by Roger Pearce
‘I’m relying on Justin to guide us in.’
Ritchie stayed silent for a moment. ‘So what the hell am I looking at here?’
‘A campaign by Anti-Capitalist Insurrection, playing out exactly as we warned at the Silver Scrum this time last week. We’ve identified Roscoe, Gina Costello, Maria Benita Consuela and this Luca dude, who may be preparing to do something tomorrow. We don’t know. It may just be a recce for an attack down the line. Or a money transfer.’
‘But it means I have to share this tonight,’ said Ritchie.
‘Too risky. Listen, Benita has led us to the door of Wymark Corporate Solutions. The CEO is a millionaire big shot called Philip Deering, and he’s been holding cosy meetings with the Bull. In secret.’
‘Can you prove this?’
‘Would I tell you otherwise?’ Kerr listened to the children upstairs, still wide-awake, and hoped they were excited because he had come home. He reached for Nancy’s hand as she brushed past him to fill the kettle.
‘What’s the worst case?’ said Ritchie, eventually.
‘Drugs funding terrorism. Cocaine for bombs, with Wymark doing the laundering. Alan Fargo’s team are following the money, and it’s a long trail. I’ve got the Reds in Fulham covering Deering’s house right now, and his finance chief.’
‘I’m talking about Derek Finch.’
‘Deering has bought him. He’s got the Bull deep in his pocket, and it’s full of dirty money.’
‘Does he know that?’
‘Is the Bull a dupe or conspirator, you mean?’ Kerr gave a short laugh. ‘Want to hear what Vanessa Gavron said to me two days ago? “Take another look at your boss”. Exact words.’
‘A grudge is not evidence of corruption, John.’
‘It’s another brick in the wall, and I’m asking you to keep Finch on the other side until we sort this.’
‘High stakes.’ The commander’s voice dropped to a murmur again, arguing with himself. ‘Will Justin give us Luca in time?’
‘Trust me.’
Another pause on the line. ‘Okay.’
•••
Sunday, 23 October, 08.51, The Fishbowl
Kerr woke early, with Nancy beside him but Robyn in his head. A cloud of foreboding had followed him upstairs to bed and there was an awkwardness with Nancy, still wary as she steered him from the spare room, compromising with kind words over intimacy. Hovering over Kerr all night had been the trials he would face today: revelations about Robyn, his operative still in harm’s way and, if Rich Malone and Justin were right, the spectre of more bloodshed from another attack, imminent yet unsighted.
On waking, Kerr found smudges of dried blood on the pillow from his injured face. He twisted onto his back, troubled by the gaps in his team’s knowledge, the debilitating famine of hard facts. When secrets about the enemy’s intentions were in short supply, MI5 analysts and media experts would talk about ‘intelligence deficits’, or ‘missing tiles in the mosaic’. Many euphemisms for failure had emerged over the years, all wasted on cops in the front line, for whom the information vacuum meant carnage at Victoria and Cheapside, bodies blasted out of recognition and families torn apart. The business of SO15’s intelligence unit was to predict, warn and disrupt; today, if Kerr failed, he knew the Bull would twist misfortune into neglect and missing clues into dereliction, with blame levelled at Commander Bill Ritchie.
Kerr lay quietly, jeopardy floating over him like a shroud. He tried to weigh his defeat by the terrorists against success in uncovering the Bull’s corruption, but the scales refused to settle. The only certainty was that Sunday would be a day of endurance.
Shortly after eight, still reeling from the proof of Robyn’s betrayal, he crept downstairs to the kitchen. Pummelled and wrung out, his body had seized up overnight, so he spent a few minutes curling and stretching to unlock his back and shoulders. He filled the kettle, then forced himself into a flurry of press-ups until he heard it click off, punishing his toes against the cold, unforgiving tiles. Pouring boiling water into the teapot, he struggled to contain his feelings. Anger? Certainly. Humiliation? Yes, a deep sense of shame for himself, pity for Gabi and doubt about his own judgment. Nancy’s evidence had tainted Robyn, yet Kerr had been wrong about them both. His scepticism and credulity left him feeling physically sick as he poured milk over shredded wheat, sliced a banana and forced himself to eat while he planned the day’s moves. He would have to break the news to Gabi very soon, and the prospect chilled him. He padded upstairs with a cup of tea for Nancy, then took a shower.
