‘You don’t recognise them because they’re not from our mosque,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Khalid has been recruiting from all over London. Maybe the country.’
The two Asians who had come out of the tube station were deep in conversation. One of them was holding a mobile phone.
‘I don’t understand, brother. What are you saying?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen today. If it was going to happen it would have happened already.’
‘You mean it’s a test, right?’
‘I think so,’ said Chaudhry. ‘They wanted to check that we’d do as we’re told.’
As two more Asians walked from the direction of the Pancras Road taxi rank, Chaudhry’s mobile rang and he jumped. The caller had withheld his number. Chaudhry took the call.
‘Well done, brother,’ said Khalid. ‘You can make your own way home now. Someone will call to collect the backpacks and the phone. Allahu akbar.’ Khalid ended the call.
Chaudhry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘We go home,’ he said to Malik.
‘It’s over?’
‘If anything it’s just beginning,’ said Chaudhry
‘They’re walking towards the exit,’ said Button. ‘Did you see that? He took a call on his mobile and now they’re heading towards the Midland Road taxi rank.’
‘Some of them are walking towards the tube,’ said the commander. ‘Maybe it’s the tube they’re after.’
‘No, they’re all leaving,’ said Shepherd. He pointed at another CCTV feed. Two Asians with backpacks were walking towards the Euston Road exit. ‘And here, look.’ A tall Asian was walking slowly to the Pancras Road exit, while a fat Asian hurried after him. Both were carrying backpacks.
‘He’s right,’ said Button. ‘They all got phone calls and they’re all leaving. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’ Button patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Spider. You called it right.’
‘And if I hadn’t, Charlie? What then? Would have you killed them all?’
‘If I was convinced that they were carrying bombs, and if I was convinced that they were going to use them, then of course.’
Shepherd nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.
Shepherd was just about to put the key into the lock of his front door when his John Whitehill phone rang. It was Chaudhry.
‘John, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘Were you watching? It was a test. It was just a test.’ His words were coming out so quickly that they were running into each other. ‘We were scared shitless, I can tell you. Harvey thought they were going to use anthrax or something. Then Khalid called and said we were to go home.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just give me a minute.’ He let himself into the flat and closed the door behind him before switching off the burglar alarm. ‘Where are you?’
‘Home,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Is Harvey with you?’
‘We’re both here. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd again. ‘We were watching you. I told you, MI5 has professionals. They watched you all the way from Stoke Newington and we had you on CCTV at the station.’
‘Did you see the others? There were other brothers there.’
‘We saw them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you recognise them?’
‘Just one of them. The one who was driving the van we were in. Harvey had played football with him. But they all had the same backpacks. So you think we’re going to attack the station? Is that what it was about? Next time they’ll give us guns?’
‘I don’t know, Raj. It’s possible. Did they say anything to you?’
‘They just told us to go home and that they’d talk to us soon. Someone is going to collect the bags and the phone.’
‘I’ll arrange a tail,’ said Shepherd.
‘Do you think I should open the backpack, see what’s inside?’
‘Best not,’ said Shepherd. ‘It might be part of the test.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait and see what happens next,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done, you handled yourself brilliantly. Tell Harvey from me, you guys did a great job.’
‘I just did what they said. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d given me a gun.’
‘Let’s meet tomorrow and we’ll talk it through,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done with the hood.’
‘The hood?’
‘Letting me know that everything was okay by leaving your hood up.’
Chaudhry didn’t say anything for several seconds.
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ said Shepherd eventually.
‘I’m sorry, John. I was just so caught up in what was happening.’
Shepherd laughed softly.
‘What?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Shepherd. ‘All’s well that end’s well.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘You did just fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow. We can talk about it then.’
Ray Fenby used his remote to flick through the channels of his TV and sighed at the stream of dross that made up daytime television: endless repeats, banal talk shows and rolling news. There was nothing at all worth watching. He pushed himself up off the sofa and padded over to his poky kitchen in his bare feet. The worst thing about working undercover was that for most of the time he was doing absolutely nothing. Pretty much all of the people he came in contact with had jobs, in which case they were tied up all day, or they were criminals, in which case they were usually asleep.
Fenby’s days were spent watching television, catnapping and waiting for the phone to ring. The fact that he was based in Birmingham just added to his misery because he had no friends or family in the city. At least when he’d been working in London he could drop round and have a beer with his mates. He opened the fridge. He’d run out of milk and there was nothing there that he wanted to eat, but there were half a dozen cans of Carlsberg Special. He sighed and wondered whether it was a good idea to start drinking at three o’clock in the afternoon, finally deciding that it probably wasn’t but that he was old enough to make bad decisions. He took out a can, popped it open and took it back to his sofa. He flopped down and drank.
His doorbell rang and he frowned. His flat was on the third floor with a door-entry system at the main entrance, and he hadn’t buzzed anyone in. He figured it was either Jehovah’s Witnesses or a cold caller wanting him to change his electricity supplier so he ignored it. His bell rang again, more insistently and for longer this time. He put the Carlsberg can on the floor and went to his front door. He looked through the peephole. It was Kettering. And Thompson. Fenby frowned. Kettering and Thompson had never been round to his flat before, though they had dropped him off outside the building. He took a deep breath and mentally switched himself into Ian Parton mode before opening the door. He forced a smile.
