Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos lom-2

by Tom Graham

  ‘A floating base?’ said Gene, looking unimpressed. ‘You’ve been watching too much James Bond, Sam.’

  ‘If I’m right, Guv, it’d narrow the field down. Right now, Peter Verden and the RHF would be somewhere off that stretch of coastline, all conveniently packaged together on a boat. We could have ’em. What’s more, Michael Deery and his IRA team will be making straight for the coast, Guv. To get themselves a boat. And we could have them, too.’

  Gene squinted at Sam, unconvinced. At that moment, Annie appeared, carrying a slim file of papers in her hands.

  ‘I’ve got what I can about Peter Verden, Guv,’ she said. ‘It’s not much. And there’s nothing at all in our records on Carol Waye. Shall I put it on your desk and see if I can have any better luck looking elsewhere?’

  ‘Boats,’ said Gene, addressing Annie, but keeping his eyes fixed on Sam. ‘Was there anything about boats?’

  Annie paused, said, ‘Peter Verden’s boat, you mean?’

  ‘Does he have one?’

  ‘He got arrested back in …’ She flipped through the file. ‘August, ’67. Drugs bust. That’s how his name cropped up on our records, guv. He gave his address as the Capella. It’s his boat. Looks like he was a bit of a playboy. Family money. But he never showed up in court. Did a bunk.’

  ‘Captain Verden just sailed away …’ Gene mused.

  ‘Sailed away, Guv, yes,’ said Annie. ‘Is this useful information?’

  But Gene didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and strode swiftly away, making for his office. Annie turned anxiously to Sam.

  ‘Did I say the wrong thing?’

  Sam grinned at her. ‘You said all the right things. I could kiss you.’

  ‘Well, save it for some other “bird”, boss.’

  She turned away, uninterested.

  ‘Annie, please listen to me.’

  She kept walking. Sam had had enough of this cold-shoulder routine. He grabbed her, spun her round and planted a kiss on her mouth. She pushed him back. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Would you let me try that again?’ said Sam quietly. ‘It’s important.’

  Annie said nothing. Sam leant forward and kissed her, gently. This time, she didn’t resist.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is by way of an apology. I wasn’t trying to be a hero last night. The whole thing was a ghastly cock-up. I really did fall off the fence and end up in that compound by mistake. I’d never have done it deliberately and I certainly wasn’t being macho. Don’t look at me like I’m Gene or Ray. I’m different.’

  ‘I know you are,’ said Annie, softening. ‘I heard about what happened to you when they caught you. What nearly happened to you — and it frightened me.’

  ‘It frightened you? Annie, I was sweating cobs.’

  ‘And dropping a few too, I imagine.’

  ‘Put it this way, the dry cleaning bill’s astronomical.’

  They laughed. Gallows humour. It thawed the atmosphere between them. They each considered whether it was time for another kiss.

  But the moment was broken by the bellowing voice of Gene Hunt resounding down the corridor. ‘Samuel! Get your swimming trunks packed and fetch your bucket and spade. Uncle Genie’s taking you for a trip to the seaside.’

  Annie looked enquiringly at Sam.

  ‘Looks like me and the Guv are off on a jaunt,’ he said to her. ‘Verden’s taken to the high seas. I suggested the idea, and then you backed it up just now — and it looks like Gene’s convinced.’

  ‘So you’re off to track him down?’

  ‘Him and the IRA hit squad we think are after him. It’s going to be … challenging.’

  ‘Any room for a girl in this boys’ outing?’ Annie asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Sam. ‘No harm in asking. The guv can only say no.’

  ‘No!’ Gene barked.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  INTERCEPTOR

  Men crowded into the CID room. Real men. They crammed in, en masse, filling the air with the reek of stale tobacco, underarm odour and Blue Stratos. There were gruff comments, coarse jokes, braying laughs, resounding farts. Chairs were pulled up, and when the chairs ran out blokes sat themselves heavily on desktops and filing cabinets, sweeping aside the paperwork to make room for their arses. Packets of fags were fished out from breast pockets — Lamberts, Embassies, Benson amp; Hedges, Senior Service. Lighters clicked and sparked. Thick, rich, fag smoke billowed out, draping the CID room in a volcanic haze. So much smoke and manliness packed into one room pushed the temperature up, and soon sweat began to glisten from the five o’clock shadow and thickets of bushy sideburns. Ties were pulled loose. Top buttons were flung undone. Wiry chest hairs were revealed.

