The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  London

  My new found enthusiasm for the crusade for righteousness, truth and justice was somewhat dampened next morning then Mallalieu buzzed me. "You'd better come in right away," squawked the intercom in the Ops Room.

  With an unfeigned sigh, I handed a half-checked list of operational returns to one of the support staff. "You'd better finish checking those," shrugged on my jacket and walked through. With a start I saw Harry Plummer sitting alongside Mallalieu at the Chief of Staff's desk. They both stared up at me.

  "Well, come in, come in," said Mallalieu irritably. "Don't stand there gawping in the door." Recovering myself, I walked in and took a chair. Harry Plummer eyed me with, I thought, something more than dispassionate interest. But maybe I was imagining things.

  "Well?" I queried.

  Mallalieu jerked his head at the policeman. "Harry's got a nasty theory. We've got to check it out. Tell him, Harry."

  Plummer took a thin buff file cover from his case. "I can't show you this officially, because this is a formal Met inquiry. Criminal. Do you remember that businessman who was killed last month? John Varley? Ex-MP. Lived in Kent."

  The room went perfectly quiet as everything stopped still like a time freeze. I heard the blood thumping in my ears and felt my throat constrict. They both looked at me. "Vaguely," I said, clearing my throat after a false start. "Why?" I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.

  Plummer looked down at the file. "Well, before he died, Varley managed to give a pretty full statement. It's an odd sort of report. It rambles a lot, as you might expect from a man with his injuries. And he was drugged up, so it’s not really evidential.... It's just that his description of his attacker makes us think he might have been a professional."

  "Oh, yes?" I said, as non-committally as I could. My brain had started working again and now I felt hot. I could hear the sound of the traffic outside and in contrast to the stillness and shock of a moment ago, time seemed to have speeded up. "What sort of professional?"

  Plummer stopped and looked at Mallalieu as if for guidance. "Well, it was all so ... well, like a professional hit, if you see what I mean. And there's other evidence, too. He described some of the equipment his attacker used."

  I was puzzled. Varley hadn't seen my tools. "What sort of equipment?"

  "His rucksack for example. Varley described it quite clearly." He consulted the Met report on his knee. "'The man was wearing a very small, narrow dark green rucksack with brighter green nylon tapes rolled up against the side pockets and black zips ... ' Hm." He paused, reading on. "There's an interruption here. He was probably going in and out of consciousness."

  "But I don't get the significance of the rucksack, Harry."

  "Don't you? No, well, it's just that ... ah, here we are ..., 'and it had a small yellow panel on the back with 212 on it'."

  He looked up and I felt the sweat gather under my armpits. DS Harry Plummer had just accurately described my own ex-SAS rucksack, sitting in my lock-up garage. "I still don't get the point."

  "Harry's just described the SAS special entry back pack," Mallalieu said. "Very small," he emphasised, "With a yellow number panel on the back. We wondered if you remember the type, the one with the bright green utility straps?"

  "Oh, yes - vaguely. Didn't the CRW boys use those for CME?"

  "CME?" queried Harry.

  "Yes, ‘Covert Methods of Entry’, " said Mallalieu. "Harry's been doing the rounds of all the specialised units, trying to find out more. The CO down at Hereford identified it immediately. It's the standard SAS CME intruder pack."

  Harry nodded slowly.

  “Only certain people do that course. After all," Mallalieu smiled thinly, "The Army doesn't want to train a strain of potential supercriminals, do they..?"

  "Just murderers?" riposted Plummer. He didn't look amused. Mallalieu pulled a face.

  "OK, OK, I've got the point," I interrupted. "But what do you want me to do? What's it to do with us?" Mallalieu looked at Harry Plummer, then back to me. He seemed embarrassed.

  "Well ... it's just that Harry wonders how many ex-SAS or CME trained people we have working for us. We thought you would know most accurately."

  "Now, hang on a minute, Colonel. Those packs could be used by anyone. You can probably buy them at Silverman's surplus store down the City Road."

