within a few metres of the top of the slope before being hit.

  Pandi reached the end of the belt and everything went silent. His blood was up and he wanted to continue. He would keep firing until he ran out of ammunition or the men appeared. He grabbed the remaining belt from the box, loaded the tray and pulled the cocking lever back. As he gripped the trigger a bullet slammed into his chest and he flew back onto the bed hitting it hard.

  Pandi lay there looking at the sky, trying to breathe. He knew he’d been shot. It burned like hell. He could feel liquid filling his throat and began to choke on it. He coughed, spurting blood from his mouth and the hole in his chest. It was filling his lungs. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. Within seconds it went dark. Pandi lay still, his glazed eyes open. Blood trickled from his mouth.

  The father in the BMW had watched Pandi throughout his last half minute of life. When silence fell he reached for the ignition key and turned it. The engine gunned to life. He floored the accelerator and fishtailed across the dirt until the tyres reached the road and tore along it.

  Chapter 4

  Bethan Trencher faced the full-length mirror in her bedroom and examined herself in her black business suit. On the bed was a suitcase filled with enough comfy clothes to last a week, notably devoid of socialising garb. Scrummy jumpers, pyjamas and thick, long socks. She placed it on the floor, smoothed over the bed cover, checked all was in order, picked up the case and left the room.

  She stepped into another room, a spare bedroom turned office. A wall was covered in pictures, notes, sketches, pieces of cloth, all connected by a complex web of coloured strings. It was the pictures that were disturbing. Young girls mostly, smiling, posing, selfies, happy, disfigured, mutilated, bloody and dead. At the top of the matrix was a man in his thirties.

  Clenching her teeth she ripped his picture down and screwed it up as if crushing his very soul, folding and pressing it until her fingers hurt. She tossed it inside a black plastic bag and tore at the rest of the matrix, pulling it off in chunks. She worked with enthusiasm and aggression in order to remove every little piece of it.

  She took a deep breath when it was over. But it wasn’t over. That would come later in the day.

  She left the room, carried the suitcase down the stairs, grabbed her laptop bag and a box of file
s and left the house. It was a bright afternoon in Hampstead. Leaves were shoved around by a gentle breeze as she put her stuff into her car, climbed in and drove off. Two hours later, she was sitting in a packed courtroom near the Aldwych. Beside her was her boss, Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Dillon, brow furrowed as he concentrated on the proceedings. Bethan was staring at the man in the dock, his hands chained. It was the man in the picture at the top of her matrix.

  ‘You are an evil man, to be sure,’ the judge said. ‘There is no place for you in civilised society, nor is there any likelihood of that being the case in the future. This court sentences you to whole life imprisonment without possibility of parole.’

  The sentence was met with stony silence. It was no surprise to anyone. Bethan was satisfied and sighed deeply without realising how loud she’d been. DCI Dillon put a gentle hand on hers. Bethan wasn’t sure if it was intended to calm her or to share a moment of victory. She wanted to stand up and applaud and wondered whether, if she did, how many people would join her.

  Bethan was more than ready to leave when the court was dismissed. She wanted to get on the road, away from the City and into the countryside. She could already taste the solitude. As she headed along a corridor towards the main entrance, she heard her name being called. It was Dillon. He was doing his official bit, chatting with various people, receiving plaudits and discussing police business but he wanted to speak to her.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, genuinely cheerful. ‘Your father would have been very proud.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. She appreciated the comment.

  ‘Enjoy your week.’

  ‘I will.’ And she headed out the door.

  Five hours later, Bethan was driving along a narrow lane that burrowed its way into Dartmoor. There was wide open countryside as far as the eye could see in every direction with pockets of trees behind her and nothing but moorland in her windscreen.

  She turned onto a gravelly lane that curved down into a dip where a neat old farmhouse nestled surrounded by a dry stone wall. The place was well maintained, made easy by its simple stone paths, gravel surrounds and indigenous flora. It had long since given up its farming status in exchange for private residence. Rain speckled her windshield as she drove inside a former stable and turned off the engine. Silence descended. And with it came a sense of relief. Isolation at last. Freedom.

  There were still some minor adjustments needed before the transition was complete. A change of clothes. A roaring fire. Add a glass of whisky and she would have truly arrived. She sighed in anticipation. A week off with nothing to do but long walks, books, finishing the report – which she kind of enjoyed – and read a new case file.

  There was something obvious missing of course. Companionship. Bethan pushed the thought aside before it took hold, dragged the suitcase out of the boot along with a bag of groceries and headed through the light shower to the house. Within an hour she was plonked in front of a crackling fire wearing pyjamas, a thick jumper, woolly sock slippers and clutching a glass of whisky. She made herself comfortable on the rug, exhaled deeply, inhaled the moment and began the process of exorcising the serial killer from her bones.

  She hadn’t realised how deeply tired she was until she woke up in darkness several hours later. The fire had gone out and she was cold. She picked up the empty whisky glass, the contents of which no doubt contributed to her snooze, put the contents of what was supposed to have been supper in the fridge and trudged off to the bedroom. Within minutes she was under a thick duvet and ready to sleep. She questioned why she was lying on one side of the double bed and forced herself into the middle in an effort to make it feel normal. But it didn’t.

  Stop thinking about everything, she told herself as she curled into a ball, closed her eyes and concentrated on clearing her mind.

