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

by Roger Pearce

  After almost eight hours the ferry approached Harwich in a calm sea, light winds and watery sunshine. Maxine returned to the horsebox and trailed ashore behind the assorted caravans, saloons and pick-ups. At the first layby on the A120 she switched on her mobile, pinged a prearranged text, and waited.

  •••

  Wednesday, 19 October, 16.11 GMT, safe house, Finsbury Park

  Minutes after his return to the safe house, shoes thrown across the floor, Fin slumped in one of the camping chairs and devoured a Thai green chicken curry. He held the plastic bowl just beneath his chin, together with a slab of naan bread, watching the news break on Sky. Balanced on one of the builders’ trestles was a paint spattered radio and CD player, tuned to LBC. Fin’s Glock occupied its usual place in the cup holder, so the mug of tea sat beside him on the floor.

  The TV was showing looped video of another evacuation in the City, with a live radio report from the scene streaming behind him. Fin had walked half a mile to place his hoax call on one of Roscoe’s prepaid mobiles, then hurried back to enjoy the fallout. According to Sky sources ‘close to last week’s investigation,’ the male caller had spoken with a ‘strong, Northern Irish accent,’ which was the reaction Roscoe had wanted.

  Loitering outside the safe house, a mangy black cat had padded between a terracotta pot and the recycling bin to rub itself against Fin’s calf as he inserted his key. Bending down to stroke the bony, half-starved body, Fin had resisted an urge to bring it inside for a dish of milk and sliver of chicken.

  Now he heard movement again, ten minutes earlier than scheduled, the sound of Bobby Roscoe lugging his old wheelie bag down the cracked basement steps. The key turned in the mortice lock, then there was a squeal and a scuffling, clearly audible above the radio. He imagined the cat escaping, hurt, into the street, and hated Roscoe even more.

  The ill-fitting door shuddered from the heft of a powerful shoulder, then Roscoe was inside the safe house, lifting his bag onto the rickety pine table in the front room. Fin stabbed a piece of chicken and saw a wave of anxiety flood Roscoe’s face as he searched for Kenny.

  Roscoe dipped his head into the bathroom. ‘Where’s the kid?’

  Fin kept his eyes fixed on the screen, a slap of disrespect. ‘Come and see the bastards running for their lives.’ He held out the mobile for Roscoe to take and destroy, as instructed. ‘Scared as rabbits.’

  Roscoe snatched the mobile, kicked the plug from the TV and stood over him, waiting.

  ‘Well, obviously, your man’s out, isn’t he?’ said Fin, evenly, without meeting his eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you boys playing at?’ growled Roscoe.

  Fin kept his voice calm as he took the last mouthful. ‘You know how bad Kenny’s leg is. I warned you about it from the start.’ He heaved himself from the chair, tossed the bowl and fork into the sink and turned down the radio. ‘Can’t you feel the damp and chill in here? It seizes the muscles, gets so bad he can hardly walk. You really expect us to stay banged up here all the time?’

  ‘That’s the deal,’ said Roscoe.

  In truth, his brother’s sudden disappearance had alarmed Fin as much as Roscoe. Fin had been away from the safe house for less than forty minutes making the bomb call; Kenny, resting on the bed, had vanished by the time he returned. He turned away to the wheelie bag, feeling Roscoe’s eyes bore into his back as the truth hit home. ‘Oh, shit,’ said Roscoe. ‘You haven’t got a clue, either?’

  ‘He’ll have gone for a walk,’ said Fin, casually, unzipping the bag. ‘You know, to stretch his legs. Loosen up. Get fit to deliver this little bag of tricks tomorrow. You should be grateful.’ He eased open the supermarket bag to peer at the bomb in its plastic carton, then turned to look at Roscoe for the first time. ‘Anything different here I need to tell him?’

  ‘The little shit deserves a bullet.’

  ‘Going to shoot his other leg, are you?’ He gave a mocking laugh. ‘Who else would do your dirty work?’

  They stood over the bomb, facing each other in silence. Both knew that their flickering comradeship had died with the failed mortar attack. Only necessity bound them now, and Fin could see fear as well as anger in Roscoe, the weakness of the school bully channelling violence at home. It made him wonder again who was pulling Roscoe’s strings. ‘We’re not the enemy here, pal,’ he said, quietly. ‘Not me, nor Kenny. You want someone to punish? Find the boys over there who kneecapped my brother.’