  Gene loomed over this hastily assembled meeting of officers and detectives from all over the city, hands planted firmly on his hips, his gut thrust confidently forward, the leather straps and harness of his Magnum body holster openly displayed. Sam and Annie were jostled together amid the crush of male bodies. Ray stood comfortably amid the beer guts and stubble, a man among men, while Chris’s face could be glimpsed bobbing up and down at the rear of the crowd as he trampolined about, trying to see what was happening at the front of the room.

  ‘Right!’ Gene intoned, glaring round at the faces about him. ‘The reason I’ve scrambled you gentlemen is that we have a shitload to do and bugger-all time to do it in. We’ve got a mess on our hands. A right mess. Imagine you sicked up on your own bag of chips, then pooped yourself, then sat in it — that, gentlemen, gives you some inkling of the sort of mess we’re facing right now.’

  A blokey murmur ran through the room, then there was quiet.

  ‘Our old playmates the IRA are gearing up to give us a kicking,’ Gene continued. ‘But now we’ve got a new mainland threat to contest with an’ all. They’re called the RHF — the Red Hand Faction. But don’t bother trying to understand their demands: it’s all a load of student bollocks. All that matters is that they’ve been getting their mitts on IRA munitions in order to conduct a full-blown campaign of bombings and terror. They’re going to bring this country to its knees. Well, that’s what they think. But they’re not going to get the chance, because we are going to stamp them out — right out — right now!’

  He brought his mighty fist down hard on the table for emphasis. Gene’s words, emphatic tone and prominently displayed firearm won him macho approval from the men packed into the room.

  ‘The RHF is on the move,’ Gene went on. ‘We’ve routed them out of one little rat hole and it looks like they’re making for another one, somewhere along the north-west coast. I’ve got traffic cops and PC Plods on pushbikes keeping a close eye on all the major roads heading north out of here — so far, we’ve had a number of reports of trucks moving in convoy that might well be the RHF. You gentlemen are going to follow up every single one of those reports. Get this into your noggins — we cannot afford to let them bastards give us the slip again. We’ve already got more riled Paddies charging around than on a building site with no tea urn — we do not need a bunch of long-haired college kids planting bombs an’ all. Am I making myself sparklingly crystal?’

  A deep-throated, gruff ‘Yes, Guv’ growled out in response. Somewhere in the middle of it, Annie’s softer, more feminine ‘Yes, Guv’ stood out on its own.

  ‘Every lead, every suspicion of the RHF’s whereabouts, every possible glimpse or glimmer I want followed up and checked out — no cutting corners, no sweeping under the carpet what you can’t be arsed to chase up. This will not be a regular police investigation — it’ll be a masterclass. Future generations will look back on what we’re about to accomplish in the coming hours and say, “Chuffin’ Nora! How the bollocks did they manage that?” Are you reading me, loud and clear?’

  As one they answered, ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘Super-duper,’ said Gene, glaring round at them all slowly, a beer-bellied Napoleon surveying his troops. ‘One more thing, gentlemen. Just to spice thing
s up, we thought it might be fun to throw a wildcard into the game. The RHF has got a hostage — Mary Deery. She’s twelve years old. Her parents are middlemen in an IRA arms-supply chain. We strongly suspect that Michael Deery and an IRA unit are out there somewhere trying to locate the RHF’s new headquarters before we do. Deery wants his little princess back, and the IRA want to stop these Red Hand tossers pilfering any more of their fireworks. Now, then, given a few recent cock-ups in this department, Tyler …’

  Gene glared at Sam. Everybody else turned to look at him too. Sam made a silent Hey, why the hell are you picking on me, Guv? expression.

  ‘We thought it would do our credibility no harm at all if we were to nick the RHF and an IRA hit squad in one fell swoop. Gold stars all round. Everyone’s a hero. Pay rises. Knighthoods. Blowjobs from adoring birds. Are you with me, gentlemen?’

  ‘With you, Guv,’ the assembled men growled back.