  Chapter 5

  Gunnymede sat comfortably in a shallow scrape wrapped in a camouflaged windproof with a thick fleece lining. An icy wind roamed an ocean of sand to the horizon in every direction, like lumbering waves, frozen still but for the fine spray that left their crests. He was wearing a military issue Davy Crocket bonnet with long, woolly ears against the relentless granules riding the north-west Shamal and pelting his face. Stars were everywhere, all the way to the ground, as if he was inside a vast snow-dome. There was a man-made addition to the heavenly display. A light show coming from the west. Miles away, someone was getting a pounding. Sharp flashes. Silent explosions. On a still night a rumble might’ve been heard, but not with the Shamal blowing.

  A figure trudged towards Gunnymede’s back. Gunnymede reached for his pack and pulled out a sand-coloured metal flask. He filled a cup with tepid coffee and took a sip as Granger plonked himself down and placed his assault rifle across his lap with an exaggerated sigh.

  Gunnymede handed him the cup.

  ‘All good in every direction,’ Granger announced, taking a sip. ‘No sign of a sandstorm either. Not that those buggers can’t appear in a minute of course.’ He looked west through his thermal imager. ‘That glow’s the village on the sat phot, right?’

  ‘Must be.’

  ‘Could be some nomads set up camp.’

  ‘I think it’s the village.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Granger said, taking another sip before handing the cup back to Gunnymede. He pulled out a single meal ration pack, tore it open, dug a plastic spoon into it and savoured it. ‘Boring, boring, boring,’ he said as he took a plastic box from a pocket and spooned some powdery spices over the meal.

  Gunnymede watched with curiosity as Granger sampled it again.

  ‘That’s better – want some?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Your loss. I’m a master field chef.’

  ‘Then I’d better try some,’ Gunnymede said, more out of politeness than curiosity.

  Granger filled the fork and handed it to Gunnymede who nibbled at it as if he was an official taster. ‘Very entertaining. Do I detect a suspicion of tarragon?’

  ‘The man knows ’is ’erbs,’ Granger said, pleased with himself. ‘These Yank meals are good but they can get a bit bland. I like my spices. Bit heavy on the turmeric though,’ Granger decided after another taste.

  ‘Good for inflammations.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Granger agreed and sat back to watch the distant flashing light show as he ate. ‘Must be Homs.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it? I mean, I know some poor rag ’ead is getting a beating but, you know what I mean. Syria’s version of the northern lights,’ he quipped with a chuckle. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Aurora.’

  ‘That’s it. Aurora ... bore ...’

  ‘Borealis.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Gunnymede couldn’t see the pretty but there was no accounting for tastes. ‘Where’s your accent from?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a local lad.’

  ‘Syrian?’

  ‘Fuck off. Hereford. Born within sight of Lord Hereford’s Knob.’

  Gunnymede hadn’t a clue.

  ‘It’s a prominent erection in the Brecons,’ Granger explained.

  ‘So you always wanted to join the Regiment?’

  ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘What was your parent unit?’

  ‘1 Para. Four years. Did selection eight years ago. Time flies.’

  ‘Depends what you’re doing with it,’ Granger mumbled. ‘So what do you reckon? About this lot?’

  ‘What lot?

  ‘Saleem?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on. You’re the int man. This is your op. I’m just your baby sitter. You must know something.’

  ‘I don’t know anything more about Saleem than you do.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘He talks to some Russian dude. We don’t know who or what he talks about. That’s why we’re here.’

  Granger shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. We must have an idea what he’s talking about and
that it’s bloody important enough for us to be here.’

  ‘Very true,’ Gunnymede said. ‘But my point is, I don’t know.’

  ‘So why does he come here regularly to the same location to make a phone call? I mean, why the same place? It’s a sat signal. He can talk from anywhere. He doesn’t have to drive all the way out here?’

  ‘Validation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If he makes the call from a predetermined location it confirms to the recipient who the caller is. Not many people can make a call from the middle of the Syrian dessert these days.’

  Granger thought about it. ‘Makes sense I s’pose. But whoever he’s calling would need to be able to locate the exact position of the sat phone.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And to do that you’d need sophisticated IT which would suggest a government.’

  ‘Or someone who has access to state technology.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he call from anywhere and just send a code?’

  ‘He probably does. Two-step verification. The code plus the location verifies it’s Saleem.’

  ‘And how do we know when he’s coming out here?’ Granger asked. ‘We know every time he leaves his compound to come on one of these secret chats.’

  ‘No idea how that triggers. We must have a friendly somewhere.’

  ‘Okay. But why this Saleem bloke? He’s nothing but a low ranking Daesh foot soldier. He’s like the equivalent of a corporal. His commanders live in the same camp as him. Why aren’t his bosses talking to this Russian? I mean. Who the hell is Saleem?’

  ‘A conundrum to be sure.’

  ‘Shh!’ Granger’s eyes darted to the sky. He removed his hat to hear better.

  Gunnymede looked skywards as he concentrated.

  ‘That’s air,’ Granger said.

  The sound grew. They got to their feet, hoping to see something amongst the millions of stars.

  ‘Not a drone?’ Gunnymede said.

  ‘No. That’s a fighter.’

  They followed the sound as it moved in a wide circle around them.