‘Hey, guys, what’s up?’
‘We’re on the way to the pub and thought we’d swing by and see if you wanted a pint,’ said Kettering.
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll get my coat,’ said Fenby.
He moved down the hall to get his jacket, but as he did so Kettering and Thompson followed him. As he turned round to look at them, a third man stepped into the hallway. He had close-cropped hair and a strong chin with a dimple in the centre. He was wearing a long dark-brown leather coat and as he reached up to scratch his head Fenby caught a glimpse of a heavy gold identity bracelet.
‘This is Mickey. He’s an old mate from London,’ said Kettering.
Mickey nodded at Fenby but didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands over his groin and studied Fenby with cold blue eyes.
‘Haven’t got any bubbly, have you?’ asked Kettering.
‘Afraid not,’ said Fenby. ‘Just lager.’
‘Not really thirsty anyway,’ said Kettering. He took out a leather cigar case, tapped out a cigar and lit it. He blew smoke slowly up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘Can’t beat a Cuban,’ he said.<
br />
Fenby wasn’t sure what to say. Something was wrong, he was certain of that, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.
‘How about we sit down and have a chat?’ said Kettering.
The three men bundled Fenby into his sitting room and pushed him down on the sofa. Kettering sat down in an armchair while Mickey stood by the door, glaring at Fenby. Thompson went over to a bookcase by the window and began flicking through the books there.
‘So how are things?’ asked Kettering.
‘Good. All good,’ Fenby said, nodding.
‘Spoken to James and Garry at all?’
Fenby frowned and shook his head. ‘No. Why?’
‘Just wondering.’ Kettering grinned. ‘How long have you known them?’
‘Is there a problem, Simon?’
Kettering’s smile hardened. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘I’m confused, mate,’ said Fenby. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I think it has,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘What do you think, Paul? Has something happened?’
Thompson nodded. ‘It looks like it,’ he said.
Fenby’s heart was racing. He was outnumbered three to one and it looked like he had a major problem on his hands. ‘Guys, come on, what is this, a wind-up?’
‘How long have you known Gracie?’ asked Kettering.
Fenby’s throat had gone dry and when he swallowed he almost gagged. ‘A few years. I don’t know. I mean, we’re not bosom buddies. I met him in a pub. We got talking, like you do. And he’s sold stuff to friends of mine.’
‘Edwards too, yeah?’
‘I know James better than Garry. But like I said, I’m not in his pocket. We’ve had a few beers, watched a few games, had a few nights on the town, but he doesn’t have me around for Christmas dinner.’
Kettering nodded slowly. ‘What team does he support?’
‘What?’
‘His team. What’s his team?’
‘Rangers. He’s Scottish and doesn’t bother much about the English teams. But he’d take Liverpool over Man U.’
‘Married?’
‘He’s never mentioned it.’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘I’m not sure. Croydon, maybe.’
‘What car does he drive?’
‘We’ve always been drinking so we’ve been in cabs. Look, Simon, what’s going on?’
‘Just answer the questions, old lad. You’re doing fine,’ said Kettering. ‘Where was the last time you saw him?’
‘Couple of months ago.’
‘I said where, not when.’
‘A pub.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Central London. The east end.’
‘On his own?’
‘There was a group of us.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘Champagne. He’s big on the old bubbly, like you guys.’
‘Who else was there?’
Sweat beaded on Fenby’s forehead as he felt Kettering forcing him into a corner. He was having to lie but without being able to base his lies on anything solid; and without a foundation of truth the tower of lies he was building threatened to come crashing down around him. He had to do something to break the line of questioning. He stood up. ‘I need to take a leak, guys,’ he said.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Thompson.
Fenby tried to smile, hands out, showing his palms, forcing his body language to be as open as possible. ‘Guys, come on, this is me. Let me take a leak.’
Kettering looked over at Mickey and nodded. Mickey reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver.
‘For fuck’s sake, guys, what’s going on?’
‘Sit down,’ said Kettering. ‘Or I swear to God Mickey’ll put a bullet in your nuts.’
Fenby stared at the weapon. It looked real enough. It was a big gun and he figured it would make a lot of noise if it went off. His bedsit was one of a dozen in the building and a lot of the occupants were unemployed, which meant there was a good chance that someone would call the police. That wouldn’t help him, of course, but it might make them think twice about pulling the trigger. ‘You’re going to shoot me? The cops’ll be all over you. Even in Birmingham they dial three nines when they hear gunshots.’
Just as Fenby finished speaking Mickey stepped forward and whipped the gun across his face, smashing several of his top teeth and ripping open his lip. Fenby fell back on to the sofa, blood pouring down his face.
‘Get him a towel,’ said Kettering and Thompson went through to the bathroom.