  ‘Then let’s get rolling,’ Gene commanded. ‘We’ve got a huge area to cover and possible RHF leads to follow up all over place. So we’ll divvy the investigation up, get you working in pairs, dispatch you to as many places in the north-west as possible. Me and DI Tyler will be looking for the Capella, a rather tasty pleasure boat we strongly suspect the RHF leaders are using as their HQ. Our typist Annie’s on the case here, writing up all this info so you don’t get confused.’

  Annie’s cheeks flushed and she lowered her eyes at the word ‘typist’. Sam secretly squeezed her hand.

  ‘It’s a complex operation,’ Gene said. ‘But if we all keep talking to each other, and keep each other well posted, we can come out of this smelling of a bloody great bunch of roses.’

  There were shouts from the doorway and everybody turned to see a young officer frantically waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’

  ‘What the hell do you want, wonder boy?’ Gene snapped.

  ‘Car bomb, sir,’ the young officer cried. ‘Outside the county court. Went off three minutes ago. It’s major, sir.’

  A second messenger came bursting into the room right after the first. ‘Shots fired from the roof of a building in Calbeck Street, sir! Reports of casualties!’

  ‘Guv, Guv! A coded warning’s been phoned through — there’s a bomb in a shopping centre. No location given. It could be anywhere. The codeword’s a recognized IRA signal, Guv. It’s the real thing.’

  The CID room began to erupt into a chaos of babbling voices. The assembled coppers and DIs from various divisions were surging in all directions, rushing back to their desks and offices to coordinate their responses to the sudden crisis. No time for chasing baddies across Cumbria — there was blood on the streets, right here, right now.

  Gene stood silently in the middle of the confusion, glaring ahead, motionless, as his assembled forces dissipated under his very nose.

  Sam came over to him.

  ‘It’s deliberate, Guv!’ he said, raising his voice to be heard. ‘They’re hitting us from every angle. We’re being run ragged!’

  Gene narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

  ‘They’re draining us of manpower so we can’t come looking for them,’ Sam said. ‘This is what they said they’d do — get us running like maniacs from one bomb site to another until the department collapsed under the strain.’

  Still, Gene said nothing.

  ‘We can’t go scouring the country looking for them, Guv. We can’t spare the men, not now, not with all this kicking off.’

  Gene suddenly turned and grabbed Sam’s lapels. ‘Stop telling me what I already know, Tyler!’

  ‘What are we going do, Guv? We can’t just let the RHF slip through our fingers.’

  ‘Then we stick to our plan,’ Gene snarled back. ‘You and me, Sam — looking for that bastard Verden and his bloody pirate ship. If we can’t spare the blokes then we can’t spare the blokes. Bollocks to it — we’ll do it ourselves.’

  ‘Needle in a haystack,’ Sam cried. ‘Guv, it’s hopeless.’

  ‘Hopeless?’ The word seemed to add an edge to Gene’s rage that took it into a whole new dimension. His anger became streamlined, focused like a laser beam. He aimed that laser beam directly at Sam, scorching him with it. ‘Don’t ever use the word “hopeless” with me, Sam Tyler.’

  He looked about the room. Where once his assembled army had stood, there were now only Chris and Ray, Sam and Annie.

  ‘The players have somewhat thinned out but the game’s still the same,’ intoned Gene. ‘Ray, Chris, I want you here, monitoring all the reports we’re getting about possible RHF sightings in the north. Annie, keep typing it all up so we don’t lose track of anything, and make sure that kettle keeps whistling. Sam, as far as we’re concerned, nothing’s changed. We’re hitting the road, heading north. We’ll find that bloody boat, free that hostage, and have the pleasure of arresting your old pal Peter Verden on the very deck of his battleship bloody Potemkin!’

  He swept from the room, jangling his car keys.

  ‘We’re going to scour the whole coast — in the Cortina?’ asked Sam incredulously. ‘Guv, it won’t even make it as far as Blackpool.’

  ‘The Cortina’s phoned in sick,’ said Gene. ‘In her absence, I have procured a replacement.’

  Gene strode across the car park towards his stand-in motor.

  ‘I’ve just fallen in love,’ drooled Chris.

  ‘Put one on me Christmas list,’ muttered Ray, gawping.

