by Tony Kent
‘Look at the upside, Sarah. They know they owe you. They now know how good you are. The public might not connect you with this story but today was the making of your career. It was a big day for you.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. Whatever voice goes with it, those are your pictures. I’m the one who’s being screwed to justify Hone’s salary.’
‘You need to put it behind you.’
Maguire could understand Sarah’s anger, but he also knew how futile it was. Their profession had ups and it had downs. Sarah would have to learn to live with them. Or to find her way around them.
‘It was a great story,’ he continued, ‘but it fell in your lap. Yes, you did a fantastic job. Yes, I’d rather be listening to your voice than Hone’s. But that’s life. Complaining about it won’t change anything. If you want to keep a story you can’t just stumble into it. You have to go out and find it. Make it. They can’t take those ones away from you, Sarah.’
Maguire rarely spoke so bluntly, but it had to be said. Sarah had to understand the realities of their business if she was going to make it to the top. And Maguire felt it was his responsibility to teach her those realities. Even when she did not want to hear them.
Sarah did not respond. Maguire knew why. He could understand her frustration. The truth was sometimes hard to hear, especially when that truth was so unfair. Aware that his words had hit a nerve, Maguire turned away and gave Sarah her privacy.
Sarah sat in silence for a few moments, as Maguire returned to the van’s editing equipment. She stared at the vehicle’s rear doors as she ran his words through her mind. Every one of them was true. She knew that. And yet they were hard to accept.
Difficult as it might be, Sarah would not be the professional she thought she was if she could not take a little constructive criticism from the man she trusted the most.
Annoyed with herself, she turned to face Maguire and opened her mouth to apologise. No words came out. Instead she just watched as his expert fingers manipulated the van’s high-tech editing equipment. And she marvelled as he skilfully improved and refined his footage. Maguire was a man who had his priorities straight. Who took his job seriously, but who never let it interfere with his humanity. Sarah knew that. And she knew he was someone she could – someone she should – aspire to emulate.
‘Tell me again why we’re sitting here, Jack? When everyone else is around at the front of the station?’
Sarah’s tone made it clear that her question was also an apology. An attempt to move past her outburst. Maguire seemed to understand that, and he answered as if the exchange had never taken place.
‘It’s because everyone else is around the corner. Whatever happens at the front of the building will be covered by every network. There’s no exclusive there, Sarah. But if I were cleaning up this mess I wouldn’t be coming in through the front door, fighting my way through the press. I’d come in the back way. If they do that, well, they’ll have to get through us.’
The building was Paddington Green police station, the most secure police holding area in the mainland United Kingdom. It was an ugly, grey, concrete tower block whose location next to the similarly unattractive Marylebone Flyover saw it greet millions of motorists a day as they travelled towards London’s more picturesque architecture. Since its construction it had seen the interrogation of almost every terror suspect arrested on English soil. It was here that the Trafalgar Square gunman was being held.
A mass of the world’s press was camped out at the front of the building. They were waiting for the first crumbs of information to be thrown their way. None knew when that first briefing would come. They would wait for as long as it took.
But they would wait without Maguire and Sarah. Following Maguire’s logic, the CNN van sat alone at the rear of the building, in the empty darkness beneath the overpass. Only the constant sound of overhead traffic reminded them of where they were.
‘So how long are we going to be sitting here?’
‘Get some patience, girl. The guy’s a terror suspect. They can hold him for twenty-eight days without charge. It could be ages before we hear something.’
‘Twenty-eight days? You’re kidding? We’re not sitting here that long, are we?’
‘It’ll take as long as it takes.’
Maguire’s response sounded impatient to Sarah’s ear, but when he looked up from his editing decks he was smiling. Any hint of irritation was gone from his voice when he continued.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll hear something quicker than that. The government can’t let this drag on without comment. But there’ll be plenty of coming and going from here before then, and we’re the ones who’ll see it. It just takes a little patience.’
Sarah was visibly relieved. The prospect of spending twenty-eight days cooped up in the back of the van had not been attractive. But there was more she wanted to ask. The next question was about to leave her lips when she noticed something through the van’s windscreen.
‘What are you looking at?’ Maguire craned his neck to follow her gaze.
‘A way to grab hold of this story.’
Sarah burst into a flurry of activity. She grabbed a Dictaphone, tied back her long brunette hair and smoothed down her suit.
‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘What? What are you talking about? I thought you were giving up?’
Maguire was now thoroughly confused. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for the ever-present pack of Marlboro Lights.
‘I’m always giving up. Doesn’t matter now. I’m about to go and make a story, just like you said.’
Sarah pointed in the direction of a shadowed area close to the station’s rear entrance. Maguire’s eyes followed her finger towards a glimpse of movement within the darkness. For a moment it meant nothing, until the tiny but unmistakable burning head of an inhaled cigarette illuminated the shadows.
‘Oh, I get it.’ From where they were parked the figure in the shadows could only be a police officer from inside the station. ‘Smoking-break solidarity. Clever girl.’
Sarah responded with a smile. She took the cigarette, turned her back on Maguire and walked towards the shadowy figure.