‘You’re staying home with us today, right?’ said Nancy, still bleary when he returned, towel around his waist. She sat up as Kerr dressed in yesterday’s clothes. ‘Resting. Isn’t that what Bill Ritchie told you?’
‘Have to pop to the office first,’ he said, plumping her pillow against the headboard. Next door, the children were stirring, evidently disturbed by the shower. ‘We’ll take them to the park.’
‘For God’s sake, John.’ Nancy swept a hand through her hair in irritation. ‘You look a bloody wreck.’
‘It’s alright.’ Kerr’s first task was a call to Vanessa Gavron, and it could not be from here. He bent to kiss her. ‘Be straight back, promise,’ he lied.
It took him ten minutes to drive to the Yard through the quiet Sunday streets, a couple more to reach the Fishbowl and search his Inbox for 1830’s satnav readout on Gavron’s Saab. The journalist was on voicemail but called back five minutes later, to the ding of a solitary church bell.
‘Work or worship?’ said Kerr, spooning coffee into his stained mug. ‘Still harassing the priest?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just calling to say thanks.’
‘For what?’ said Gavron, then laughed. ‘Are you talking about the Bull?’
‘I’m taking a close look at him and the signs are promising. There you go. Thank you.’
‘So when do I get the exclusive?’
‘Listen, I’m seeing Robyn soon. Where did you say you two met?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Tell me now,’ said Kerr, smoothly.
‘Like I said before, ask her yourself.’
Kerr took a breath as he scrolled down. ‘Vanessa, at this moment I’m guessing you’re parked outside St Jude’s church in Haringey, right? Family Mass? Waiting for the man?’ Kerr sensed Gavron shifting in her seat, fiddling with her camera. ‘Is it Ducketts Road or Green Lanes today?’
‘This is my story, for Christ’s sake.’
‘An abusing priest linked to terrorism? It’s my investigation.’
‘From my source.’
‘And I promise to look after you both.’ Silence again, the bell insistent. ‘It’s a simple question, Vanessa.’
‘I bumped into Robyn in a bar in Colombia, okay?’ said Gavron, anger stifled by resignation. ‘Bogota, not far from the airport.’
‘What were you there for?’
‘I’d been following an Olympics story in Rio.’
‘You cover sport, too?’
‘A government long firm fraud. Alleged. Then a couple of days in Bogota on the way home.’
‘Working?’
‘Sightseeing. Robyn and I got chatting. Shouting, rather. It was crowded. Everything very sociable, no big deal.’
Images of Robyn flooded Kerr’s brain. He was with her by the river and on the houseboat, her suntanned face laughing at him, her body tricking his, a picture of fulfilment on the eve of the bombing campaign. ‘Was she with anyone?’
‘Couple of locals and a big Irish bloke, which is probably how I got sucked in. Guinness and shots all round. Why? You’re jealous?’
‘Curious.’
‘Jesus, she warned me you were a tricky bastard.’
‘No, she didn’t. Date?’
‘Ages ago. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Do it now.’
Gavron exhaled down the line. ‘I was overnighting to Heathrow. It would be a Tuesday, four, five weeks back. We e
nded up on the same flight.’
‘What seats?’
‘Premium economy for me. Robyn was standby, back of the plane. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘And when you landed?’
‘I drove to the office. Robyn connected to Belfast.’
Kerr scrolled through his calendar. Robyn had caught up with him in Hammersmith on the penultimate Friday in September. ‘How about Tuesday the twentieth of last month?’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘No, Vanessa. Look it up.’
Sounds of irritation, a thud as Gavron dropped her phone, then more muttering as she swiped through the diary. Waiting, Kerr tried to make sense of his thoughts as Robyn’s deception unravelled. When they met in Rome, she had implied a lengthy stay in Belfast researching sectarianism and child abuse by paramilitaries, a story strengthened by Dodge’s confession; and her claim that the report for Spirito e l’Anima was in its third draft suggested a project lasting weeks or months.
Gavron joined him again. ‘September twentieth? Yeah, that’s the one.’
Three days: unless she was lying, too, Vanessa Gavron’s travel schedule gave Robyn less than seventy-two hours in Belfast. She had blended fact and fabrication to dupe him. And if her subterfuge was bold, its implication was shattering: Robyn, the mother of his daughter, had diverted him from Javelin, the extremist, using truth to frame republican dissidents. Even as he absorbed this body blow, another question hammered inside his brain: what had Robyn done to provoke the IRA, to ignite such rage that they would stalk her to Hammersmith and place a bomb beneath her car?
