by Roger Pearce
Roscoe was turning with the coffees when Dodge reached him. He looked surprised, then flashed his mocking smile again. ‘Something I said?’
Dodge beckoned him away from the bar, towards the window, as Roscoe held out his cup and saucer. This time it was Dodge who moved in close. He grabbed his arm, slopping coffee over Roscoe’s T-shirt. ‘Be sure to ring me before anything goes down, you prick,’ he growled. ‘And leave my family alone, or I swear I’ll kill you.’
Shaftesbury Avenue was unusually light when he reached the junction, the traffic held up by a pair of female Mounted Branch officers making their way into Piccadilly Circus. Dodge crossed the road and watched them trot past, sliding into single file to make way for a tipper lorry. He caught up with them again outside the Trocadero, posing for a bunch of Japanese tourists, then saw them continue left into the narrowness of Great Windmill Street, breaking into a canter on the way to Haymarket.
The clapping of the hooves off the high walls stirred something in Dodge’s fevered brain that made him change gear, too. Loping down the centre of the road he reached them at the junction, where they were held at a stop light. ‘Engaging locally’ was the Met’s name of the game these days, so the officers were using the time to chat with passers-by. His grey suit jacket patchy with sweat, tie over his shoulder and shirt tail flapping in the breeze, Dodge panted past, then turned to look up at them, his face puce, gasping for air as his eyes shifted between them, watching caution temper their smiles. Even the horses, trained against feral humans, seemed puzzled, pricking their ears forward as they fixed on him. The lights changed to amber but Dodge stood blocking their path, rubbing away a heart attack as he rummaged for his phone and punched the number for Reserve at the Yard.
‘Walk on,’ said one of the officers, and Dodge bounced aside as Gemma Riley picked up.
‘Dodge. Where are you?’
‘Do you still have the voice recording from Victoria?’
‘It went to the lab ages ago. I’ve got a rough copy. Hey, you know we’re worried about you?’
‘You heard horses, right? On the tape. That’s what you told John. Clippety-clop, clippety-clop?’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I’ll be there in ten. It would be our guys, right? Or army?’
‘In the middle of London? Well, it certainly wasn’t the Jockey Club.’
Chapter Forty
Tuesday, 18 October, 08.32, Special Branch safe house, Kentish Town
Kerr’s selection panel broke the news by text. He was driving to a safe house in Kentish Town, north London, caught in the perpetual traffic jam on the approach to the station when his BlackBerry pinged. He continued until the bus lane petered out, then paused the Alfa outside a vegetable shop to read the message, as curt and uncompromising as a tweet. ‘Thanks for your participation,’ it read. ‘Regret unsuccessful on this occasion. Feedback to follow by email.’
He flicked on the hazard lights, dashed into the shop to buy a couple of bananas with a carton of milk, and drove towards Highgate Hill, thinking ahead to the clandestine meeting he hoped would be a game changer. Yesterday had been Kerr’s second attempt at detective superintendent, and this result surprised him no more than the first. Parking around the corner from the safe house, he rang Nancy to let her know, downplaying the negatives. ‘There’s always next year.’
‘Really?’ Nancy had just dropped the children at school and was on the hands-free, driving to the surgery for a nine o’clock start. She sounded miffed, a reminder of how hard she had worked to prep him. ‘And how many more “occasions” is Bill Ritchie going to offer you?’
‘Honestly, darling, I’m happy doing what I’m doing,’ he said.
‘I don’t suppose that shimmy between you and Robyn helped,’ she said, drily, ‘with all this hoo-ha about undercover officers having sex.’
‘Ancient history, Nance. Didn’t come up. You know what they’re like.’
‘But you are seeing her tomorrow?’
Kerr reached inside his jacket for the crumpled easyJet boarding pass from Donna’s printer. ‘Nine-thirty from Luton. Lunch in Rome with her and Gabi, then straight back. I’ll be home in time to see the kids.’