  Before Roscoe could answer, his mobile beeped. ‘I have to be at the workshop,’ he said, without glancing at the screen.

  ‘So relax,’ said Fin, keeping his voice low. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Kenny is sound as a bell.’

  ‘Find him. I’m giving you two hours.’

  Fin kept him there, facing him down. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘When I come back,’ said Roscoe, turning away to the door. ‘And the kid had better be here.’

  ‘No, you bastard. Now.’ Roscoe swung around, eyes widening as Fin raised the Glock into his face. ‘That’s the deal.’

  Carefully, Roscoe took a packet of cocaine from his coat. He tossed it beside the bomb but the barrel stayed jammed against his forehead. ‘What else?’ he murmured.

  ‘Hurt the cat again,’ said Fin, quietly, ‘and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Wednesday, 19 October, 17.16, Viale Gabriele d’Annunzio, Rome

  Kerr and Robyn took their time to reach the top of the Scalinate. Warmed by the exertion and late afternoon sunshine, they ambled left along the quiet Viale Gabriele d’Annunzio, keeping a lookout for Gabi.

  ‘Why did you ask about that Belfast film company?’ said Robyn when they had caught their breath.

  ‘Tintack. I’m investigating a European activist with links there.’

  ‘Which group?’

  ‘Anti-Capitalist Insurrection.’

  ‘You’re telling me ACI could be involved?’ Robyn looked astonished. ‘In London?’

  Kerr shrugged. ‘All the targets have been banks.’

  ‘You seriously believe they have capacity on that scale?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Jesus. You got to me just in time.’

  Kerr smiled. ‘You’ve always been there for me, right?’

  ‘Your leftie deep throat in Europe.’ She paused by the low stone wall and faced him. ‘That’s why you’re here isn’t it?’

  Kerr shook his head. ‘To find out what happened in Belfast.’

  ‘And play happy families, for Gabi’s sake?’ said Robyn, laughing at his straight face.

  They traced the top of the ridge in silence for a few moments, enjoying the red domes and towers of the churches stretching to the west, starkly beautiful in the fading light. Beyond a group of trees they came across an outlook point carved into the hilltop, lined with wooden benches cemented into the stone. The nearest carried a small brass plate in English: ‘Guido, who Fought with the British Army but found Peace in This Place, In Memoriam, 1921 – 2008.’ They were early for dinner so Robyn sat and stretched out, crossing her legs at the ankles. ‘I could have saved you a lot of time, if you’d come to me earlier. The London bombs are absolutely not down to Anti-Capitalist Insurrection. Nor anyone in Europe, for that matter. That’s what I think.’

  Kerr was sitting forward, elbows on his thighs. ‘How about a joint enterprise?’ he said, turning.

  ‘Educated European activists taking orders from Irish paramilitaries? Or subcontracting to someone else? Why the hell would they do that?’

  ‘Because they hate the same people.’

  ‘Nice try, but inconceivable. I’ve known a lot of European radicals in my time and they’re self-obsessed. Most, anyway. High octane, take no shit and always snatch the credit. Remind you of anyone?’ she said, giving Kerr a look. ‘The IRA belongs to yesterday, John. That’s the message in Europe, and everyone in Belfast is tuned in except the failed old fucks clinging to the past. Which
is the reason they’re doing London, with their stupid code words and harum-scarum bombs.’

  ‘So why is everyone in Belfast denying it?’

  ‘Stormont politics?’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘You can figure that out back home. I’m giving you the worm’s eye view. Everyone saw the bodies at the station and that bank in the City. Passers-by, trapped in the wrong place and time. What about their human rights? This was random violence, which makes them no better than Islamist psychos shooting up beaches and concert halls. Marauders with bomb belts, obsessed with death. Savages.’ She paused to let a couple of walkers pass behind them. ‘Okay. Look, at Spirito we rub along with security gurus, analysts and know-nothing spin doctors who never see eye to eye. Most say that, yes, ACI has the capacity for violent direct action…’

  ‘Which is what our liaison guys tell us.’

