by Tony Kent
‘Yes. Yes, Major. You have my condolences about Sergeant Regis. Her death was a tragedy.’ Henley’s voice was sincere. His reaction honest.
‘No argument on that here.’
The confrontation Dempsey had been prepared for would not be necessary. He took a different approach.
‘I need your help.’
‘Anything I can do, Major.’
‘I want to know who fired the shot.’
At first Henley did not answer. Dempsey thought he knew why.
Along with the American Secret Service, Henley had enjoyed joint control of the full team of marksmen stationed in the buildings around Trafalgar Square. And someone in that team had killed Samantha Regis. Henley could not deny that. Most likely he did not want to. But that changed nothing. Like Dempsey, Henley’s acts were governed by strict rules. One of the nation’s most senior police officers, he was unlikely to break them easily. This was confirmed when Henley finally spoke, his voice coloured by genuine regret.
‘I’m sorry, Major. I really am. But even if we had reached an official finding on this matter I couldn’t tell you. The men on my team have a right to absolute anonymity.’
‘And mine have a right not to have their brains scattered over a thirty-foot radius.’
The words were harsh, but Dempsey’s tone was not aggressive. Dempsey was a professional first and foremost. Just stating a fact to a man he believed could help him.
‘Even so. I’ll give you any help I can, but identities are protected. You know that, Major Dempsey.’
Dempsey stepped forward. Henley stood his ground. Dempsey’s voice was calm but the intensity in his eyes betrayed him. Having witnessed the death of his friend, he was struggling to remain detached.
‘I know your rules,’ he said. ‘I know your procedures. But I also know that Sam Regis did what any agent in her position should have done. She had the clear shot. That gave her precedence. Standard procedure, for your team and mine. One of your men disregarded that procedure and Sam died. Now put yourself in my position. What would you do?’
Henley remained silent. He held Dempsey’s gaze. A gaze that was not an attempt to intimidate. It was a plea. And it would take a cold heart to leave that plea unanswered.
Henley finally looked away. Towards a pile of papers that sat on his desk. Dempsey followed his gaze and immediately recognised the papers’ importance. Fifteen to twenty manila folders. Each would contain the professional profile of a member of Henley’s team. Dempsey knew then that his questions would be answered.
‘OK, Major. I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
There was an unusual tone to Henley’s voice. It was not defeat. Nor the sound of a man forced into a disclosure. Instead it was the tone of a man who was doing what he thinks is right, and doing so in spite of the rules.
‘I debriefed all of my men. I was also present when the American team was debriefed. I can say with confidence that the shot that killed Sergeant Regis didn’t come from any of them.’
‘That can’t be right.’
Dempsey believed that Henley was speaking the truth as he knew it to be. But that did not make the information correct. He continued.
‘You were overseeing the only units covering the scene from high. Which is where the bullet came from. You’ve only got to look at the footage to see that.’
‘I’ve seen the footage, Major, and I agree with you.’ Henley was making less sense with every answer. ‘The shot must have come from one of the team. But the shooter wasn’t American and he wasn’t one of mine. He was an outsider, Major Dempsey. A Sergeant Steven Jones. A specialist who was seconded in when one of my team leaders was taken ill. I can’t tell you anything more about him because I don’t know anything more. I didn’t debrief him after the shooting. And neither did the Americans.’
Dempsey could not believe what he was hearing.
‘Seconded? Who the hell authorises secondment on a job like this?’
‘It came from the top. Absolute top-level clearance.’
‘Top-level clearance?’ Dempsey knew every aspect of security protocol. What he was hearing made little sense. ‘I want to see the paperwork.’
‘You’re welcome to it.’
Henley had made the decision to help the DDS agent. He now seemed determined to see it through.
‘But I can’t give you Jones’s current location because I just don’t know it. I wasn’t given any information about him, other than his name and his regiment. It was all regimental protocol.’
