The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  ‘Well, he agreed to put a line on the mole’s phone as we could prove it had been used to tip off Quintel, but he refused the request for a line on Quintel’s phone itself.’

  ‘Why the hell not, after all it’s Quintel who is providing the main threat, not the mole?’

  ‘They don’t grant lines easily as you know, but until we can prove that it’s Quintel on the other end of that phone the Home Sec won’t sign. He said it could be anyone’s phone, as the police were probably chasing a lot of folk on that particular night in Blackpool.’

  ‘How long will it take to put the line on, if and when we prove that it’s Quintel on the other end?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Not long,’ Harry answered, adding, ‘they have most things in place to throw the switch, we just need a bit of luck.’

  Then Harry’s phone rang and Vinnie didn’t pay too much attention as he sat back and absorbed all that Harry had just said. That was until Harry smashed his fist onto his desk, before ending his call, and turning to face Vinnie with a huge grin on his face.

  ‘That was Darlington, bingo. The bent police handset has just put a call into the same number, only this time it was switched on and caller and recipient had a conversation.’

  ‘What was said?’

  ‘The caller told the recipient that Christine was alive.’

  ‘The absolute bastard,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘The recipient was obviously Quintel, so London are now in the process of hooking up a live line on that phone too, which incidentally is somewhere in north Preston.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shit indeed,’ Harry said.

  ‘Any news on who the mole is?’

  ‘It can only be one of two people, because when I rang with the press release about Christine, only two people were made aware. The person I spoke to and the press officer whom that person passed the info to.’

  ‘But anyone could have heard the press release and then rang Quintel?’ Vinnie said.

  ‘They could in five minutes when it goes out, but in any event, Christine’s name isn’t being used in it. She’s just being referred to as an “unnamed kidnap victim”. ’

  ‘So if that puts the press officer in the clear, who did you speak to in the chief’s office?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘The on-call Staff Office representative.’

  ‘Who was?’ Vinnie asked, the suspense unbearable.

  ‘Chief Inspector Russell Sharpe, no less, or Blister to his friends.’

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Christine was sat in the scrip edits room, with Paul Bury next to her on one side of the long, light wood table, and the programme’s producer Sally and her editor and the documentary’s director June across from them.

  ‘Before you play the Dictaphone let’s watch the opening to get us all back in sync,’ Sally said. They all turned to face a large TV on a high stand, with casters which always reminded her of the ones they had in high school. Christine knew that neither she nor June needed any sync-ing; it was for Sally’s own benefit, as she had so many half-done programmes on the go at any one time.

  The title was ‘One for you, and one for me’, with the tagline, ‘How fairly shared, is the power-sharing in Northern Ireland?’ Over the last few weeks Christine had been busy fine tuning some of her pieces to camera and she knew June had pulled most of the programme together with those and her pre-recorded interviews. They just had the final conclusions to film so it ran like a visual dissertation. After the opening credits the first scene was of her walking down a very well-known road in Belfast with Loyalist Protestant social housing on one side and Republican Catholic ones on the other.

  “My name is Christine Jones, and I’m strolling down a road known locally as ‘The Slayer’s Path’. It’s where two sides of the community live in relative peace now. The Protestants known as ‘St George’s Men’ on my left – after the English flag of St George – and the Catholics, known as the ‘Dragons’ are on my right.” Christine always hated watching herself on the telly; some reporters loved it, but she was not one of them. She thought she looked a bit pale. “But how fair is the share, in the new power-sharing of Northern Ireland’s regional government?” The opening went on to set out the two arguments asking had too much grace been given by one side to the other, or was this just paranoia? The Deputy First Minister of the Northern Irish Assembly was a Protestant and staunch Unionist, whereas the First Minister himself was a Catholic Republican whom many accused of previously being an active member of the IRA. This was something that Mathew McConachy had always denied, stating he had been a member of their political wing but no more.

  Sally paused the recording and asked Paul to play the tape, which he did.

  Christine enjoyed the look on both Sally and June’s faces, and when the recording ended Sally asked if Paul had a deposition from the officer proving the provenance of the recording. Paul said that he had, and opened a folder in front of him and handed some papers across the table. ‘Here’s his written statement,’ he said.

  Sally read it and passed it to June, who spoke for the first time after reading it and putting it on the table. ‘Fucking hell; have we got an ending, or what?’

  Christine laughed, and the others joined in. When order returned, Sally spoke. ‘This is huge and will have potentially major consequences.’

  Christine worried that Sally was thinking of allowing McConachy a right of reply prior to any broadcast. She needn’t have. The strategy they then agreed was that McConachy’s visit to the North West was too good an opportunity. The ambush was on. Paul was to remain in the background as an observer in case anyone turned up that they should know about. ‘I can do covert,’ he said.

  Christine, with a soundman and cameraman, were to do the ambush with a choice of words that Sally would quickly have run past the in-house lawyer first, and then she was to record McConachy’s comments in response, and if in the negative as presumed, to ask if he had ever used his influence personally to have officials removed from office.