  “Not so," Harry Plummer cut it. "According to MOD, it was a limited one-off order of 500 packs placed by the Army Operational Requirements staff. OR2. They were unique and made to a special specification. There are," and he consulted a list on his knee. "As of last week, there were two hundred in the Army Stores Depot at Andover, new and unissued, all accounted for. There are one hundred and eighty in the SAS stores at Stirling lines, at Hereford, forty seven on issue to the CRW teams - that's a total of four hundred and twenty seven; plus thirty four on issue to the training establishment at the Manor and at some unpronounceable place in Wales."

  He looked up. "That's every single one physically checked, too. That gives us grand total of four hundred and sixty one. So we're looking for what happened to the other thirty nine."

  "That's a tall order, isn't it? Thirty nine missing, eh?" I relaxed. Harry was chasing a needle in a haystack. Thirty nine packs could be anywhere.

  "Not really. It's the yellow 212 panel that gives us the clue. According to Hereford's records, that was on issue to the training section of Counter Revolutionary Wing exactly - er- five years ago. The QM recognised the squadron identification system immediately," he added, somewhat unnecessarily, I thought. I was beginning to feel warm again.

  "Where does that leave us?" I stressed the 'us'.

  "Well, it means that the pack that Varley saw was taken by someone with access to the SAS Training Teams' CRW store between five and six years ago. It was reported missing at the end of that financial year, along with thirteen others."

  Mallalieu grunted. "It's always the way with attractive Army stores, Harry. Did anyone get billed for it?"

  Plummer shook his head. "No, only three people paid for lost packs from the CRW team that year. But none of those were 'yellow 212'."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Harry eyed me coolly. "Because we've already checked with the three people in question. None of them had 'yellow 212." He consulted his list. "We've got 'green 127' and 'red 090'. The other guy really did lose his pack, but it was a red section one, too; he thinks it was '111', although he's not sure. Doesn't matter though, I can back check that."

  "So what does all this lead to?"

  “It leads to the fact that whoever killed Mr John Varley was probably an ex-SAS man or had some kind of access to that organisation’s specialist stores at some time five years ago," said Harry Plummer grimly.

  "Now steady on,..." I began, but Harry over-rode me.

  "And that person is a very dangerous individual who must be found. So we're checking all the likely employers of such people to see if we can identify our man. And when we've checked the bigger organisations, we'll check all the individuals. There aren't that many," he added. "After all, it's a pretty specialised field."

  Mallalieu was nodding now. "Right. Absolutely right."

  He turned to me. "Now, cast your mind back. Have any of our people had that kind of access?"

  Acutely conscious of Harry Plummer's keen eyes peering at me over his file, I tried to think straight. Obviously they both knew that I had had access; but who else? "Well," I began, "Anyone could have nicked the pack and then sold it or given it away. But access? There's Tony Bell, and Alex, although he's dead now. I don't know if James Davidson did that part of the course as well. He's dead, too," I added for Harry's benefit. "I don't remember him particularly." They were both looking at me. "And me, of course ... there were about fifteen of us going through that year. But surely Hereford will have lists?"

  "Oh, they did," said Harry. He consulted the file again. "I reckon that there are about twenty eight people who really had access to that pack." He closed his file decisi
vely. "Do you know," he started in a conversational tone, "that nine of those twenty eight are dead already?"

  I was shocked. "As many as that?"

  "Yes, and now I've talked to you, that means I've only got two more left to talk too." He stood up, smiled and stretched. "And one of those is five feet five and nearly bald already. And he doesn't have piercing blue eyes. So I think he's unlikely as Mr Varley's attacker." He looked at me.

  Mallalieu stood up, too. "Well, is there anything else we should do, or can do? I mean...” he tailed off.

  Harry shook his head. "No, I'll press on; provided you check your likely pack-men on the strength here. You must have a few." He was eyeing me closely, I felt. Was he staring at my eyes, I wondered?

  I forced a smile. "One or two, Harry. We're that kind of outfit. Has it occurred to you that the pack could have been stolen; or given away, even?"

  "Yes," he said. There was a note in his voice that worried me. With an air of finality he shoved the file into his briefcase. "Anything's possible. Well, I'll be off; thanks for your help, Colonel."