Suddenly, Alan Fargo was filling the doorway, waving a sheet of paper and mouthing something.
‘Still there?’ said Gavron.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured into the phone, beckoning Fargo inside. ‘Vanessa, thanks. I owe you.’
Gavron was still signing off as Kerr cut the call.
‘Polly just got back,’ said Fargo.
‘It’s him?’
‘Jonny Tranter, plus some interesting history. His father was also a soldier. In eighty-seven, Christopher Tranter was ambushed by the IRA and murdered in cold blood. He was thirty-nine and young Jonny was already learning how to disarm bombs.’
‘Was dad special forces?’
‘Paras. A veteran, obviously. The rest is vague and unusual. Christopher and a partner were in plain clothes in an unmarked car in Belfast. No armed escort or back-up. Personal weapons only. They took a wrong turn, got jammed in by a black taxi and set upon by a mob. The pal fired a couple of shots and got away, but they dragged dad to waste ground, stripped him naked, beat him half to death then shot him in the head.’
‘Did we know about this?’
‘It was a fuck-up. Why would we? The army didn’t even release the true names. Christopher’s body has never been recovered. He’s one of the Disappeared you never hear about.’
‘So when did Jonny Tranter spin off the rails?’
‘The day they started giving terrorists get-out-of-jail cards.’
‘Okay. Can Polly help us find him?’
Fargo smiled and shook his head. ‘We can do it ourselves. Christopher’s widow is Amelia. She went through a couple more bad marriages. In two thousand and five, she accepted an offer from Christopher’s best buddy at Sandhurst.’
Kerr stared hard, then snatched the paper from Fargo’s hand. A bolt of lightning shot through him as he deciphered the scrawl. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Fargo nodded. ‘Our bombmaker’s step father-in-law is Philip Deering.’
In an instant Kerr was revitalised, the long night’s paralysing regrets banished as he snatched back control. ‘I’ll brief the commander,’ he said, grabbing his office phone as the BlackBerry vibrated in his hand and priorities fizzed through his head, letting him know exactly what he had to do. ‘We need to get photographs of Tranter to the Reds.’
‘Done. And Justin’s cleared for Clacton tonight.’
‘So we need him to insert the Echo Chip as soon as.’
‘He must have done it first thing. Mercury is streaming Costello’s emails right now.’
It was Jack Langton on the mobile, speaking in riddles to avoid confusion with target code names. ‘John, we’re getting movement here. Boss Man and Sunny Jim both left home five minutes ago. That’s Fulham and Dulwich, and they’re busy on the hands-free. Best guess is they’re headed for the Mayfair office to talk about the thing in the river.’
Kerr was estimating the number of watchers required for an uncertain number of targets at four plots suddenly becoming mobile. ‘Can you manage this, Jack?’
‘It’s tight, because we’re also watching for Airplane Man outside the Artist’s house.’
‘Portobello. Who’s covering there?’
‘Melanie took over at six, nothing doing yet. Look, provided everyone assembles at the office and stays put, I’m okay. Any more players, it gets tricky.’
‘Jack, I’ll come right back to you.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Sunday, 23 October, 09.21, safe house, Finsbury Park
The M1 traffic from Luton was busy enough for Jonny Tranter’s Fiat Punto van to pass unnoticed among the airport taxis and shuttle buses, trucks and day trippers making their way south towards the capital. He had pulled grey overalls over his jeans and sweatshirt, staying cool with the driver’s window lowered and the visor down. Alert for bored traffic cops, he was careful to keep below seventy, except when a bunch of girls flashing him from the back of a coach forced a shift to the outside lane.
On the radio, LBC buzzed around Saturday’s foiled attack on the O2 Arena, with prattling foreign schoolkids and anyone in range overstating their brush with death. Somehow the attack had been spun towards Brexit, with talk of xenophobia and the youngsters agreeing that hatred would never divide London from Europe. ‘Nous sommes Londres’, promised an overwrought, horsey crowd from Normandy, as Tranter scornfully shook his head.