  ‘…but the blood on its hands will belong to some dead bankster, not a bunch of yuppies out for lunch or mum with kids waiting for a bus. No shoppers in body bags, right?’ The words had poured out in a torrent and she paused to draw breath. ‘Right?’

  ‘No collateral damage. I’ve got it,’ said Kerr, as his BlackBerry buzzed. It was a message from Gemma with another bomb threat notification. Kerr held up his hand and scanned the text: ‘Livebait rec’d 15.46. Bomb at Stock X. 30 mins warning, code Emerald. Evac, area searched, no trace. Best, G.’ He frowned. ‘We just had another bomb threat in London.’

  ‘A bank?’

  ‘Stock Exchange. Nothing found, so looks like a false alarm.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell me they used the IRA code word for a hoax, aren’t you?’

  Kerr sat back on the bench, folded his arms and looked left to the towers of the Trinita dei Monti, just visible through the trees. ‘Yet the Semtex was sourced in Europe.’

  Robyn tapped his forehead. ‘Did you listen to anything I said? Let’s try again. Spirito has been working on the migrant crisis. Free movement across Europe? Forget it. We’re looking at a security lock-down. Wherever your explosives came from, any cross-border co-operation is a no-go. The London campaign is being driven from Belfast.’ Kerr looked sceptical as Robyn pulled him to his feet. ‘Yes, John. Just like the old days.’

  Gabi had made their reservation at Ristorante Edoardo, as intimate as the bar below but with crisp linen table cloths and napkins. Edoardo served Italian and Spanish dishes and was favoured by the locals because it lay beyond the range of tourists climbing the Scalinate. The evening was still unseasonably warm, so Robyn changed their place to a table in a corner of the open-sided conservatory, with a sheer drop down the hillside and an uninterrupted view of the Piazza del Popolo.

  Robyn texted Gabi before ordering a bottle of Amarone with spaghetti for them both.

  ‘When I called on Saturday you said your report might be delayed,’ said Kerr as they clinked glasses.

  ‘This is very delicate. Our project was commissioned by the EU before the Referendum, so we have real influence here. Forget Brexit and the two years from Article Fifty. A thumbs down from Spirito stifles the EU grant allocation for Northern Ireland peace projects right now.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A sharp spike in violence, especially sectarian attacks. That’s a biggie, obviously. Spirito can seriously rock the boat, basically, so I have to double-check every element.’

  Kerr tucked the napkin into his shirt. ‘And if the IRA returns to war?’

  ‘The EU pulls the plug immediately.’

  ‘To be replaced by Westminster.’

  ‘With the Home Secretary assassinated?’ Robyn’s face jagged. ‘Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Still puzzled about those denials from Stormont?’

  ‘I’m wondering which “element” nearly got us killed?’ he said, just as Gabi appeared, beaming at them as she hurried through the restaurant.

  Gabi kissed Kerr, flung herself into the chair and poured herself a glass of wine. ‘So how do you like Edoardo, Dad?’ She looked hot, with strands of hair sticking to her temples as she checked her face on her iPhone camera. ‘Yuk.’ She glanced at their dishes, smiled at their waiter and signalled for the same.

  Robyn poured her a glass of water. ‘Give us a couple of minutes, will you?’

  Gabi looked between them. ‘You’re arguing? Already?’

  Kerr looked at Robyn. ‘Later?’

  ‘Has to be now,’ said Robyn sharply, sliding her make-up bag towards her daughter. ‘Cool down. Freshen up.’

  Gabi downed the water in one gulp. ‘Okay, I’ll give you five minutes, max,’ she said, splaying her fingers as she made for the toilet on the far side of the bar.

  Robyn regarded Kerr carefully, as if trying to convince herself of something. ‘What I’m going to tell you is completely secret,’ she said, turning her spaghetti. ‘No-one knows except our director, and I wasn’t going to tell you. Any leak comes straight back to me. Understood?’

  Kerr nodded.

  Robyn drank some wine, then took a deep breath. ‘Before I left Rome for Belfast I got a call from another charity worker. Thirtyish, same work, different outfit. He was in Greece, then Hungary and Germany, always on the move. But he’s Irish, born in Belfast to a single mother who pissed off to America.’ The conservatory was empty, local early birds having taken tables indoors, but Robyn took a moment to double-check. ‘He grew up in a children’s home.’

