The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  ‘None taken. I‘m just readjusting to living by today’s rules. Different times.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Oh course you don’t. It’s not the nick that those Brit bastards put me in, it was a living hell. I’ve spent the last twenty years, until recently, suffering Locked-in Syndrome. It’s taken the last two years to learn how to freekin walk and talk again.’

  Quintel sat back, amazed at what McKnowle had said. He only had a rough idea what was meant by Locked-in Syndrome, but he needn’t have worried as McKnowle was off and running. He just sat back and listened. McKnowle told him how on one of his unannounced visits to an ASU – active service unit - the plan had been to shoot and kill a ‘Proddy-dog’ – Protestant – as he returned home to his wife and two teenage kids at their mansion home out in the countryside, west of Belfast. The ‘Proddy-dog’ whose name McKnowle couldn’t remember, apparently owned a large office cleaning company who had the sole contract to clean all the police stations and some other civic buildings in Ulster. The plan was to assassinate the man as he arrived home for the crime of taking the Brit’s money, and to send a message to anyone else who fancied getting rich working for the enemy.

  ‘So what happened?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘I wanted the ASU to kill the bastard’s family too, so I did. They’d been enjoying the wages of sin, and the message would have had all the more meaning.’

  ‘Does that mean the ASU didn’t agree?’

  ‘Let’s just say I had to remind the soft bastard who was leading the ASU who the feck he was talking to.’

  Quintel replenished their drinks and McKnowle continued. He told him how that when they were getting into position they received the warning that the target was approaching, and at the last minute all hell broke loose. ‘Go on,’ Quintel urged.

  ‘Those Sass bastards were everywhere, jumped up out of the feckin ground, so they did. Two of them materialised out of a feckin hedge, the same hedge I’d took a piss in five minutes earlier, would you believe.’

  ‘Sounds like you had no chance?’

  ‘They had dropped everyone but me and the ASU commander in seconds. I ran at the bastards firing, and then went down. A round sliced through the top of my neck at the back of my head damaging the Pons,’ McKnowle said, before leaning forward to show Quintel a lateral welt of twisted scar tissue about three inches long, which was under his shoulder length hair at the back.

  ‘What’s a Pons?’

  ‘It’s at the base of the brain stem, and it’s taken all these years to gradually repair itself. Connections slowly re-established themselves. Nar, I’m not saying I’m not grateful, but it’s the never knowing.’

  “We live by it, so we die by it” Quintel thought, but instead said, ‘I think I’d have rather died.’

  ‘Aye, I thought that many times later on. But back to the night, I was laid down but wide awake. I felt no pain, nor anything else for that matter. I couldn’t move a muscle. Eyes open, starring up. They must have thought I was unconscious, but I could see and hear everything.

  ‘The ASU commander had legged it and two Sass had gone after him. That left two with me before one left to go and see the Proddy-dog. But before he did they had a quick chat about me.’

  Quintel was hooked on the story now, not sure whether to believe it all, but guessed it was probably all true. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘One examined me and told the other I was alive but noted my neck wound and added that I was not responding to painful stimuli.’

  Quintel asked what that meant.

  ‘It meant, they reckoned I was either unconscious or paralysed. One wanted to finish me off, but the one who was obviously in charge said no.’

  Quintel was surprised to hear this, and asked, ‘What, the leader of the troop wanted to save you?’

  ‘The feek he did,’ McKnowle said, before realising his rising tones were starting to draw attention. He paused and returned his voice to normal. ‘No, he didn’t. He said as my eyes were open I couldn’t be unconscious. He then stuck his knife in both my legs to prove I was paralysed. I never felt a thing. Then he told the other soldier to call a medic on his way to see the Proddy-dog.

  ‘I was laid there and the bastard lent over me and said, “I want you to live the rest of your life as a fucking vegetable; death is too good for scum of your depth. You even give terrorists a bad name.” He probably thought he was talking to himself, but I heard every word alright.’

  ‘I thought about little else for the next few months.’