Talk of the unnamed hero cop who had driven the horsebox into the river made his temples throb, for the brilliant plan had been scuppered by Bobby Roscoe’s cowardice, not some insane dive to the bottom of the Thames. Tranter carried a new Glock pistol in his battered army shoulder holster and felt for it now, snug beneath the overalls, waiting for his anger to subside. He leant out of the window for a couple of seconds, offering his head to the wind, then stabbed the Classic FM button.
By the time the motorway petered out at Hendon, Bobby Roscoe had embedded himself in Tranter’s brain, the weakling resurrected as his nemesis. Against orders, he found himself heading for Willesden, a short detour to the south, careful not to excite the speed cameras along the North Circular Road. In less than fifteen minutes he had crossed the canal, slowing for the approach to Roscoe’s workshop.
Evidently, the area around Betta Tyre and Exhaust remained a major crime scene, with three police vehicles parked haphazardly beyond a length of police tape, including a white van marked Police Evidence Recovery. Twisting in his seat as he crawled past, he glimpsed five scientific officers working inside the workshop, their coveralls stark white in the gloom. Heading east through sleepy traffic, he felt for the clear, sealed plastic bag hidden inside the glove compartment. The pouch held metal shavings, wire fragments and microscopic traces of Semtex, genuine clues creating a false evidence trail to save him from Roscoe’s dereliction. He breathed easily again. In a few hours the cops would be sniffing around a different scene, drawing the wrong conclusion from real evidence, with every shred luring them away from Jonny Tranter.
By ten o’clock he was dipping beneath the railway bridge in Seven Sisters Road, giving way to a clutch of hoodies, ashen-faced, glassy-eyed, up early or home late. Outside a block of council flats workmen were loading a flatbed truck with dumped mattresses, worn tyres and a sofa as he turned for the safe house. He passed Muslims walking to the mosque, Christians heading for church and dog walkers skimming Sunday tabloids while their pets defecated. An elderly man
washed a Nissan Micra, its handwritten For Sale sign peeling from the windscreen; in a tiny front garden, kids skipped around a mother tending window boxes. They had murdered his father in Victorian terraces just like these. Here was London’s melting pot slopped into a single street, everyone poor and rubbing along, taking turns at the back of life’s queue. He drove slowly between the lines of parked cars as the street came to life, searching for number 17A and its amateur bombers. With Bobby Roscoe gone, the brothers would be holed up in the basement, waiting for rescue and cocaine. He crunched over a rolling drinks can, looking for a place to park.
Reaching the end of the street, he turned around in the shadow of St Peter’s church and found a gap three car lengths away from the safe house. Unobserved, he slipped the evidence pouch into his overalls pocket, unfolded himself from the van and descended the crumbling steps to the dank basement. He paused to take in the brown, slanted door and barred window, then pressed his ear to the glass. The only muffled sound came from the TV and he imagined the fear triggered by the O2 fiasco and Roscoe’s death. He stretched on tiptoe to glance along the street, then stooped to pull on blue plastic shoe covers. A cat appeared from behind a cracked terracotta pot and rubbed itself against his leg as he transferred the Glock to his left pocket. He paused to stroke the mottled fur, then gently pushed it away before slipping on latex gloves.
The brothers would be expecting him, awaiting exfiltration in the event of Roscoe’s elimination or arrest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then tapped the coded knock with his car key, three-two-three. Almost immediately he heard a key turn, then the door opened and a wide-eyed face stared at him, whiter than the sheet covering the window. Unshaven in shorts and filthy vest, he was barefoot and slow to make way. They had never met, so Tranter glanced at the withered right knee to satisfy himself: Kenny the cripple, frightened, not to be relied upon. No threat, either.
‘We’ve been fucking desperate,’ said Kenny. ‘Waiting for you all night.’
Tranter ignored him and stepped into a fug of sweat, feet and bad breath, reassuring himself they had not moved from the hideout. It took only a couple of seconds to assess their sleazy building site of piled rubble, cracked plaster, lifeless cabling and workmen’s trestles. The TV was blaring from the far side but neither of the folding chairs was occupied. Tranter hesitated by the pine table Roscoe had used to demonstrate his bombs, scanning for firearms. ‘Where’s your brother?’ he said, just as Fin appeared from the bathroom. He was naked, rubbing his hair with a towel, unaware of another presence. In different circumstances Tranter would have reprimanded Kenny for opening the front door without armed cover; now, it was for the best. Then Fin looked across, instinctively covering himself.