  ‘Record his denials but with no follow ups,’ Sally said, continuing, ‘we get that on tape and then the night before we air, we can give him his right to reply then.’

  ‘Garden path the fucker,’ Paul said.

  Christine joined the others in looking quizzically at him.

  ‘An old CID interview expression,’ he said, adding, ‘We’d take the suspect on a path of denials so there can be no doubt what he or she is saying, and then hit them with the evidence.’ He gave the example of finding a print or DNA at a crime scene, say, in someone’s house that had been burgled, and making sure the suspect couldn’t suddenly remember having visited the place once ages ago, after being hit with the evidence.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sally said, ‘that way, he’ll be none the wiser to exactly who or how we know.’

  ‘He’ll be “garden pathed” to within an inch of his life, don’t you worry about that,’ Christine added.

  ‘Ok, let’s get cracking, he’s due to give a speech outside an Irish community centre in Manchester in two hours’ time,’ Sally said.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Quintel found the last gate as described at the end of the rear alley by a brick wall. He was glad it was only five minutes from the car, as the holdall with all its goodies was starting to become heavy. Inside the rear yard he could see a half-glazed kitchen door ajar, which he closed behind him.

  ‘Upstairs, Jackie-boy,’ McKnowle’s voice boomed, and Quintel joined him in the front bedroom of what looked like a bedsit-come-office above a computer repair shop. Over by the window was a scruffy two-seater settee and a table. The window looked about four feet wide and had dirty net curtains covering the glass.

  ‘Where did you say the occupants were again?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘A little tied up on an unexpected vacation,’ McKnowle said.

  ‘Won’t the shop being closed draw attention?’

  ‘Apparently not. According to the man, the place is run by a couple of nancy-boy
s who are either out all day fixing people’s porn riddled laptops, or are up here letting life imitate art. I’d be careful where you sit, Jackie-boy,’ McKnowle said before roaring with laughter. Quintel gave the two-seater a miss and sat on a picnic chair next to it.

  ‘Nar, would you look at that,’ he said.

  Quintel did, and got his first glimpse of the British Army’s North West Headquarters of some Brigade or other. It was a huge place situated on the busy urban thoroughfare that was Watling Street Road. The Barracks was set back slightly as the road curved around its perimeter at a set of traffic lights, where a further road joined and formed a sort of Y shape. McKnowle said it was within sight of Deepdale, which was Preston North End’s football ground. And according to him, the oldest league football ground in the world. ‘I didn’t know you were an English football fan?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘Not English, just football,’ McKnowle said.

  Quintel took his time weighing up the topography of the area, as Jason might have said. The entrance was set back from the road accessed by a short driveway which had a barrier and sentry to protect it. ‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ he said.

  ‘Piece of piss,’ McKnowle answered.

  ‘So where is our target actually going to be, and when?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘He’ll be stood at the end of that driveway, but by the road itself.’

  ‘That sounds pretty exact information.’

  ‘Always make sure you have good intel, and we’ve got good intel.’

  ‘Your local sympathiser?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Quintel further looked at the plot and knew that from this distance a handgun would be useless. As the proverbial crow flew, they must be thirty or forty metres away, more if you considered their elevation. He suddenly became aware of McKnowle looking at him.

  ‘I knows what yous arh thinking, Jackie-boy, but do yous remember me telling you that I wouldn’t get in the way?’

  Quintel said that he did.

  ‘Well, all you have to do is sit around the corner in that old Nissan of yours and I’ll call you on when arh man’s in place.’

  ‘Then what? Drive past and try and hit him with a handgun?’

  ‘No, but I do want you to drive past and lob one of those grenades at the fooker; that should do it. But just the one mind, use the second one on the motor when you ditch it. I’ll fuck off from here and meet you somewhere. See, I won’t be in the way, but I’ll have a fookin good view of the bastard getting what he’s owed.’ Then McKnowle launched into one of his unhinged laughs and Quintel took a further look out of the window.

  The Irish bastard might be a psychotic madman, but his plan should work, he thought. Not even an ex-SAS trooper would survive that. ‘So we get a look at him today, but when are we doing it?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘Need to know, and yous now needs to know. The fooker will be here in a couple of har’s time. Then we do the bastard.’

  ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘No worries Jackie-boy, he’s giving a talk first and then will come forward ta answer questions, so there will be plenty of time for yous to see him and get ta your motor. I’ll call yous on when he comes forward, it’ll be easier for yous then. Like I say; a piece of piss.’

  *

  ‘So what happens to Blister now?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘The chief has authorised a full surveillance on Blister in the hope that they can collect further evidence of the scumbag’s duplicity,’ Harry started.

  ‘I never liked the weasel,’ Vinnie interjected.

  ‘And,’ Harry continued, ‘to hopefully lead the team to Quintel. A full firearms authority has also been granted and there are three gunships – ARVs running behind the surveillance team. There’s just one problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The little shit’s gone sick and isn’t at home, nor is his own car.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Vinnie said before asking, ‘What about Quintel?’