Dempsey’s eyes narrowed. What Henley was now saying sounded ominously familiar. Echoes from his own past. Dempsey knew the answer to his last question before he had even asked it.
‘Regimental protocol? What are you talking about? What regiment?’
‘You of all people should know that, Major.’ It was Henley’s turn to seem confused. ‘I’m talking about his regiment. Your regiment. Sergeant Jones was seconded to us from the SAS.’
SEVENTEEN
Daniel Lawrence took in his surroundings as he approached the custody desk at Paddington Green. It would be an exaggeration to call the place quiet. A better description was dead. Daniel had visited countless police stations. Never this particular one. But as London’s most secure custody suite it should surely be the busiest of all?
So far Daniel had seen just one man.
‘Is it always this deserted here?’ he asked.
‘First time I’ve seen it this way.’ Sergeant Trevor Henry’s answer carried an impatient tone. ‘First time I’ve seen an ex-president shot, too. You do the maths.’
Daniel stopped for a moment. He looked Henry up and down. Ten different responses sprang to mind. All of them would put the rude police sergeant in his place. He chose to suppress them and remain civil.
‘But where is everyone? Surely the place should be crawling with spooks? CIA? MI5?’
‘They’ve got their own way of dealing with things. They were all here earlier. Cleared out every police officer but me. Place has got to have a custody sergeant. Even for a case like this.’
‘When are they coming back?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose they’re giving you time to speak to him before the interview.’
Daniel nodded. It made logical sense. The security services had twenty-eight days in which to question Eamon McGale before they had to either charge or release him. With that timescale they did not need to hang around while he spoke to his lawyer. Which explained why the place felt like a ghost town. He turned back to Henry.
‘OK then, Sergeant. I suppose we should get this started.’
Daniel’s eyes stayed fixed on Eamon McGale as the interview room door was closed behind him. McGale looked back. Silent. His gaze firm. This was not a man ashamed of what he had done.
Not a word was said as Daniel took his seat across the table. He took a few moments to study McGale. The man was small and thin. His age was hard to guess. There was little weathering of his face and even his hands seemed youthful, but while his looks suggested a man in his fifties, his eyes were those of a much more aged soul. He wore a paper forensic suit in place of his confiscated clothing. It already looked as if he had been sleeping in it for weeks. The shambolic appearance did not sit comfortably with the determination behind his eyes.
‘Mr McGale, my name is Daniel Lawrence. I’ve been appointed to represent you.’
Daniel’s voice was confident. No hint of his uncertainty. He reached out a hand and McGale took it. The older man’s grip was firm but not tight.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lawrence.’
Daniel was surprised by McGale’s cultured Irish voice. He was not sure why. The lack of calluses on the man’s hand suggested a professional. Someone more used to an office than a field. It was not what Daniel would usually expect from a terrorist gunman; they were rarely the intellectuals of the cause.
‘Obviously you know why we’re both here. But before we discuss today’s events I want to assu
re you that I act in your interests alone. As your lawyer it’s my responsibility—’
McGale raised a thin hand. Daniel stopped speaking.
‘Mr Lawrence, I am very familiar with the procedures and with the criminal justice system. Please don’t feel you have to explain them to me.’
‘Then you’ve had involvement with the police before?’
‘No, sir. Far from it. But I do lecture on the subject a little. I’m a professor of Political Science. So you can assume I know the basics.’
‘You’re a professor. And yet—’
McGale raised his hand once again. Daniel guessed it was a throwback from his teaching career. A method to silence his students. He obeyed.
‘Perhaps it’s best if I just explain myself, Mr Lawrence. Then I can answer any questions you have.’
Daniel nodded. McGale did the same. And then he waited, breathing deeply. To Daniel he looked to be steeling himself for what he was about to say.
When he finally spoke it was a torrent. Fast and uncontrolled.
‘Mr Lawrence, I did what I did today because I believe it was the only course of action left open to me and I believe that my actions were the very best thing I could do for my country.
