The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  In it was the image of Anthony Haversume.

  The politician seemed to be holding a press conference. Dempsey clicked on an icon that enlarged the image and raised the volume:

  ‘I have nothing but good memories. Good memories of a man who had so much more to do, both personally and politically. It is no secret that Sir Neil and I were sometimes at opposite ends of the political spectrum. But I have never worked with someone for whom I had such unfettered respect. I do not expect to do so again. Sir Neil was a great man, a great statesman and an example of what every aspiring leader should be. A man who made one proud to be British. It is my belief that we have today lost the man who should and would have been our next prime minister. He would have enjoyed my wholehearted support at the very least. But thanks to yet another act of violence, I have lost a dear friend. The nation has lost the leader it deserves. Most of all, a loving family has lost the most wonderful father. To call what occurred today a tragedy isn’t strong enough. I’m afraid that there are no suitable words.’

  Dempsey nodded to himself. He agreed with every word. Matthewson had been a great man. One of the few statesmen Dempsey could bear. His death was a loss to the nation and, according to what he had just heard, a personal loss to the man on screen. Dempsey had not known that Matthewson and Haversume were friends. Why would he? But there could now be no doubt that they were. Haversume’s eyes had started to well with the first hint of tears. It caused him to pause.

  Dempsey sat back to hear what Haversume would say next. He expected it would be another condemnation of William Davies’ government and its failure to deal with the fresh wave of Irish terrorism. Every time Haversume had spoken in recent months had been on that subject. They were not views that Dempsey shared. His life experiences were real. Raw.

  They told him that compromise was rarely less desirable than murder.

  It was hard now for Dempsey to recall a life before this. For two decades he had lived with extreme violence and death. His time in the SAS – and beyond – had been dedicated to both. And from the very beginning he had been good. Very, very good. But time and experience can change a man. And now, in his mid-thirties, Dempsey was sure that he could happily live the rest of his years without firing another bullet or throwing another punch.

  William Davies seemed to have similar ambitions, only his extended to a far larger scale. Davies had risked his political future to bring institutionalised violence to an end, at least in Ulster. Those efforts may have failed but Dempsey respected Davies for making them. He also respected Haversume. Haversume had taken a stand on principle. Whether Dempsey agreed with his beliefs or not, he appreciated what a rare strength that was in a politician.

  The press conference continued. But Dempsey would not get the chance to listen. He clicked away from the news screen – silencing the audio feed – the instant his telephone began to ring. It had time to chirp only once before the receiver was at his ear.

  ‘Joe Dempsey.’

  ‘Major Dempsey. This is Major General Arthur West, Director Special Forces. I understand you’ve been trying to contact me.’

  West’s voice was clipped. Matter-of-fact.

  ‘I have, sir. I’m trying to locate one of your men. Sergeant Steven Jones.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. What do you need to know, Major?’

  ‘For now I just want to know where he is. Jones didn’t wait to be debriefed this afternoon. Given what happened, it’s a process we need to complete.’

  ‘I’ve been told that. That he didn’t wait, I mean.’

  A little emotion now began to colour West’s voice. It carried more than a hint of disappointment.

  ‘I can only apologise. I don’t need to tell you what a highly unusual course of conduct this is, Major. It concerns me.’

  West’s honesty was blunt. Dempsey knew why. The major general would have been less forthcoming if not speaking to a fellow SAS officer. Dempsey was now firmly ensconced within the DDS, but no soldier ever really leaves the regiment.

  ‘I understand, sir. And you’ll understand why I’m keen to speak to him. Failure to attend for debriefing is not usual procedure. I can’t think he’d avoid questioning just because of a bullet going where it shouldn’t.’

  Dempsey’s comment was intentionally flippant. He could not reveal an emotional attachment to Sam Regis. Important though their friendship had been to him, the investigation came first. Everything else had to be suppressed.

  ‘I agree. He has some serious questions to answer. But as to his whereabouts, I’m afraid I can be of little help. He should have been back in Credenhill over an hour ago.’

  ‘But he isn’t?’

  ‘No. We’ve tried to contact him but have not succeeded. But I am confident that he’ll be back within hours, Major. Despite the black mark of today he is an absolute professional.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first one of those to turn over, sir.’

  Dempsey knew what he was talking about. Knew from bitter experience.

  ‘You’ll find that times have changed since the era of Sergeant Turner, Major. Our psychologists are alive to these issues.’

  ‘People can always slip through the cracks. Sir.’

  Silence followed Dempsey’s last comment. Both men knew who they were referring to. And neither was likely to agree with the other’s point of view.

  West moved the discussion on.

  ‘The only question then, Major, is what you want done with Sergeant Jones when he finally turns up?’

  ‘I’d like him separated from all contact with others and placed in a holding area. To await my own arrival. I’ll conduct the debriefing myself, along with Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley of the Metropolitan Police who had command of the unit to which Sergeant Jones had been seconded.’

  ‘I understand, Major. Continuity in debriefing is obviously preferable. We will await your arrival.’

  Dempsey had feared that West would find his request irregular. After all, Credenhill was full of experienced officers well qualified to carry out the debriefing exercise. That fear was misplaced. West was obviously keen to cooperate. Which encouraged Dempsey to push his luck ever further.