  Mallalieu shook his hand and let him to the door. I followed.

  "Will you catch him, do you think?" said Mallalieu.

  "Oh yes, Colonel, we'll catch him all right." He looked at me, then back to Mallalieu. "These people always give themselves away in the end. It's the desire for publicity and recognition that'll make him careless or overconfident. You see, deep down, he really wants people to know it's him." He smiled. "Don't worry. I'll bet my pension he's caught or dead within a couple of years." Harry Plummer's pension was a standing joke.

  I took him down the stairs and saw him off. At the first floor door, he paused. "I always feel a bit sorry for that bloke Varley, you know.”

  “Why’s that, Harry? You must have seen a few murders in your time.”

  “I have. But Varley was stabbed with a poker in the guts. Nasty. Painful way to die. And he was probably only topped because of a cigarette lighter. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “A cigarette lighter?” What the hell was he talking about? A lighter?

  “That’s right. As he was dying, Varley told the investigating officer who took his statement that he’d pulled a lighter on his attacker. One of those ones that looks like a gun. A pistol. From America. He thought it might frighten them off. That’s why he was stabbed. Or so he said.” He shook his head. “Replica guns, eh? More trouble than the real ones, if you ask me.”

  To say I was stunned was the understatement of the year. A vision of that dreadful evening flashed into my mind. I remembered him fumbling with that blue-black pistol from the desk. But a lighter? I’d stabbed Varley and killed him – for a bloody cigarette lighter?

  Harry was still talking. “…we've got to find this bloke, you know. Can you check your people?"

  I found it difficult to think, let alone speak. A lighter? “Of course. I'll do my best to check our people out, Harry.” I heard myself saying. “But let’s face it, it’s a pretty thin theory, isn’t it? There must be dozens of professional hit men in London these days. And Manchester: and Glasgow. The place is crawling with Russians and Serbians and Christ knows what today. And that pack thing’s a bit tenuous. We might be clutching at straws. That pack could have been passed on, or stolen. You know it could. Probably sold at some dodgy boot fair, I shouldn’t wonder. There must be lots in circulation."

  "Yes." He eyed me speculatively yet again. "Yes,. Still. It’s a bit of a coincidence - an SAS pack in an SAS-type raid, isn't it? “ He shrugged. “Well, I'll be off then." His solid form descended the stair well and was dark against the bright daylight reflecting off the gleaming floor. From the landing I watched him disappear into the street, then walked slowly back upstairs.

  I was going to have to be very careful, even if it meant risking Harry Plummer's much-prized pension.

  Despite the police checking, I wasn't too deterred from my plans to get at some of the mugger gangs. The Firm's records revealed that of the four Bull Pen operators, all had been linked with the SAS - which, as Mallalieu wearily pointed out on Plummer's next visit, - they wouldn't have been recruited if they hadn't. With myself, there were over seven ex-Regiment employees, none of whom could be proved to have direct contact with pack 212. There were a lot of other ex-SAS men for the police to check, and after a week or two, the enquiries seemed to peter out.

  Nevertheless, I resolved to be cautious, and went looking for yobboes and muggers in Brixton.

  That should be easy enough.

  CHAPTER 21

  Brixton

  The mugging gangs weren't quite as easy to spot as I thought.

  Over a long lunch break next day I took one of the firm's Q cars down to Atlantic Road and parked up for a preliminary reconnaissance. Sitting in the car looking down Railton Road was like looking at any other High Street; a bustling, busy press of pedestrians scuttled and pushed and shopped, weaving in and out of the dense traffic. While there were lots of idle youths hanging around, they didn’t look any different from the usual bunch of truants, layabouts, hoodies and wasters who make up the products of our educational system. Most of them were over-weight loudmouths and show-offs, anyway. But after a while a pattern became clear. Either slowly cruising through the throng or too-casually propped against doorways, there little knots of two or three youths who began to stand out. Girls too. I waited for an hour before leaving but the tight little groups didn't alter, merely cruised up and down or remained lazily watching.

  The phrase 'loitering with intent' didn't begin to describe their relaxed menace. I was reminded of shark swimming idly through and around busy schools of fish that seem to ignore their dangerous hunters but watch them just the same.