  ‘Oh, God. Where?’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘Outside the city, not one of the places already investigated. This is different. Scary. He says there are at least twenty-three names.’

  ‘Poor kids.’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘Not the victims.’

  Kerr put down his fork. ‘These are the abusers?’

  ‘The clients.’ She leaned in and dropped her voice. ‘Staff at the home were pimping out these children to paramilitaries. Exclusively,’ she said, before Kerr could interrupt. ‘He’s named some already. Says he’ll give me the others when he knows he can trust me.’

  ‘The stats you mentioned on the phone?’

  She nodded. ‘Grunts, mostly. But some big shots, too. From both sides.’

  ‘They’re sharing?’

  ‘No bigotry in child abuse, I guess.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me his name?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘I call him Nick. And yes, I do think the man is credible.’ She sat forward, her body language mirroring Kerr’s, a couple making love. ‘The things he’s telling me are true, John, so don’t bloody look at me like that.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  Robyn finally started eating again. ‘Another boy from the circle tried to speak out a wee while back and got himself murdered. Executed, more like. So Nick decided to take it from there.’

  ‘How many years is “a wee while”?’

  Robyn threw Kerr another look of refusal. ‘You’ll be trawling through the bloody archives. Anyway, Nick’s been secretly building the case. The catalogue, as he calls it. Dates and details of the abuse. Names and descriptions of the attackers. Physical peculiarities. Distinguishing marks.’

  ‘Nick showed this to you?’

  A breeze wafted through the open sides of the conservatory, disturbing the table cloth and distracting them. The sunset was suddenly painting the sky deep red and she turned to admire the darkening cityscape. Kerr sipped some wine, silent, waiting, as Gabi reappeared in the corner of his eye, flirting with their waiter.

  ‘All that beauty and I’m talking about blemishes, birthmarks and tattoos,’ murmured Robyn. ‘Pimples, scars and circumcisions. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘It’s hearsay. You know the risks, Robyn.’

  She swung back to face him. ‘He’s got high quality video.’

  Kerr craned forward, as if he had misheard. ‘Of terrorists torturing children?’

  Robyn’s nod was almost imperceptible and, when she spoke, her voice so quiet that Kerr strained to hear the words. ‘Thugs with beer bellies and baseball caps raping little boys. T
he faces are visible.’

  ‘How did Nick get hold of this stuff?’

  ‘He hacked into the main abuser and raided other accounts from there. They saved everything in six folders. The hurt that keeps on giving. Forget your English rockers, DJs and parliamentary pricks, John. This is going to be earth shattering.’

  Kerr sat quietly for a moment. ‘So how is Spirito going to handle it?’

  ‘After the attack on me?’ She gave a shrug and gazed at the last slice of sun sinking beneath the distant spires and domes. ‘I’m looking for another way.’

  ‘Robyn, we can’t let this go.’

  ‘We?’ She looked at him steadily, as if reading his thoughts, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Further down the road,’ she murmured, as Gabi reached them.

  ‘So tell me about Angelo,’ said Kerr, watching Gabi’s eyes scan their half-eaten dishes.

  ‘There you go again, Dad,’ said Gabi, as her spaghetti arrived.

  ‘I mean his poetry.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get it.’ She nodded sideways. ‘You do remember it’s Mum’s birthday tomorrow?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Gabi,’ said Robyn, as Kerr reached for his glass.

  Gabi studied Robyn’s face for a moment and looked sceptical. ‘You are staying over, Dad?’

  ‘I’m booked on the last flight.’

  ‘Miss it.’ She swallowed some pasta and pointed her fork at him. ‘You can have my bed if you’re that fussed. I’m sleeping at Angelo’s.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Wednesday, 19 October, 18.44, Hotel Jasmine, Paddington

  As Gabi wolfed down her spaghetti, brushed away talk about a taxi home (‘Mum, we’re celebrating!’) and showed the waiter their empty bottle, journalist Vanessa Gavron sat in the cocktail lounge of the Hotel Jasmine with New Scotland Yard’s head of counter-terrorism.