Javelin - the gripping new thriller from the former commander of Special Branch (John Kerr Book 3)

by Roger Pearce

  ‘And constantly?’

  Hemming rolled to a desktop beneath a large wall screen. ‘You’re interested in last Monday, right? The bombs? Which is also the first day of the trial.’ A satellite map appeared on the screen with a blue arc tracing westwards from Covent Garden through Piccadilly Circus, Green Park and Hyde Park Corner, returning to the stables via the Embankment. ‘This is our thin blue line. Each patrol lasts about three hours, with every step plotted as shown.’ She indicated a box at the bottom right of the screen. ‘Date and patrol reference here. Last Monday we have PC38 and PC29 on patrol, riding Victor and Phoebe, and they deployed from there at twenty past ten. It’s day one, so only Trish is cammed up.’

  Dodge felt a surge of excitement as his eyes scanned the map.

  ‘What time are we talking, sir? Roughly?’

  ‘Twelve thirty-eight and seventeen seconds,’ replied Dodge in a pulse.

  ‘Let’s give ourselves some leeway and say twelve thirty-six.’ Time flags popped up as she moved the cursor around the route. ‘So they reach Hyde Park Corner at twelve twenty-one.’

  ‘Jesus, they’re coming into Victoria,’ he said, straining forward. ‘Right on top of the bombs.’

  ‘Back home by the time of the explosions, thank God,’ she said, slowing the cursor and double clicking. ‘We’ve arrived. Take as long as you need, sir.’

  The screen suddenly changed to high definition video, giving Dodge his first horseback ride in over three decades. He was suddenly high above the street, the horse’s mane dipping and rising as they walked, its ears twitching, everything instantly recognisable as they entered the bomb zone.

  ‘Hell of a vantage point.’ Dodge could hear radio traffic and snatches of conversation between the two officers above the rain pattering on their waterproofs. Traffic was heavy, with the larger vehicles sending up clouds of spray as they eased past the horses. From up here, the pavements were a kaleidoscope of umbrellas as workers hurried back to their offices, unaware of the terrorism about to engulf them.

  Everyone he could see was texting, calling or scrolling, yet Dodge identified Bobby Roscoe in a pulse, as if one of Jane Hemming’s magic flags had attached itself to his Trapper hat.

  Dodge’s persecutor was waiting outside a wine bar, dressed for the weather. Standing in the middle of the pavement, he forced the crowd to part around him, the static loner in a fast forward video. He had made no effort at disguise, yet it was the body language that betrayed him to Dodge, the manifest physical power and arrogance he had wielded each time they met.

  ‘Gotcha, you bastard,’ murmured Dodge, as a burst of raindrops smeared the lens. He saw Roscoe peering across the road towards a patch of green, mostly outside the frame, and willed the horsewoman to move her head. Then he caught a nod, almost imperceptible, and a phone appeared in Roscoe’s left hand. Dodge checked the rolling clock on the screen: twelve thirty-eight and three seconds as Roscoe began dialling, turning away from the traffic noise, a finger blocking his other ear. Drawing closer, he watched Roscoe bend forward in concentration, the sides of the hat folding over his cheeks, and imagined Gemma picking up the call. Then Roscoe began to emphasise each word with his free arm and the horse looked left, its ears fluttering again.

  Dodge’s lips moved in concert with Roscoe, revising every word from the recording he had played over and over the night before, and he wanted to reach inside the screen and throttle him. Heart thumping in his chest, he could sense Jane Hemming’s eyes on him as Roscoe drifted out of sight and the station entrance came into view. ‘Can you replay it, Jane? Freeze-frame?’

  ‘Anything you want.’

  Dodge stood back, agitated and sweaty again as Hemming worked the keys. He suddenly felt short of breath. ‘Have you shown this to the investigators?’

  ‘We told them we had a patrol in the area but they never called back.’ She shrugged, tripping frame by frame for the clearest shot of Roscoe. ‘We assumed…’

  ‘It’s alright. We’ll keep this between ourselves.’ Dodge produced his iPhone. ‘Does your camera do email, as well?’

  ‘I’ll forward it now,’ said Hemming, rolling back to her workstation to scan Dodge’s address. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Dodge sucked lungfuls of air. ‘Take him out.’