‘I have spent my adult life studying, writing and lecturing on Political Science. I believe passionately in the peaceful resolution of political differences. My entire career has been the pursuit of the ultimate solution to the Troubles that have torn my country apart. Thirty years, Mr Lawrence. Thirty years dedicated to teaching future generations that we could bring these Troubles to an end through negotiation and compromise. I taught my own sons that same lesson. I had nothing but hope for the future. But that is a thing now denied to my children. They will never play a part in their country’s future. They will never do anything, Mr Lawrence, because not everyone wants to see an end to the hell that blights Ireland. My children and my wife were taken from me. They were killed because not everyone will gain from bringing unity to Ireland. Some people have everything to lose, and those people will do anything to derail peace.
‘It took me time and effort to see that, Mr Lawrence. But once I saw it I realised that my approach did not work. Once I realised why my life had been torn apart – and that this would happen again and again without drastic action – I saw that something had to be done. What I did today was for myself, my family and my country. I will stand up and say that in any court in which I must appear.’
McGale stopped speaking. He sat back in his chair. And yet he seemed to leave an aura of intensity behind. What he had said took Daniel by surprise. He had never heard such a perfectly articulated explanation for murder. They were not the words of a fanatic. They were the words of an educated man. One who believed in the sentiments he expressed. One who had taken the only course he felt left open to him.
Seconds passed in silence, maybe even minutes, as Daniel tried to take in what he had been told. It was too much information. Too much of a shock. Nothing had prepared him for the rationality of a man he had assumed to be either a fanatic or a psychopath. But McGale was neither. That much was obvious.
‘Mr Lawrence, do you perhaps need a moment?’ McGale finally spoke again.
Daniel looked up. He had not noticed his own silence. Now he was all too aware of it. He floundered. Forced himself to think on his feet. Every question seemed to arrive at once. When had McGale’s family died? What investigations had led him to Trafalgar Square? There were many queries, but only one demanded an immediate answer.
‘Eamon, I don’t understand. What on earth did Howard Thompson have to gain from derailing the peace process?’
McGale’s eyes bore into Daniel’s as he spoke. A look of pain – of regret – flashed across them as he listened to the question. The same emotion filled his voice as he replied.
‘Mr Lawrence, I can understand why you might think that Howard Thompson was my target today. But please believe me when I tell you this: that he was injured is something I will always regret. He is a great man who tried to do great things for my country. I would not see him hurt, not for the world. I went to Trafalgar Square to kill one person today, Mr Lawrence. And I succeeded. Neil Matthewson was an evil, evil man with a nation’s blood on his hands. He deserved to die the painful death I gave him.’
Daniel leaned forward and prepared to ask his next question. A surge of excitement fuelled him. He wanted to know everything.
‘Mr Lawrence, are you planning to drive out of my station or are you going to sit there all night?’
Trevor Henry’s voice burst through the intercom at the station gates.
‘Only it’d be a shame to close the gates on your nice new car.’
It had been an hour and a half since Daniel’s meeting with McGale had begun. The longest ninety minutes of his life. Everything he had learned had shaken him. Shock after shock. He had been relieved when Henry had interrupted to tell them that McGale’s official interview had been rescheduled to the next morning. He was not sure he could have faced it tonight.
Daniel apologised, then turned his Porsche out of the gate and onto the quiet road outside. The tranquillity was broken by his roaring engine as he pulled away.
Sarah Truman smiled as she watched Daniel’s tail lights disappear. Moments later, Jack Maguire fired up their own engine. Both were happy. Maguire’s instincts had secured them information unknown to the reporters out front. Which meant their wait here was over.
Neither Sarah nor Maguire noticed the ignition of a third engine. And so, as they pulled onto the eastbound carriageway of the A40 arterial road, they paid no attention to the black Land Rover that headed off in the same direction as Daniel’s speeding Porsche.