The safe house was in the roof of a three-storey Victorian terraced house in a tree-lined side street off Kentish Town Road. It was one of three hideaways maintained by Dodge’s source unit, each cheaply furnished, with a single bedroom, bathroom, living room and kitchen, plus rations in the freezer. They were used to debrief agents or, on the rare occasions when an asset was compromised, as boltholes before permanent resettlement. The others were buried in Streatham and Ilford, though Kerr favoured the north London base for private meetings or a refuge to study the latest Blue Global from 1830 away from the distractions of the Yard.
The meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock but it was nearer half past when the intercom buzzed, with Kerr on his second cup of coffee.
He could hear Justin Hine taking the stairs two at a time, though the willowy young man who slid inside the safe house looked pale and tired. As usual at these sessions, Justin’s face was obscured with a beanie pulled low beneath a dark grey hoodie, a double layer of protection to augment the wispy beard he had grown since his deployment. In the living room Kerr faced him squarely and gripped his shoulders, more like a welcoming father than a boss with a hundred questions. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ he said, though Justin’s tensed muscles told him the slenderness was deceptive.
‘I’m telling you, boss, it’s been non-stop,’ said Justin, whipping off the beanie and stuffing it into his pocket.
‘But nothing to worry about?’
‘Just that I shouldn’t be away too long.’ Justin darted into the kitchen, tested the kettle, flicked the switch and searched the cupboard for the chipped ceramic mug he always used. He threw Kerr a savage smile as he spooned the coffee and sugar. ‘Not every day a Home Sec gets herself topped.’
Kerr slid his mug along the counter. ‘Let’s do the admin first.’
Justin tugged a clump of ragged papers from his back pocket and palmed them smooth. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
Since the third week in June, Justin Hine had been living undercover, tasked with a top secret mission shared only inside Kerr’s immediate circle. With western intelligence agencies distracted by the threat from Islamic State, Kerr had never lost his focus on the fallout from the global banking crisis in 2008. Alert to the political turbulence and extremist activity from anti-capitalist groups throughout Europe, Kerr had pressed Bill Ritchie for an aggressive operation to warn of any terrorist overspill into the UK. The young Special Branch officer who now slouched by the kettle, mild-mannered, soft-spoken and atypical, was the result: four months into his mission, Justin Hine’s infiltration of Anti-Capitalist Insurrection had surpassed expectations.
They covered the paperwork in the time it took the water to boil, leaning against the kitchen units. Justin had brought petrol receipts, a couple of intelligence reports and a crumpled diary sheet showing his overtime hours: black biro for weekday working, red for weekends. In exchange, Kerr handed over a bundle of fifty pound notes, the rent for Justin’s studio flat off Ladbroke Grove in west London.
‘So what is the reaction to Avril Knight?’
‘Pissing themselves laughing, mostly,’ said Justin.
‘Costello?’
‘Gina’s been pretty quiet about it, actually.’
‘So let’s keep working on her.’
‘Like MI5, you mean?’
The kitchen fell silent as the kettle clicked off.
‘You what?’ said Kerr.
Justin took a few gulps of milk direct from the carton, like a student lining his stomach. ‘You have to realise Gina Costello is sharp as a razor, John,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Netherlands to Dublin, no sign of surveillance. All clear to the ferry terminal.’ He poured the coffee and a splash of milk. ‘Then the moment we drive off at Holyhead, bingo! Welcome to bloody Wales
. I spotted them at the first roundabout but she was only a few seconds behind. I’m telling you, she’s quality.’
‘But mistaken,’ said Kerr, mentally replaying the CIG meeting on Saturday evening and the reaction from Toby Devereux. ‘A4 have turned down every request to cover Anti-Capitalist Insurrection.’
‘Too busy fighting jihad, you mean? Well, I’m telling you it happened,’ he said, his pale blue eyes signalling the hypersensitivity of every deep cover officer Kerr had known. ‘Two cars and a motorbike, certainly not locals and they stayed with us till halfway down the M6.’
‘You managed to lose them?’
Justin shrugged. ‘We think they dropped off at the services, but that’s not the point, boss. All that dry cleaning shit via Dublin for nothing and Gina’s wondering how they knew. Of course she is.’