  ‘There is one other thing, sir. Could you send me Sergeant Jones’s file? It’ll help me to prepare his debrief as we travel.’

  ‘Consider it done. I’ll have it emailed immediately.’

  West was being as helpful as possible. He clearly did not want Jones’s failure to reflect upon his regiment. He continued.

  ‘I look forward to meeting you in a few hours, Major. I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s unfortunate that we’ll be meeting in these circumstances.’

  ‘It is, sir. Thanks for all your help. I’ll see you in a few hours.’

  Dempsey placed the receiver down. He glanced towards his computer monitor. Haversume’s speech had ended. It did not matter. Dempsey could not have concentrated on it anyway, not after West’s call.

  His mind was racing. West was concerned by Jones’s failure to remain for debriefing. That much was clear. And he seemed just as unhappy that the sergeant had yet to return to barracks. All of this told Dempsey that he was on the right track.

  Dempsey sat in silence for several minutes. Every scenario, explanation and excuse raced through his mind. He analysed them all. Strengths and weaknesses were identified. Probabilities assessed. Everything Dempsey had learned in the last twelve hours was compared, contrasted and compartmentalised with a speed that few could match. There was a reason Dempsey was as good as he was, and it was not wholly physical.

  Finally, Dempsey turned to his computer and opened his email. West had been true to his word. Waiting for Dempsey was a one-line email with Jones’s personnel file attached.

  Dempsey opened the attachment and pressed ‘print’. It took a full five minutes, and what emerged from the printer was a very different proposition from the one-pager Henley had provided.

  Dempsey secured the papers within a ringbinder, then began to read. H
e had seen countless files of this type. Each a soldier’s life, condensed into sound bites and statistics. Cold but necessary, they combined to provide a complete record of twentieth- and twenty-first-century warfare.

  Dempsey flicked from page to page. He knew what to look for.

  The file was impressive. Jones had spent eight years in the SAS. Which meant he overlapped with Dempsey’s own service. Wondering if their paths may have crossed, Dempsey turned back to the file photograph. It was not a face he remembered.

  In those eight years Jones had seen service across the globe. The file recorded many examples of medal-winning conduct in well-known war zones. That was to be expected. It also detailed his more discreet activities, in situations that would never make the news. The inclusion of this sensitive material confirmed what Dempsey already suspected: Major General West was holding nothing back.

  Dempsey read for five more minutes: longer than it would usually take, but Jones had seen a lot of action. Finally, he closed the file and set it down ahead of him. His eyes settled on the grainy military photograph. Looking but not seeing. Dempsey’s mind was elsewhere. It was fixated on one burning question: why would Jones turn his back on his country? There was nothing in the file to hint at a traitor. But what other explanation was there? Unlikely as treachery was, that a professional like Jones would leave the scene before debriefing and then not make contact with his barracks was even more so.

  No. Traitor it had to be.

  Dempsey had seen it before.

  Twenty minutes later Dempsey strode into Alex Henley’s office. It was a bigger room than the cupboard he had been given, but still small for such a senior officer. Space was obviously at a premium in New Scotland Yard.

  Dempsey threw the file down onto the desk. Henley’s eyes followed it, then looked back for an explanation. He did not get one.

  ‘Get your coat. We’re leaving in ten minutes.’

  If Henley was surprised, he did not show it. He just smiled and shook his head. Dempsey’s intensity seemed to amuse him.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask where we’re going?’

  ‘Herefordshire. Credenhill Barracks. Your shooter should be getting back there any minute. You and I are going to debrief him.’

  ‘You’re not serious? You want us to travel to the other side of the country for a debriefing that officers there could do?’

  ‘No one else debriefs him.’ Dempsey’s voice invited no argument. ‘He’s got a lot of serious questions to answer. You were his commanding officer. You should be there too.’

  Dempsey’s tone was all it took. It was clear he would not be accepting ‘no’ for an answer. This was going to happen, whether Henley liked it or not.

  Henley got to his feet, reached for his dark raincoat and pulled it over his pristine uniform.

  ‘You first, Major.’

  Henley indicated towards the office door. Dempsey looked over Henley’s shoulder, towards the desk.

  ‘Don’t forget his file.’

  Henley followed Dempsey’s gaze and looked down at the manila envelope in front of him. It seemed to confuse him.

  ‘Whose file?’ Henley asked.

  ‘The file I just gave you. It’s Sergeant Jones’s military jacket. His personnel records. We need it for his debrief.’

  Henley’s eyes returned once again to the file. He picked it up. First he looked at the photograph, then he flicked briefly through its pages.

  ‘You’re sure this is Steven Jones’s file?’

  Henley’s voice was uncertain. He seemed doubtful.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because I met Sergeant Jones today, Major.’

  Henley held up the closed binder and tapped the photograph with his finger.

  ‘And this isn’t him.’

  NINETEEN

  Michael Devlin sat in the living room of his Islington home. A large flat-screen TV dominated, casting the only light in a masculine room. A room built and decked out for function, not effect. Bare wooden floors under black leather sofas that were angled for the best view of the screen. A top-of-the-range stereo. Small wireless speakers on every white wall. A steel and glass coffee table, positioned for Michael’s feet. That the space was aesthetically pleasing was a happy coincidence.