EIGHTEEN
‘If you could get him to call me as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. It’s urgent.’
Dempsey replaced the telephone receiver. For a moment he remained still, contemplating his next step. Then his hand moved across to a slim manila file that sat on the table. With a flick of his fingertips he slid it back towards himself. He picked it up and opened the cover. Not for the first time. Or even the twenty-first.
The file contained a single page; hardly worth the binder. Dempsey’s eyes scanned it once more. It contained little information. Certainly nothing he had missed on previous reads. As before, three blocks of text stood out. The first was a name: Sergeant Steven Jones. The second was a location: Credenhill Barracks, Herefordshire, home of 22 SAS. The third was a signature. An indecipherable scrawl that Dempsey would know anywhere. It was the mark of Callum McGregor.
The presence of McGregor’s name had been a shock, but any suspicions it aroused were quickly put to rest. Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley had explained that top-level clearance had been needed to authorise a replacement for his team of sharpshooters. This had to come from the operational commander, and that was Callum McGregor. The explanation made sense. It was confirmed by McGregor himself.
Dempsey closed the binder and slid it back across the table. Back towards a telephone he knew would soon ring. When it did he would want the information close at hand. In the meantime, his eyes darted to a second set of papers. Thicker and well-thumbed. They sat on a bookshelf at the far side of the desk.
The room Henley had assigned to Dempsey within New Scotland Yard was small, little more than a cubbyhole. Dempsey’s own office was much larger but it was in Vauxhall, ten minutes away in typical London traffic. For now Dempsey was working with Henley to track down Sergeant Steven Jones. In the circumstances, ‘close’ beat ‘comfortable’.
Dempsey had so far paid less attention to this larger file than to the single page that remained by the telephone. The information on that sheet had been more important, but nothing could now be done about Steven Jones until Dempsey’s call was returned. This left time to consider Sergeant John Dutton, the man Jones had replaced.
Dutton’s file read like a Boys’ Own special. At thirty-five years of age he was a thirteen-year veteran of the Metropolitan Police.
In that time he had done it all. Territorial Support Group. Flying Squad. The Met’s dedicated firearms unit, SO19. And now Counter Terrorism Command.
Henley had described Dutton as his best. It was not an exaggeration.
Dempsey’s mind ticked over as he flicked through Dutton’s file. He focused on what Henley had told him. Dutton had called in sick the previous evening. Not just off-colour but bed-ridden; plagued by crippling stomach cramps and fever. The timing in itself was suspicious. That it should happen to the team leader – the one man who could not be replaced from within – was downright compelling.
A photograph was attached to the top right-hand corner of the first page. Dutton looked just as Dempsey would expect. Rough and ready. A man of action. Further investigation was needed, of course, but Dempsey was already as sure as he could be that Dutton was a patsy. Taken out of the picture and replaced by someone more compliant. Someone who was a traitor: Sergeant Steven Jones.
Dempsey’s eyes flicked back to the first file. He was tempted to pick it up once again. But he knew it would still tell him nothing new. Instead he would wait for the call from Jones’s commanding officer. Then, when he knew more, Dempsey would find out everything else from Jones himself. Face to face.
For just a moment Dempsey pictured himself confronting Sam Regis’ killer. What would be expected of him, in those circumstances? The same as was always expected of him, Dempsey knew. That he would do his duty. Dempsey would be expected to listen to what Jones had to say and to reach his own conclusions. Always efficient. Always professional. But what if this time Dempsey was not? What would happen if, just this once, he allowed his emotions to take over? It would be no pleasure to Dempsey. Violence never was; he had grown to hate that element of his life. But, damn, it would be justified. Sam was . . . had been . . . a friend. Dempsey had few enough of those, and to lose one like this?
It was not something that Dempsey could allow himself to dwell on. So he was happy for his attention to be caught by the small rolling news box in the top corner of his computer screen.