Kerr frowned. ‘Commander and I met Toby Devereux on Saturday. Maybe he had a rethink…’
‘…a U-turn.’
‘…without telling us. I’ll call Willie Duncan in A4. It’s no problem.’
‘You really think that?’ said Justin, his voice leaking anxiety. ‘Look at it from ACI’s point of view. Until now, Gina Costello has always stayed beneath the radar. MI5 only starts tracking her after I appear on the scene.’
‘Has Costello said anything you’re unhappy with?’
‘To let me think she’s suspicious, you mean?’ Justin shook his head.
‘So you’re in the clear.’
‘No, I’m thinking that’s the last thing Gina would do. She’s too clever for that.’ Justin blew on his coffee and peered sideways at Kerr. ‘You’ve not picked up anything?’ Stooped in his tan skinny jeans and green, V-neck T-shirt, forehead still red from the hat, he looked vulnerable again, a sapling swaying in the breeze.
Kerr stepped past Justin to rinse his mug. ‘No. Justin, you can relax. Your cover is rock solid,’ he said, flagrantly understating Justin’s exposure. The day before, Alan Fargo had reported a Legend Alarm, a tip-off that someone had searched the birth date of Justin’s pseudonym in public records: in all likelihood, Kerr’s operative had just been checked out by Anti-Capitalist Insurrection. Kerr turned to face him, drying his hands on the only tea towel. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’
Squeezing past Justin into the living room, Kerr felt no discomfort about his deception. He understood the existential stresses of life undercover, the surreal flipping between identities, the toxic drip-drip of deceit. Lesser men than Kerr described their human sources as ‘assets’, as commodities to be valued, exchanged and discarded. As a former operative himself, Kerr saw only their humanity, the hunger for encouragement and praise. Sometimes it was nobler to deceive than weigh them down with the truth.
Justin loitered in the doorframe. ‘You haven’t declared me to MI5, have you, boss? Devereux doesn’t know, right?’
Kerr shook his head. ‘No-one.’
‘But A4 will have me on their surveillance log. “Male unknown,” whatever? Photographs, too.’
‘So what?’ said Kerr, quizzical. ‘I’ve said I’ll deal with it.’
Justin’s mobile rang before he could reply. Nervously tugging at his beard, he checked at the screen. ‘Shit, I have to take this,’ he said, darting past Kerr for the privacy of the bedroom.
‘Costello?’
‘Worse.’
Chapter Forty-One
Tuesday, 18 October, 09.53, Great Scotland Yard, Whitehall
Dodge had never visited the stables of the Met’s Mounted Branch before. They were tucked away in Great Scotland Yard, approached beneath a massive white arch spanning Whitehall Place. The exterior shared the gravitas of London’s Victorian police stations, most long closed, its upper floor distinguished by a line of traditional round and half moon windows swung open to take in the morning air. With hardly any passing vehicles or city noise, it belonged to policing’s temperate era of bobbies on the beat and cat burglars, a world apart from the misery of suicide bombers, stabbing epidemics, acid attacks and cybercrime.
The animal heat struck Dodge the moment he pushed at the doors. There was an echo of hooves scraping on concrete, with humid, comforting smells spiriting him back to his childhood holidays in Castlereagh. He counted six or seven horse stalls in an area little larger than a couple of squash courts, and three horses in residence, their blankets slung over the side walls. Everywhere he looked were saddles, bridles and riding capes.
A man and woman in blue overalls were sweeping the floor and laying down fresh straw, while a third rubbed her horse down with soapy water from a yellow bucket. Laughing and joshing each other as they worked, no-one paid Dodge any attention, and he had to walk right inside to make himself heard.
‘Good morning…morning! Hello?’ Eventually the horses became restless and one of the officers swung round with her broom. Dodge recognised the rider from the street the day before, with her hair in a ponytail. ‘I’m looking for Jane?’ said Dodge, flashing his warrant card. ‘Admin?’