Tears trickled down Fenby’s face, mingling with the blood that was streaming from his torn lip. His jaw felt as if it was on fire but he also felt light-headed, as if he was seconds away from passing out. He blinked his eyes and realised that both of his hands were shaking. He folded them, but his upper body was still wracked with tremors. Thompson came out of the bathroom and threw a towel at Fenby, who grabbed it and held it to his face. Pain lanced through his jaw and he swallowed blood.
Kettering got up from the armchair. He walked over, sat down on the arm of the sofa and leaned towards Fenby. ‘Here’s the thing, mate,’ he said. ‘Mickey here saw your pal Gracie at the boxing thing I was at in London. He didn’t say anything at the time because he was on another table but he recognised Gracie. Except he wasn’t Gracie when Mickey saw him. His name was. .’ He looked over at Mickey. ‘What was his name?’
‘Alistair something or other,’ said Mickey. ‘He was putting together a cannabis deal. Tons of it, coming in from Morocco. This was about a year ago.’
‘And tell him what happened,’ said Kettering.
‘Ship was boarded when it arrived in Southampton. Three tons of cannabis got seized by Customs and half a dozen guys got sent down. But Alistair wasn’t touched. No one could understand why, because he was involved from the start.’
Fenby shrugged. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Yeah, well, it does make you think, doesn’t it?’ said Kettering. ‘So I asked Mickey here to make a few enquiries. And you know what? No one in London has heard of your mates. James Gracie, Garry Edwards. No one’s heard a dicky bird.’
‘They’re fucking arms dealers,’ muttered Fenby. ‘They don’t advertise.’
‘We weren’t looking in the Yellow Pages,’ said Kettering. ‘We asked people who asked people and no one knows anything about them. They don’t exist, mate. They’re on nobody’s radar.’
‘Except yours, Ian,’ said Thompson.
‘Yeah, except yours,’ said Kettering, staring at Fenby.
‘He was an undercover cop, that’s what I was told,’ said Mickey.
‘Bollocks,’ said Fenby. ‘I know guys he’s sold guns to. If he was a cop he couldn’t sell guns, could he?’
‘He showed us guns, didn’t he?’ said Thompson. ‘That doesn’t prove a thing.’
‘It’s entrapment,’ said Fenby.
‘That’s a big word for a football hooligan,’ said Mickey.
‘Fuck you,’ said Fenby. He took the towel away from his mouth and stared at it. It was wet with blood. ‘I need to get to hospital.’
Kettering looked across at Thompson and gestured with his chin. Thompson went into the kitchen.
‘Where’s he going?’ asked Fenby. Blood was trickling down his chin so he pressed the towel against it, wincing with the pain.
‘He’s going to have a look around, Ian. A good look.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we think you’re a fucking slag copper, that’s why,’ said Mickey. ‘Same as your mate.’
Fenby stared at Kettering. ‘Simon, they took you out and showed you the guns. They gave you a hand grenade to throw, you said. A fucking hand grenade. The cops don’t do that.’
‘They do if they really want to stitch you up,’ said Kettering. He took another long pull on his cigar. ‘They could be waiting for us to get the money so that they can seize that. Plus, they might be trying to see w
ho else they can pull in. Your mates asked a hell of a lot of questions in the pub after their little demonstration. For all I know they were wired and it’s all on tape. So if you are a cop, Ian, and if you’re in on this, save yourself a lot of pain and just tell me now.’
‘Do I look like a fucking narc?’ asked Fenby.
‘Who knows what a narc looks like?’
‘How long have you known me?’
‘That’s not the point, is it? The question is, are you an undercover cop or not?’
There was a crash from the bedroom, the sound of a drawer hitting the floor.
‘If there’s anything in this flat that says who you really are, then you’re fucked,’ said Kettering.
‘Totally fucked,’ said Mickey. ‘I’m going to see to that.’
Fenby stared sullenly at the two men as he dabbed at his smashed lips.
Chaudhry was walking up the stairs, about to leave the mosque in Dynevor Road with Malik, when he saw Khalid coming down.
Khalid beamed. ‘Salaam, brothers,’ he said. ‘Is everything good?’
‘You tell us,’ said Chaudhry.
‘You sound upset, brother,’ said Khalid. He put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait for me in the coffee shop round the corner until I have prayed,’ he whispered. His breath was rancid and Chaudhry fought the urge to retch.
Khalid leaned close to Malik, kissed him on both cheeks and then went down the stairs.
‘What did he say?’ asked Malik.
‘He wants us to wait for him,’ said Chaudhry.
‘That’s it? We wait? Like dogs? What about the fact that we sat in all last night and he never called?’
‘Hush, brother,’ said Chaudhry. Half a dozen young Pakistanis came thudding down the stairs. One of them was wearing a coat over candy-striped pyjamas and was chewing gum. Chaudhry shook his head contemptuously.
They went out into the street. Fajr prayers had to be completed before sunrise so the road was still illuminated by street lights and there were delivery trucks parked in front of many of the businesses. Chaudhry took Malik along to the coffee shop. It was a popular place for Muslims to take their morning coffee after prayers and was always busy at that time of the day. They found a corner table and Chaudhry ordered two coffees from the Turkish girl behind the counter. She was pretty and he watched her slim figure as she busied herself at the coffee-maker. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking and he felt his cheeks redden.
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