  Quintel was starting to see where all of McKnowle’s rage came from now, and asked, ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Next, I spent twenty years hearing, seeing, but never moving.’

  ‘Wasn’t there an inquiry? Quintel asked.

  ‘Aye, a sham sack of shite by that bastard Reedly working as Carstair’s bitch, so it was all covered up.’

  Quintel wasn’t too sure what McKnowle meant by that, but he said that if he’d get him a double-Irish whisky to finish the night, he’d explain. And as Quintel rose to head to the bar, McKnowle said, ‘And tomorrow when you can clap eyes on arh main target, it’ll all make sense.’

  Quintel was convinced more than ever now of whom their main target was. He knew the man would be twenty-odd years older but still would be a formidable adversary if they didn’t get it right first time. He was glad about the O.P. now; reconnaissance was good. He was halfway to the bar when Mcknowle shouted.

  ‘And none of that Scottish shite; Irish Jackie-boy, Irish.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Christine had slept fitfully and was relieved when her alarm went off. At least her head had stopped pounding and she was now glad the evening had drawn to a premature end, as far as her sore head was concerned; a hangover wouldn’t have helped. Lesley was already up and was again brighter than she’d have expected. ‘You seem in a good mood again?’ she asked.

  ‘That nightmare at mine the other day has given me some perspective on what’s not worth worrying about.’

  Christine was glad to hear this; it would be nice if a positive became the legacy.

  By 9.30 am she was sat in a window seat of the coffee shop near her office. It was busy with office workers but most were buying ‘to go’; there were only a handful of people seated. She’d taken the liberty of getting two lattes and hoped Paul wouldn’t be too late. Then he walked in with a genuine look of relief and joy on his face. She quickly gave him a fuller version of her ordeal, setting the scenes but without too much detail.

  ‘I hope I’m in no way responsible, for this?’ Bury said.

  He explained. He wondered if it had anything to do with her trip to The Blarney Stone, or his suspecting of a tail on him. She smiled on hearing this and reassured him that it was not. She explained how she had been followed from her office. All that out of the way, she asked him what had come up?

  ‘The First Minister is due to give a speech or something later today.’

  ‘Well, if he is, then our office will already know all about it.’

  ‘Aye, but I’ve got proof that he has been systematically removing pro-Brits from senior positions, all the while whilst playing the game. In fact today’s address is just another example of his “look at me, aren’t we all just the best of buddies nar”.’

  ‘Well, if we are even thinking about ambushing him, it better be pretty good.’

  Bury then took a small Dictaphone from his pocket, which had earbuds attached, and handed it to her.

  ‘Just press play,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The last senior officer still in place in our squad who was signed up to the power sharing but has not had his contract renewed,’ he started.

  ‘Another Protestant?’

  ‘Surprisingly no, a Catholic, which probably makes it worse, for the likes of McConachy.’

  ‘And I’m guessing he’s been replaced with a suspected Republican sympathiser?’

  ‘That he has; na
r press play.’

  Christine did. And what she heard was a very brief, but heated exchange between two men. Both addressed the other by their titles, which was handy. The First Minister of Northern Ireland and an assistant chief constable. Once the ACC is told his services are no longer required he accuses McConachy of arranging his demise.

  “It’s up to your chief who his top team are, not me,” McConachy says.

  “He’s already told me that you were behind it,” the ACC says back.

  “Well, I do have to have confidence in your chief and his decision making.”

  “I suppose once you’ve got control of NIUCS and the PSNI (Northern Irish United Crime Squad and the Police Service of Northern Ireland) the regional government will be next?”

  A pause followed and then the ACC carried on, “Then you’ll no doubt tell the Brits to fuck off and declare a union with the south?”

  “How fucking dare you. Get out of my office.”

  “I’m going McConachy, but as we are here alone at least have the bollocks to stare me in the face and tell me the truth.”