As she drew closer, Sarah’s eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness. She could make out more detail. The shape that had been hidden in the shadows took a form. A tall black police sergeant in his late thirties. Sarah smiled as she approached. It was not returned. She needed another way to break the ice.
‘They don’t let you guys smoke in there now, huh?’
Sarah was obviously a member of the press. The police sergeant could clearly see that. His attitude remained hostile.
‘Not many places we can smoke these days,’ he replied. He seemed intent on minimal response.
‘I know how you feel. My cameraman won’t let me smoke in the van either. It’s getting worse than it is at home.’ Sarah put the cigarette to her lips. ‘Would you mind?’
The sergeant took a lighter from his pocket. He held it out and watched as Sarah inhaled deeply, for the first time in three weeks. He had no idea how welcome she found the nicotine hit.
‘No need to ask what story you’re here for, I suppose?’
Sarah laughed as she exhaled a thin flume of smoke.
‘No, I guess not. There’s a whole lot of us cluttering up the place, right?’
‘Right. Reporters do have a knack for getting in the way.’
The sergeant’s words gave away his dislike for the press, but his tone suggested that an exception could be made. It was an opening Sarah took.
‘I can’t argue with that,’ she replied, careful not to seem overly flirtatious. ‘My name’s Sarah, Sarah Truman. I’m with CNN.’
He took Sarah’s outstretched hand. Shook it with delicate care.
‘Nice to meet you, Sarah from CNN. I’m Trevor Henry.’
‘And it’s nice to meet you, Trevor. It’s the only upside to them persecuting the smokers, right? At least we get to
meet new people.’
Henry nodded and smiled as his eyes scanned Sarah from head to toe. She could not tell if this was supposed to be subtle. Not that it mattered. The look on Henry’s face as his eyes returned to her face said all that it had to. He liked what he had seen.
‘So I’ve got to ask: are you involved with the case?’
‘Of course I am.’ Henry gestured his head towards the building as he spoke. ‘Who isn’t?’
‘And you can’t talk about it, I’m sure.’
‘I can’t, no. Shame, though. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather go on the record for.’
Henry put his cigarette to his lips as he spoke. His mouth broke into a flirtatious grin as he held Sarah’s gaze.
We’re getting there, Sarah thought.
‘What about off the record?’ she asked. ‘Nothing that’ll be broadcast. Just enough to put me on track, ahead of the rabble?’
Henry stared for a moment. Smiling. As if he was considering the consequences of granting Sarah’s request. They did not seem to worry him.
‘OK,’ he finally answered. ‘Ask me what you want and I’ll answer if I can. You won’t be getting much, though. And if anyone asks, we never spoke.’
‘Goes without saying. So who was the guy? Irish, right? I saw him pretty close and he didn’t look Islamic.’
Henry nodded his head.
‘Yeah. He’s Irish.’
‘His name?’
‘No chance. You’ll have to wait for that one with everyone else.’
‘Right. Why’d he do it?’
‘I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. He won’t tell us anything but his name. Not until he’s seen a lawyer.’
‘Who’s his lawyer?’
Sarah was already growing frustrated at how little Henry seemed to know. She hid it well.
‘No clue. No one’s shown up yet. Someone’s been called but I don’t know who.’
‘What about Neil Matthewson? It’s been suggested that he wasn’t the target. That he was actually going after Howard Thompson. Is that true?’
Henry shrugged.
‘Well, has he at least shown any remorse about Matthewson then?’
‘Hasn’t said a word about it. He hasn’t apologised, at least.’
Henry looked at his watch. His body language told Sarah that break-time was over. He dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the floor. Ground it out with his foot.
‘Time’s up, Sarah. Sorry I couldn’t help you more. But if you ever want a longer chat, over a few drinks maybe, you know where to find me. Take care.’
Sarah smiled back. It was the look of someone intrigued by the offer. Designed to disguise her irritation as Henry walked back towards the building.
Three weeks, Sarah thought as she dropped her cigarette to the floor. Three weeks without touching one, and I break it for that.
Sarah turned back to face the van. She knew Maguire would be watching and so she shrugged. Her conversation with Trevor Henry had told her next to nothing. That in itself was frustrating. But what it could mean was worse; that the twenty-eight-day wait was still a possibility.
She began to walk back towards the van. As she did she saw a pair of car headlights approaching from the distance. There was only one place the car could be heading.
At the same moment the automatic doors of the station’s rear entrance began to open.
Sarah stepped back from the kerb and into the shadows. From there she had a perfect view of the approaching car. It slowed as it passed her and turned into the station entrance. In seconds it was gone.
Those few seconds were long enough for Sarah to get a good view of the driver. It was a face she recognised. Like any junior reporter, she had paid her dues on the crime beat. Which meant she could recognise a handful of high-profile lawyers at a glance.
She was rushing back to Maguire before the building’s rear gate had even closed.
‘Jack, you are a genius!’
Sarah was almost shouting as she jumped into the front passenger’s seat.
‘Why? What did he tell you?’