  On my way back, I doubled through the back streets. Here there were no crowds, but occasionally the same uninterested, bored groups of youths hung around, usually with one or two loud mouthed ladettes in attendance, egging them on. All watched my car's passing with unconcealed calculation. It wasn't an area I'd have liked to walk alone at night in a smart suit with a Rolex on my wrist. Assuming I could ever afford one.

  That evening I went to the stories on the internet and began to select my targets. The gutter trash I was most interested in seemed to work the area between Brixton, Camberwell and Lewisham, and the worst ones were not only dangerous but mindlessly vicious with it too. There was one particular little gang who seemed to be the nastiest group, and the newspapers gave good descriptions of both their appearance and their methods. By the time I had finished putting it all together I was surprised that the police hadn't had better results. It was easy enough to highlight and describe the three ring leaders, even from published material. They would be recognisable to any copper on the beat – if today’s trendy police bothered with such realistic solutions. They’d all got cautions, ASBOs and God knows how many inches of newspaper coverage, even if the press couldn’t name them, as minors. Little darlings…..

  This particular team seemed to be led by a tall coffee-coloured youth on roller skates, with some kind of tribal scars, wearing a grey track suit. Tall and nasty. The middle member was bullet headed and had a tattoo on his neck, with a round sallow face and prominent lips, while the third one was a white girl who had worn bright red trainers on all four reported crimes.

  The attacks had grown progressively worse. Once they’d gravitated from beating up Pakistani shopkeepers and stealing from the local shops, they’d moved on to bigger things. The first had been a bag snatch from behind on a pensioner, accompanied by a heavy blow to the kidneys that had put the old dear into hospital for a month. She’d died in hospital two months later. Three kids, one tall, grey track suit, roller skates, one with red trainers were blamed. The second attack was by a bigger gang, accompanied by a broken bottle waved in a toddler's face as a mother and her two under fives were held up for a week's housekeeping by what sounded like a pack of wild animals. Two of the boys had then a gang bang up the alley with the mother, while the girl laughed and kept watch with the
rest of the gang. I shook my head in disbelief. The mother had managed to give a good description of the three ringleaders, and the police had hauled them in. The three kids the Met dragged in had been fourteen, fifteen and sixteen, and they weren't admitting anything. You could sense the frustration of the police spokesman. I found myself asking whatever happened to DNA testing.

  Four days later the gang had struck again. A seventeen year old black mother pushing a pram had been seized from behind and her baby threatened in his pram with a broken bottle. She'd handed over her bag then, but they'd still gashed the baby's legs. The great British press hadn't like that. The anguished mother remembered the youth with the tribal scars only too well. He'd used the bottle. Most of all she remembered the girl and the tattoo. “I couldn’t believe it,” she’d repeated over and over. “They must have been on drugs…they were out of it. The girl was like an animal….”

  A week later the trio had pulled their nastiest stunt. They'd attacked another mother and baby who were accompanying their grandmother to a post office. After grabbing the women's bags, some kind of savage frenzy seemed to have gripped the gang. They'd squirted bleach into the baby's face, blinding it in one eye for life and then slashed the mother and grandmother with a bottle and knife. As an ugly, vicious, stupid crime, it was as nasty and pointless as you could imagine. The newspapers were full of it, and the police hauled in the same three juveniles they'd interviewed last time, but, like Brer Rabbit, no-one knew nuffin’. Some local lawyer had screamed harassment, and the police had backed off, smartish. A neighbour who offered to help the police was attacked in the street and had her car trashed and her flat set on fire. Suddenly no-one could help. Certainly not the police. They talked, somewhat pathetically, of stepping up their efforts in the area.

  "What kind of people are we?" wailed the SUN. But that hadn't caught the muggers either, so we still didn't know what sort of people we were all supposed to be. It would need more than a few extra police Panda car patrols and plaintive wails from the popular press to nail hoods like the little wild animals I had my eye on. What was needed, I thought grimly as I read the press stories, was something more positive altogether; a little bit of what the Americans call 'affirmative action'.