  “Those wankers in Whitehall are so blinded by their desire to make power sharing work; they fall over themselves to keep me sweet. I have no more intention of making that work than I would in keeping scum like you in office. We will be victorious; and those British bastards will need a visa to drink my piss.”

  Christine was utterly stunned by what she was hearing, and glanced at Bury’s smiling face, as she listened in. McConachy continued his deranged rant.

  “And you being Irish and a Catholic are the worst of the worst. So now you know what you thought you knew. I Hope it eats away at you. Now get out before I have you thrown out.”

  “Thank you,” the ACC said.

  “What the fuck for?”

  “You’ll find out.” Then there was a click and the recording ended.

  Christine pulled the earbuds out and handed the kit back to Bury. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago. The guy is a friend of mine. We shared our views and after I went he started taking note. Started taking precautions. This is the very Dictaphone he took with him to see McConachy. That’s one reason I’ve been frantic to get hold of you. Now will June sanction our little ambush?’

  Christine knew that June would. This was gold. This would become TV gold. This was why the press and the media in all its guises had to remain free. This was why she got out of bed in the morning and did the job she did. This would be the scoop to end all scoops.

  ‘Come on Paul, I can’t wait to see June and the producer Sally’s faces when they hear this.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  After breakfast McKnowle insisted that they take everything with them, and not just the holdall with the hardware in, everything, just in case they didn’t return. They “were operational now, approaching the wet end” as McKnowle had put it. He even insisted they empty their room bins and wipe down things they had touched. The guy was definitely an old pro and Quintel respected that.

  By 10 am they left the hotel and were walking towards the old Nissan, Quintel was relieved to find it still there, and five minutes later they were on their way to Preston. Quintel suggested they go via a different route and picked the A586, which pretty much runs parallel to the M55. He told McKnowle it was good tradecraft to vary their routes, which McKnowle accepted. He has glad, as he knew he couldn’t tell him the real reason, not that it would matter for too much longer.

  En route Quintel picked up where they had left off the night before. ‘If I’m guessing who the final target is, would I be far wrong if I said he was present on the night you were shot all those years ago?’

  ‘That much I can confirm, Jackie-boy, you’ll be clapping eyes on the bastard soon enough, so you will.’

  ‘So where are we headed?’

  ‘A row of shops near to Fulwood Barracks in the north part of Preston. It’s a huge place off a road called Watling Street Road which itself is off the main A6. Head for the centre and find the A6,’ McKnowle said.

  This was further confirmation of what Quintel had previously thought. ‘We’ll have to be careful near there, they’ll have security everywhere.’

  ‘Aye, that they will, which is why we are meeting a local sympathiser in a nearby side street, so he can show me the best way into the flat,’ McKnowle said, before he gave Quintel the details of the side road which was off Watling Street Road. Considering McKnowle had been off the manor for twenty years, he appeared quite well-connected.

  Fifty-five minutes later, Quintel parked the Nissan in the side street where a middle-aged man in a leather jacket was waiting for them. He watched as McKnowle greeted the man with a hug but couldn’t tell whether they actually knew each other, or whether it was just a case of belonging to the same club. They had just disappeared around the corner when Quintel’s private mobile rang.

  ‘Are you alone?’ the caller started.

  ‘Yeah, but be quick.’

  ‘They’re releasing a press release saying they have found the unnamed kidnap victim alive and well.’

  Quintel was taken aback by this. Jason said he’d done her and buried her, how could she have survived that? ‘You sure?’

  ‘Hundred percent.’

  As annoying as it was, it didn’t really matter from his point of view, that cop Palmer had already seen him as it was, and after this final job was over he wouldn’t be hanging around. The only problem would be if McKnowle heard about it. He thought she was dead, an extra ten large ones rested on his belief in that. Quintel instinctively turned the car radio off. ‘Ok, thanks for letting me know, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’

  ‘If you are thinking of finishing her off, you’d be taking a huge risk trying to get near her now. That cocky twat Vinnie Palmer who is hunting you, is all over Christine Jones like a love sick puppy.’