  Hemming sat back in surprise. ‘As in “revenge”?’ Dodge nodded. She whirred back to the screen and stared at Roscoe’s frozen image. ‘The way you were caught up in that just now…I mean…it was like you know him?’

  ‘This is a bad man, Jane. And yes, it is personal. Private.’

  ‘A vendetta?’ she said, rolling back to her workstation. ‘An Irishman turning Sicilian on me?’

  Dodge suddenly looked at Hemming’s withered legs, strapped tightly to the chair, and checked himself. ‘Jane, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Upset the forgiving paraplegic, you mean?’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Don’t believe the Met propaganda, sir. I lost my life to the bastard who exploded that firecracker. How do I feel about it, all these years down the road? For me,’ she said quietly, pointing at Bobby Roscoe’s face frozen on the screen, ‘he’s as evil as your guy.’

  ‘But I should never have…’

  ‘Yes, you should. Don’t be embarrassed,’ she said, powering back to Dodge and holding out her hand. ‘It’s always been personal for me, too. We both want the same.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tuesday, 18 October, 09.57, Special Branch Safe House, Kentish Town

  Justin’s call lasted less than three minutes. When he returned, Kerr was settled at the round oak table by the window, studying the bulky pink Registry file on Gina Costello. ‘Everything okay?’

  Justin grabbed one of the bananas from the kitchen and sat opposite Kerr. ‘Bloke called Paco in Amsterdam. Wants a meet.’

  ‘What for?’

  Justin shrugged. ‘Probably something about the trip.’

  Kerr paused to review Justin’s latest telephoned report on Costello. ‘How did Amsterdam go? Did they talk about London?’

  ‘They actually changed it to The Hague at the last minute. Top floor flat off Spekstraat, a walk from the train station. It was a big deal. I could tell from the way Gina was talking.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eight activists from all over Europe. Hardcore.’

  ‘Any Brits?’

  ‘That was moi, but they didn’t let me in. Sorry, boss.’ Justin held up his phone. ‘They kept me and Paco down in the street as lookouts.’

  ‘To cover them,’ said Kerr. ‘Which is good, right?’

  ‘I’m still being tested, basically. Not pushing anything. Especially with her,’ he said, nodding at the file.

  ‘Fine.’ Kerr produced one of Bill Ritchie’s yellow legal pads from his secure briefcase and started scribbling. ‘Okay. We had the emergency CIG on Saturday evening and everyone in the room put the attacks down to the IRA…’

  ‘…except you and the commander?’

  ‘Correct. With the jury out on Avril Knight. Then European liaison tell us this is anti-capitalism. ACI or a new terrorist cell no-one’s ever heard of.’ Kerr flipped through the reports. ‘Gina Costello’s stepfather was head honcho of leveraged finance at

  Dolphin and Drew…’

  ‘…who Gina can’t stand.’

  ‘…and sacked last year for dodgy dealing?’

  ‘Except I wouldn’t know that, would I?’ said Justin, tapping the file. ‘Because she hasn’t told me.’

  ‘What does it amount to, from Costello’s point of view?’

  ‘As a motive for the bombing, you mean?’ Justin made a face. ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Kerr, twiddling his pen and regarding Justin across the table. ‘The attacks last week have the hallmarks of Irish republican dissidents. Agreed?’

  ‘The warnings, the code words, the delivery, the complete works. Yup.’

  ‘And the Real IRA have previous for hitting banks.’

  ‘In Ireland.�
��

  ‘True, with Dodge’s police contacts saying no dissident targets have been away from home. And none of the explosives came from an IRA cache, according to Porton Down.’

  Justin leant forward across the table. ‘So you want me to tell you the London series is down to ACI?’

  ‘With Irish dissidents. A joint venture.’

  ‘A pan-European conspiracy against the banksters?’ Justin unzipped the banana and devoured it in three bites. ‘Like I said, boss, I don’t know what they talked about in The Hague.’

  ‘But is Gina Costello capable of pulling that together?’

  Justin darted to the kitchen and tossed the skin into the sink. ‘I’m not that close to her.’

  Kerr paused, studying Justin’s reaction. ‘You’ve been cultivating her for…how many months?’