  He took a swig from the bottle of Mexican lager that dangled from his fingertips. Relished the slight sting of the lime wedged in its neck. The TV remote control was in his left hand, resting across the neck of Cass, his six-year-old pedigree Rottweiler. Originally bought as a guard dog, Cass had proved spectacularly unsuited to the role and had long ago forced his way indoors. He now lay on the sofa with his square head resting on Michael’s lap. He should have looked out of place, and yet somehow he was as well suited to the room as everything else.

  Not that Michael was giving this any thought. The screen held his full attention. It had for hours. He had reached his chambers in time for the first rerun of Jack Maguire’s live recording. It had been early enough to catch Sarah Truman’s original report, before she was replaced by Martin Hone. From that point onwards he had been hooked.

  Michael was a product of the Troubles. He had grown up around bullets and bombs. It had left him with an understanding of terrorism that others lacked, and an interest in the attacks that had rocked the British government over the past year.

  Experience had told Michael that this recent terror was different from what had come before. Harder to read. It was unusual that both Catholic and Protestant groups would attack the British mainland. That had not happened in the past. Now it seemed a regular occurrence. One side would bomb, the other would retaliate. Tit-for-tat. It was not the usual way. Michael’s instincts told him that something about it was wrong. Those same instincts were at work now. And they left him in no doubt that the horror on screen had its roots in the north of Ireland.

  The images had been shocking at first viewing, even to Michael. He wondered how much more devastating they must have been to the general public – to men and women who had not seen such violence up close. But now? After so many hours of replay and repeat, the footage was losing its effect. Its familiarity was numbing the horror. It was a natural human reaction. It just seemed to come that bit easier to Michael.

  His eyes had stayed fixed on the screen while his mind slowly closed down. If asked later, he would be unable to recall how long he had sat and stared at the TV. Taking nothing in. Images that should have made him sick to his stomach were now washing over him like so much static. It was almost hypnotic. A trance, broken by the unexpected appearance of Anthony Haversume MP.

  The footage that had been replayed throughout the day had been interrupted, replaced by a live press conference. There had been no warning that the screen’s cycle would be broken and so the sudden close-up of Haversume hit Michael like a physical jolt. It cut through the last effects of his near-sleep. Swallowing what was left of his neglected beer, he cancelled the ‘mute’ button on the remote. The room was instantly filled by Haversume’s trained voice, lamenting the loss of Neil Matthewson.

  A tall, slim and elegant man in his early fifties, Haversume was usually the epitome of professional calm. Not today. Today he struggled with his emotions. Michael understood why. He knew Haversume personally because Daniel Lawrence happened to be Haversume’s godson, and so Michael was aware of how close the politician had been to Sir Neil Matthewson. Haversume had lost a ‘brother’.

  Haversume had paused for a few moments as he composed himself. But the cameras gave him no respite. They zoomed in on his pain, focusing on his eyes. Michael could not understand why the man was putting himself through it. Not when his loss was still so raw. But then he saw something else. He saw fire burning away the threatening tears. A strength that would see Haversume through. Michael knew then that he was witnessing history.

  Haversume continued.

  ‘Over the course of the day it has come to my attention that the gunman was an Irishman named Eamon McGale. This is not information the government intends to rele
ase to you at this time, but I see no reason that there should be suppression of the facts. You all know my position. You all know the stance I have taken over the past years in response to my own government’s approach to terror and violence.

  ‘Knowing that, ask yourself this: how likely do you believe it is that this man was working for one of the Ulster-based terror groups that have been attacking Britain for the past year? I can’t answer that question for certain. My contacts only go so far. My belief that Eamon McGale must be linked to one of those groups is, therefore, conjecture. Nonetheless, the horrors we have all witnessed today are certainly reminiscent of the cowardly acts those groups have carried out time and time again. I say that enough is enough. It is time to draw a line in the sand and say “no more”. It is time to fight back.’

  There must be a mass of reporters off-camera, Michael knew. Barely feet from Haversume. Men and women from television, the printed press, even a few from the Internet. Not one of them made a sound. There was not even the flicker of a camera flash. It seemed that no one had expected Haversume to say what he had. And that no one knew how to react. How could they? How could they have anticipated that a member of the British government would publicly name a terror suspect whose identity was still an official secret? Or that he would go even further, and accuse his own leader of ignoring the only conclusion? Haversume had effectively demanded that William Davies put the peace process aside and declare war on Irish terrorism.

  Michael’s hi-tech sound system could have picked up a pin dropping, and yet nothing came through the speakers but stunned silence. He moved forward in his seat. His keen lawyer’s brain was processing what he had heard. Questioning it. He had to wait for the assembled press to catch up.

  ‘What if one of the Irish groups accepts responsibility? How would you expect the prime minister to respond?’

  ‘I expect very little from the prime minister.’

  Haversume’s eyes were now red. A mix of the tears he had suppressed and determined anger. When he spoke his voice sounded fuelled by outrage.