  ‘I not fucking stupid, and don’t forget you are paid to keep me informed, not to give advice.’

  ‘Just saying,’ the caller said.

  Quintel ended the conversation by telling the caller not to ring but text until further notice. If he felt they needed to speak, he was to say so in a text and Quintel would ring him when he could. He then set all the alerts on his phone to vibrate only.

  Then his new phone rang and McKnowle told him to grab the holdall and leave the car where it was. He directed him to a back alley which ran behind the shops. He told him to make his way to the last gate.

  *

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Harry said as he rushed into the SIO’s office in the incident room at Preston.

  ‘No worries, Frank, it gave me chance for a fried breakfast. This canteen does do one of the best police breakfasts going,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘Thanks for that. I’ve just had to make do with tea and biscuits in the chief’s office.’

  ‘How is Mr Darlington?’

  ‘Not a happy camper today. He’d just come off the phone to Reedly when I arrived.’

  Harry had rung Vinnie earlier telling him to get in ASAP, said he couldn’t speak over the phone but that it was urgent, which had proved a little baffling when he found the office empty. But it did explain why Harry didn’t want Vinnie to pay Reedly a visit en route as he’d suggested. ‘And was the chief’s chat with Reedly productive?’

  ‘No. He said he’d come up with a list of ten possibles whom he might have seriously pissed off back in the day, but our intel cell has apparently eliminated them all,’ Harry said.

  ‘Ah, that explains Darlington’s displeasure.’

  ‘I only wish that was true,’ Harry said, before closing and locking the office door. He then made his way to his desk before continuing. ‘You remember when I couldn’t get hold of the chief to brief him about you chasing the Nissan in Blackpool?

  ‘Yeah,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘Same thing happened with the press release re Christine. Both times I had to sort it out via the Headquarters Press Office. Via the chief’s office.’

  ‘Ok.
’

  ‘Well,’ Harry started, while also starting to rub his head.

  ‘They’ve not fucking named her, have they?’ Vinnie said, cutting in.

  ‘No, nothing like that, but Darlington had been expecting a pre-arranged telephone update from me without having any knowledge of Christine, or indeed any idea of what was in the update .’

  ‘So?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘So he made himself scarce on purpose so I’d have to go through his staff officer.’

  ‘Russell Sharpe?

  ‘Blister indeed,’ Harry said. And then he explained.

  Apparently the chief knew about the sighting of the Nissan in Blackpool as the Force Incident Manager had mainlined into him, which was normal procedure anytime armed response vehicles were deployed. What Darlington had not previously told Harry was that for some time he had suspected a leak at senior level. ‘What, from the Press Office? Vinnie asked.

  ‘He didn’t know for sure, but he’s had someone working inside his own staff office looking for the leak,’ Harry said.

  ‘So Blister is one of the good guys after all,’ Vinnie said, almost feeling disappointed. Harry just carried on. Apparently, they had a suspect and had covertly put a live cell-siting on the individual’s phone. Subsequent analysis proved that soon after Vinnie had given chase after the Nissan, the suspect had rung a mobile number cited in Blackpool and left a voice message warning that the cops were “nearing in on you, in Blackpool”.

  ‘Whose number was rung?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘It can only be Quintel’s, but it keeps being turned on and off so it is proving difficult to locate.’

  ‘Whose handset made the call?

  ‘That’s the tricky bit, it is a pool phone owned by Lancashire Police but of whom anyone in the Staff Office or Press Office have access to,’ Harry said.

  ‘No wonder the chief’s not a happy chicken. So what happens now?’

  Harry told Vinnie that the chief had spoken to the Home Secretary and requested an urgent warrant of interception – a phone tap – or line, as they called them, on the basis that there was an imminent threat to life, as in Quintel’s next target. Vinnie knew that obtaining a phone tap by normal channels took months but also knew that in emergency situations where life was in danger it could be done in a matter of hours. ‘I’m guessing the Home Sec agreed?’