  ‘I don’t think she fits the security profile,’ said Justin, carefully.

  ‘Of a radical, or a terrorist?’

  He looked perplexed for a moment, as if the question had never occurred to him. ‘Gina fights social injustice. That’s what drives her.’

  ‘Really?’ Kerr flipped through Costello’s file to the comprehensive report he had commissioned a year earlier. ‘We have Politics and International Relations at Manchester University. A good start, followed by the BBC internship at Salford Quays.’ Kerr riffled through the papers. ‘All I see in here so far is a bog standard media junkie.’

  ‘Which is rubbish,’ said Justin, reddening. ‘There’s a lot more to Gina Costello than the crap in there.’

  Kerr slid the file aside and spread his palms. ‘So tell me.’

  ‘The financial crash triggered social inequality right across Europe. That’s the core of the ACI campaign. The poor seizing justice from the undeserving.’ Justin ran a hand through his hair. ‘Want to know what makes her angry? Banker criminals still in full flow, ripping off ordinary people and fucking the world up.’

  ‘Enough to bomb them?’

  ‘Being zealous doesn’t make you a terrorist.’ Justin suddenly sounded arch, as if Kerr should have known better. ‘Gina’s passion is socioeconomics, not Semtex.’

  ‘Neat.’ Kerr grabbed the file and flipped it open at one of several red markers. ‘Quote. “The front runner for ACI in Europe by a long way. The woman all other activists defer to, the target with the greatest potential for extremist activity, including violent direct action.” Close quote.’ He regarded Justin carefully. ‘That’s your report from August, Justin. What changed?’

  Justin looked uncomfortable, as if Kerr was using his own words to trick him. ‘I understand them better now.’

  ‘Let’s stick with Costello. Gina.’

  ‘Well, I’m getting to know what makes her tick,’ he said.

  ‘Obviously.’

  The defensiveness made Kerr smile. ‘Justin, I’m not trying to provoke you. I just need you to tell me what radicalised her. Was it Ireland? Did everything change when she went across the water?’

  A couple of pigeons were cooing in the eaves just above their heads, their feet scratching across the roof tiles. Justin looked through the window to the trees opposite and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Tintack poached her from the Beeb, certainly. But we’re talking a small-time Belfast production company here, your standard leftie outfit making indie films. She researched Tintack’s projects on sectarianism and the harassment of Catholics. The media’s conspiracy of silence around Northern Ireland, all that shit.’

  ‘So that’s a yes?’

  ‘Is Gina a Republican, you mean?’ Justin’s shoulders lifted. ‘Definitely not pro-terrorism.’

  ‘Has she ever mentioned a guy called Bobby Roscoe?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Someone Dodge put up. Possibly linked to dissidents.’

  ‘No way. Gina’s always slagging off the IRA. Says they’re authoritarian and chauvinistic.’

  ‘But not shy about copying their language,’ said Kerr, selecting another tab. ‘Irish bankers financing Britain’s colonial and capitalist system, for example.’

  ‘That would be when she worked for Tintack,’ said Justin, his voice laced with irritation. ‘It’s just rhetoric.’

  ‘How about Avril Knight’s predecessor as “the British overlord”?’ Kerr paused to search Justin’s face. ‘So could the London attacks be a conspiracy between ACI and Irish dissidents?’

  Justin looked crestfallen, as if he had just failed a test. ‘I’d have picked something up by now.’

  ‘Why did Tintack sack her?’

  ‘They didn’t. Gina came to London because the drugs charity invited her.’

  ‘Solstizio, yes,’ said Kerr. ‘Has she told you who recruited her?’

  ‘I’ll work on it.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘She’s always wanted to work with drug victims,’ said Justin, his lips twitching.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Jesus, so many questions.’

  ‘Nearly there.’ Kerr flipped to another tab. ‘You’ve already described her flat in Hackney. Do you spend much time there?’

  ‘A few of us visit once, twice a week,’ said Justin, indicating the file again. ‘It’s in there.’

  ‘Costello owns it outright, according to the 1830 financial profile. Do you know how she paid for it?’

  Justin looked nonplussed. ‘Bank of Mum?’

  ‘Plus a euro savings account outside the UK. Know about that?’

  ‘I’d have reported it, wouldn’t I?’ he said, quickly.