‘Who, the cop? Oh, screw him. He doesn’t know anything we don’t. I’m talking about your idea to sit here. If we were out front I wouldn’t have seen who was driving that car. We’ve got a lead, Jack. Now we can go build our story.’
Maguire laughed along with Sarah’s enthusiasm, but he still looked confused.
‘Slow down, would you? It helps if we both know what you’re talking about. What lead? Who was in that car?’
‘The story was in there, Jack. Well, the start of it, anyway. The police might not want to tell us anything, but now we know who this guy’s lawyer is.’
SIXTEEN
Dempsey pulled his DDS identification from his jacket pocket. He was next in a long line of visitors waiting to pass the manned entrance to New Scotland Yard. It was still a world-famous address. Home to the top ranks of the Metropolitan Police and to many of Britain’s intelligence agencies. It was one of London’s most secure buildings. Few could walk through its doors unmolested. But then few were senior agents in the DDS.
The security door slid aside at the press of a button. Dempsey strode through and headed for the main reception desk, glancing at the clock that sat above it. It showed 9 p.m. Late for a working day. Not that it made any difference. The building bustled with activity.
The reception desk seemed to be a focal point. It was manned by two uniformed sergeants. Tonight it could have used ten. Two lines of visitors were impatiently waiting to be processed and have their questions answered. Dempsey joined neither. He had queued enough for one day.
‘I’m looking for Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley.’ Dempsey flashed his credentials to the first sergeant. There was a murmur of annoyance from the queue behind. Dempsey silenced it with a glance.
‘He’s, erm, he’s in his office on the fifth floor.’
The desk sergeant seemed disarmed. Few people walked into New Scotland Yard with such purpose. Such authority. Which was exactly why Dempsey had done so. The flustered sergeant continued.
‘I can, erm, call up and tell him you’re here to see him? Mr . . .?’
‘I’ll announce myself.’
Dempsey turned without another word. He walked away, towards an open elevator. He stepped inside and pressed ‘5’, staring directly at the desk sergeant as the doors closed.
The sergeant watched in silence, as if hypnotised by Dempsey’s confidence. But then that had been the intention all along. Dempsey had many talents. Walking through closed doors was just one of them.
‘Who the hell was that?’ The second desk sergeant had missed the exchange.
‘DDS agent.’ The first sergeant spoke slowly, as if just coming to his senses. ‘Here to see Henley.’
‘Then don’t you think you’d better call up?’
The first sergeant seemed to process the suggestion slowly. But then his eyes widened, suggesting that the last few minutes had suddenly sunk in. He grabbed the telephone handset and dialled.
The line was answered before a second ring. He did not wait for a greeting.
‘There’s a DDS agent on the way up to see the assistant commissioner. He doesn’t look happy.’
Dempsey stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor. A welcome party was there to greet him. Three uniformed officers, all tall and wide, flanking a smaller man in a cheap polyester suit.
Between them they blocked the hall.
‘Can I help you, Mr . . .?’ Polyester Suit took the lead.
‘Major Dempsey. I’m looking for Alex Henley.’
‘I’m afraid the assistant commissioner is very busy, Major. Perhaps if you could make an appointment for tomorrow?’
‘No.’ Dempsey’s voice was firm. There would be no negotiation. ‘I’m seeing him now. Take me or I find him myself. Your choice.’
Dempsey’s meaning was unmistakable. Intentionally so. One way or another his questions would be answered. The three larger men tensed. T
hey seemed ready for what would follow. They would know that Dempsey was a DDS operative; that much would have been passed upwards by the desk sergeant. So they would know that he was no easy target, but then he was outnumbered. Were they willing to take the risk?
If they were, Polyester Suit was not so reckless. He looked from man to man. One big guy against three bigger guys. They were good odds, but sometimes you go with your gut. Polyester Suit’s gut seemed to say that this would not end well for his men.
‘OK, Major.’ He had made his decision. ‘He’s down the hall. Please follow me.’
A wave of a hand stood the three men down. They stepped aside. Obedient.
The man has more authority than that cheap suit would suggest, Dempsey thought.
It was a short walk, taking them into the heart of the New Scotland Yard building. Every room they passed was alive with activity. The day had been a propaganda disaster. Security agencies were working overtime to clean up their mess.
They reached Assistant Commissioner Henley’s office door in less than a minute. Polyester Suit knocked once and entered without waiting for a response. This was all the confirmation Dempsey needed that they were expected.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. Major Dempsey of the Department of Domestic Security is here to see you.’
‘Major Dempsey.’ Henley reacted as if meeting an old friend. ‘How are you? No lasting injuries from today, I hope?’
Henley rose from his chair as he spoke. A tall man, he was middle-aged and naturally distinguished. One of life’s officers. It was impossible to imagine him in anything other than his perfectly tailored uniform. Some people choose their careers. Alex Henley could have been nothing else.
He strode forward, his hand outstretched. Dempsey thrust his own forward and gripped Henley’s tightly.
‘No injuries, no.’ Dempsey replied. ‘Which is more than can be said for Samantha Regis.’
Henley released his grip and took a step back. His surprise at Dempsey’s directness was unmistakable.