  ‘His phone is switched on so the live cell-citing still has it somewhere in North Preston; the last mast it pinged off was near the football ground.’

  ‘When will the line go on?’

  ‘Dunno, hopefully soon.’

  ‘Do you think Quintel’s final target is today?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Anyone’s guess, but there seems to be a lot of activity going on.’

  Vinnie said he’d take a run up to the north end of the city and see if he could spot the Nissan, that was if Quintel still had it. He couldn’t think of what else to do, well, not until the line on Quintel’s phone went live, then they had a chance. Harry agreed and said he’d stay in the office and await Darlington’s call, and coordinate the surveillance team’s activity.

  Chapter Sixty

  The Manchester community centre where McConachy was due to speak outside was on a quiet side street not a million miles from The Blarney Stone pub. Paul told Christine not to look for him but he would be close enough should she need him for any reason. She got the impression that he was rather enjoying himself, sneaking about in the shadows. There were two TV channels set up outside to cover McConachy’s address, so she and her two-handed crew blended in well. Fortunately, both the soundgirl and cameraman had not only worked together many times, but had both worked on her programme several times so knew the backstory. The press brief was that McConachy would give a short address before taking questions, which was when she’d strike.

  A little after eleven a motorcade of two plain cars and two marked police escort vehicles swung majestically into the street. The cop cars’ blue lights were flashing but with no sirens. A lectern had been set up at the roadside and a number of uniformed police community support officers and two cops held back the handful of locals who had turned out for a nosy. There were more press and TV knocking about than actual members of the public.

  Five minutes later and Christine got her first look at McConachy in the flesh; he was not as imposing as he appeared on TV. He was a man in his late fifties, of small build and only about five foot five inches tall. He walked with a pronounced limp, almost dragging his right leg behind him as he stood in front of the podium and tapped on the mike to test it.

  ‘I don’t have too long before I head off to make my full address,’ McConachy started, ‘but I wanted to pre-empt what I will say later, here first; in this small piece of Ireland on English soil, it seems fitting, and in-keeping with all the marvellous initiatives that are now taking place in Northern Ireland since the peace process gave us the power sharing we all enjoy today.’

  ‘You getting all this?’ Christine whispered. Both her crew nodded.

  ‘A lot has been said about the dropping of investigations into the actions of paramilitaries on both sides of the political divide during the troubles, even though these events were considered acts committed within a war, and so therefore should not be treated as crimes. Indeed, it is the pardoning of those convicted which was a cornerstone of the peace agreement in the first place.’

  Christine couldn’t hold back. ‘Christine Jones NWTV, is this why you are choosing the UK mainland to say this? To protect yourself from any backlash?’

  ‘If you’d let me finish Miss Jones,’ McConachy replied. But the short exchange had allowed her and her crew to edge to the front, which was all she needed.

  ‘As I was saying,’ McConachy continued, ‘In order to silence the critics of this policy, I want to announce today that I have agreed with Whitehall that all similar investigations into historical atrocities committed by the British Army and the Royal Ulster Constabulary – as it was, before it became the Police Service of Northern Ireland - will also be dropped so that we might all move forward.’

  Any hope Christine had of ambushing McConachy on the totally different subject she had in mind soon became impossible. After dropping the bombshell he just had, the remaining press and media surged forward with a thousand questions being asked at once. McConachy silenced them as he took to the mike again. ‘I appreciate yo
u have a lot of questions for such a historic announcement, but it might be better at the next venue where there will be more room. I’m sure you’ll all be off over there in a mo. Thank you.’

  And with that McConachy was swiftly ushered back to his car. ‘Shit,’ Christine said, as she felt a hand on her elbow. She turned to face Paul. ‘You hear that?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure did, come on, let’s get to the next venue before the pack.’

  Five minutes later Christine was a passenger in Paul’s hire car as he put it through its paces. ‘You after me landing in your lap again?’ she asked.

  Paul just grinned as he concentrated on his driving; both of her crew were in the back seat, Paul said it would be quicker in one vehicle, which it would. Though by the look on her cameraman’s face he was probably wishing he’d put his camera in the boot now as he tried to cocoon it on his lap while the car slew around several corners.

  ‘Didn’t see that coming, talk about wanting to appear all things to all men,’ Paul said.

  ‘That’ll enrage his lot,’ Christine said.

  ‘Aye, they’ll see it as another example of him rolling over to let the Brits tickle his tummy,’ Paul said.

  ‘Smokescreen though. Did you note his choice of language?’ Christine said.

  Paul just gave her a quick quizzical glance.

  ‘When he’s describing what the terrorists did during the troubles – and he really means the IRA but can’t say it – he talks about “acts committed within a war” and “should not be treated as crimes”, but when he talks about what the British forces did, it becomes “atrocities”.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ Paul said.

  ‘He probably doesn’t even realise it himself.’