  Kerr sat back while the hot air rose between them. ‘Justin, I’m waiting for you to tell me why this doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a bit bloody ironic,’ said Justin, lamely. ‘For an anti-capitalist.’

  ‘Hypocritical, you mean. Costello’s salary as a case worker is twenty-three thousand sterling but Solstizio have been paying additional euro deposits into her account since October. Caja Rural de Galicia. Different amounts each month. Current balance nudging half a million. So I have to assume Gina Costello is using Tintack and Solstizio as covers for something else?’

  ‘Terrorism? No way.’

  ‘Well I want you to imagine it is. A possibility.’

  Justin blew out his cheeks. ‘Boss, it’s just not credible.’

  ‘It means I have to look at technical coverage as well, Justin. To take the heat off you.’

  ‘Pointless,’ he shot back. ‘Gina uses pay-as-you-go, a new phone every week, sometimes each day. They all do. After this surveillance cock-up she’s even more freaked out. And she never emails ACI activists.’

  ‘You’ve had a look, then?’

  ‘Everything online is charity business or domestic garbage. She uses Facebook and Twitter for cover. It’s word of mouth. You want access, boss?’ he said, stiffening. ‘You’ve got me.’

  ‘Which means you can get into her computer, right?’

  Justin stared at Kerr in disbelief. ‘You want me to mess with her PC?’

  ‘I’m thinking of an EC op, to hoover stuff you won’t know about.’

  ‘So Gina’s computer catches a cold just after she’s spotted surveillance, with me hanging around like her new best friend? Too risky, boss. And a waste of time.’

  The previous year Justin’s technical team had developed the EC, or Echo Chip, in the Camberwell workshop. Attached to a laptop’s system board, it combined real time interception with limited microphone coverage; the downside was a temporary loss of processing power.

  ‘I’ve watched you. It’ll take, what, two minutes?’

  Justin’s face jagged in distaste. ‘You’re ordering me?’

  Kerr reached into his pocket for a grey plastic shard, the size of a thumbnail. He waited for Justin to pick it up and secrete it in his shoe. ‘How about Skype?’ he murmured.

  Justin looked up in surprise. ‘You what?’

  ‘Has Costello ever Skyped a member of the IRA?’

  ‘We already covered that.’

  Kerr regarded him
carefully. ‘A few days before the Hammersmith bomb someone from ACI contacted an IRA business associate.’

  Justin shrugged. ‘I told you, she never calls Ireland.’

  ‘The IRA guy was in South America. Bogota, Columbia. The Skype was to finalise a cocaine deal into Europe.’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening, boss? Gina is not into that.’ For the first time, Justin’s voice held real anger. ‘She works for Solstizia, for Christ’s sake. Detoxing addicts, not supplying them. No way would she be dealing that shit.’

  ‘The ACI caller was a French male, calling from Spain.’

  ‘So what’s the big deal?’ said Justin, sweeping his hair back again. ‘Why are you putting all this crap on me?’

  Kerr flipped to the end of the file. ‘Because Alan Fargo tracked the origin of the call to a village called Marin, on the north-west coast.’

  ‘Gina hasn’t been to Spain for…well, not since I’ve known her.’

  ‘But her money has. We followed it there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Costello’s bank account is registered at Pontevedra, which is less than ten kilometres from Marin. That’s where Solstizia pays her the money. It’s a twenty minute drive from the coast, Justin. So you can see why I’m pressing you, why I have to follow this up.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting…what, that Gina’s some kind of fucking narco-terrorist?’

  ‘That the London bombings are funded by drugs money, with Costello as the go-between.’

  ‘Incon-fucking-ceivable.’

  ‘Can you think of anything better?’

  Justin’s face clouded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this at the start?’

  ‘I was hoping I’d hear it from you.’

  Kerr’s rebuke seemed to ignite something in Justin. ‘You’ve just upgraded Gina Costello from a person of interest to the prime suspect for London. For the bomb that almost killed you and Robyn,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. His voice leaked anxiety. ‘Can you guess how that makes me feel?’

  ‘Gina Costello is good at what she does,’ said Kerr. ‘So are you, my friend, and she trusts you. Relax. You’re in a good place.’