Dodge looked and felt calmer today, businesslike in a light grey suit Nicola had made him buy from M&S. If the officer had any recollection of Dodge, she chose to hide it, shouting to make herself heard above the others. ‘Day off.’
‘No. That was yesterday,’ said Dodge. ‘I just spoke with her on the phone.’
‘Physio, then, later on.’ She indicated a wide concrete slope tracing two walls to the upper level and more stabling. ‘Next floor.’
A hooter interrupted them from the landing and Dodge looked up to see a wheelchair wedged against the railings. ‘Sir, I’m up here,’ called another woman’s voice, as a hand emerged beneath the banister, fingers wagging. ‘Fire escape by the tack room. Just over there, next to the toilets.’
The odour of urine, leather and sweat followed him upstairs to a mezzanine of four horse stalls off a wide corridor bedded with fresh straw. Jane Hemming was waiting for him in her office, adjacent to a store piled with riot gear on racks identified by the names of horse and rider. The whole space had been adapted to accommodate her state of the art power chair, with accessories from NASA and tyres caked in manure. Around the walls curved a continuous shelf, replacing the conventional desk and chairs, and a framed Press Association photograph showed Hemming with horses being mucked out in the corridor behind her and the in-house caption ‘Jane Hemming Still in the S H One T.’
‘Welcome to the penthouse,’ said Hemming as they shook hands. She looked slimmer and sharper than in the photograph, with neatly cut brown hair, pale blue sweater over a white blouse and navy cotton trousers.
‘I hope I’m not holding you up, Jane?’ said Dodge. ‘They told me you have a medical?’
Hemming shook her head. ‘My workout at Imber Court this afternoon. They strap me to the saddle and Daniel takes me for a couple of training circuits, so long as I behave myself.’
The two had never met before, but Dodge knew her background. An experienced Mounted Branch officer, Jane Hemming had been thrown by her horse, Daniel, at an anti-austerity riot in central London when a homemade firecracker exploded directly in his path. With her back, career and marriage broken, Hemming had returned to the stables as the administrative officer within eighteen months; six years on, while the perpetrator stayed low, Jane Hemming was celebrated throughout the Met for her courage, tenacity and lack of rancour.
‘You said on the phone you think the call was made in the centre, yes?’ said Hemming. ‘Heavy traffic and so on?’
Dodge nodded.
She pulled open a drawer. ‘So let’s see what we can do.’ The workstation was close to the doorway, giving her a partial view of any horses in their stalls. Beside the desktop a more recent photograph showed Hemming in a wedding dress with a little boy holding the train. She was upright, supporting herself on a crutch, arm in arm with her new husband, and Dodge could see the strain behind her smile.
Hemming took two cameras and held them out to Dodge. ‘Body Worn Video. BWV. You know about this, right? The Job’s rolling them out to al
l street officers?’
Dodge nodded, though his grasp of the Met’s policy on body cameras was sketchy, at best.
‘I’ve been managing our own pilot for the past month. With Tim, over at West Hampstead.’ She took the larger of the cameras and held it against her right shoulder. ‘This is the one they clip to the uniform when they go out on patrol.’ She pointed to another terminal along the desk. ‘And they can’t go home till they upload the video at the end of the shift.’
‘They must love you.’
‘I do it for them, if I’m around.’
‘But they’re not recording the whole time, right?’
Hemming shook her head. ‘They only activate for things like stop and search or an arrest. Anything that might be contested.’
Dodge felt a stab of disappointment. ‘Okay. Thanks, anyway.’
Hemming made a face. ‘You think I invited you here for nothing?’ She picked up the second camera, the size of a large marble. ‘We’ve just started testing the helmet cam. It sits higher above the horse, so better pictures. Steadier, too, except when they’re on the gallop.’
‘But still discretionary?’
‘Are you familiar with Met Cloud, sir?’ she asked, then laughed at his expression. ‘Of course not. She held the camera between forefinger and thumb. ‘This is the baby you saw Jen wearing yesterday. It’s different because it uploads automatically.’