  ‘It’s nice,’ said Annie, shrugging.

  ‘Where the hell did you get it, Gene?’ asked Sam. ‘They don’t have them down at Dodgy Dan’s Used Motors.’

  The broad, grilled bonnet of the dark teal Jensen Interceptor gleamed regally beneath the drab Manchester sky. Gene rested an elbow on the roof, bouncing the keys in his gloved hand.

  ‘It’s all a matter of knowing the right people,’ said Gene. He cast his eyes over the shining bodywork. ‘I called in a very big favour.’

  He slid himself behind the wheel, fired her up, and furiously gunned the powerful V8 engine.

  ‘Don’t pretend you ain’t getting a woody listening to that, boss,’ Ray said to him, jabbing his elbow against Sam’s ribs.

  ‘I can see why he ain’t going to let anything stop him tear-arsing off round the Lake District — not when he’s gonna do it in that,’ murmured Chris, drinking in every detail of the Jensen. ‘And you get to go with him, boss. Lucky, lucky bastard!’

  Gene thrust his head out and yelled, ‘Move yourself, Tyler! Time is of the proverbial!’

  Sam was about to rush over and get in the motor when he noticed Annie looking at him. He paused, ducked close to her, and said, ‘This time, I really will be careful.’

  ‘You’d better,’ she said, fixing him with her eyes.

  If he hadn’t been so aware of Gene and Ray and Chris all looking at him, he would have kissed her. But he didn’t want that kiss ruined, sniggered at, dredged up later as the source for beery jokes in the Railway Arms.

  ‘See you later,’ said Sam, winking as he clambered into the leather upholstery next to Gene. The powerful engine was vibrating into his body through the seat. ‘So, um, guv — I take it we’re going to share the driving?’

  ‘Like bollocks we are,’ said Gene, and the Jensen sprang away like a panther with a rocket up its jacksie.

  They powered through the streets of Manchester, heading north. Red lights were run. One-way streets were ruthlessly violated. Sam noticed the way Gene caressed the wood-rimmed steering wheel as it slid, power-assisted, beneath his black-gloved hands.

  ‘It’s winning your heart, this motor,’ he said. ‘You won’t want to go back.’

  ‘It’s just a fling,’ Gene growled. ‘Don’t tell the Cortina.’

  They swept out of the city and hurtled through the suburbs, making for open country. The police radio babbled and gabbled continually, picking up huge amounts of anxious cross-talk between police units. The city they were leaving behind was in turmoil, with streets sealed off, hospitals on f
ull alert, every copper who could be mustered deployed and working flat out. A county courthouse had been wrecked by a 200-pound. car bomb; there were five dead bodies at the scene and scores of wounded being ferried away from the carnage. The IRA bomb in the shopping centre still hadn’t been located, and, despite rumours flying about that it was a hoax, nobody was taking any chances. The sniper in Calbeck Street was now racing around the city, playing on the confusion caused by the bomb, giving everyone the slip — there just wasn’t the manpower available to hem him in. There were reports coming in of explosives found in public parks, outside schools, in the back seats of buses; reports of masked men with guns were being claimed from one side of Manchester to the other. The police radios were full of panic, rumour and counter-rumour.

  ‘It’s Verden,’ said Sam. ‘This is what he promised. He said he’d bring us all to our knees. This is what the RHF is all about.’

  ‘We’ll have their balls for breakfast, Sam, just you wait. And, as for that bird that’s with him, I’ll have her tits on toast for elevenses.’

  ‘How the hell are we going to find them, Guv?’

  ‘Easy. They’ll be stuck on the front of her body, sitting side by side.’

  ‘No, Guv, I mean the RHF. The Capella could be anywhere — and that’s assuming they’re even on board. We’re working blind, Guv.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Gene said. ‘While you’ve been fiddling with the radio, I’ve had my eyes on the road. And I’ve spotted just what I was looking for.’

  Sam frowned. He looked ahead, out at the wide motorway along which they were cruising. A number of vehicles were on the road ahead of them.

  ‘Three cars ahead,’ said Gene. ‘See anything familiar?’

  Sam leaned forward, squinting. He could see the back of the car Gene was referring to — a totally ordinary Vauxhall Cresta, beetling along.