by Matt Johnson
‘If you want my advice don’t talk about it or even tell those closest to you. There’s even a department in MI5 that will take care of you, keep you anonymous.’
‘How do they do that?’
‘They doctor your army file so it shows you were never away from your original regiment or corps. So long as you don’t talk about it, no future employer will ever know.’
At that moment Maggie Thatcher stood up to leave. It was time for Tom to step in, rescue her from the attentions of the lads and ensure that she and Denis got back to their car, which was to take them back to Downing Street.
But as she left, my mind was caught up by the thought that Tom’s suggestion was an arrangement that would suit me very well.
Chapter 11
August 2001
The underground journey from the shooting range to my base at the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Group offices at Buckingham Gate took just under an hour. It gave me plenty of time to mull over my decision to leave Royalty Protection and go back to everyday police work.
After the Iranian Embassy siege, circumstances had conspired to keep me in the SAS for another four years. First, one of the B-squadron troop commanders was shot during a raid on a Belfast IRA hideout. Then, two years later, another officer was killed on West Falkland. The shortage of troop commanders meant I was granted a full second tour. I spent the next four years travelling the world with the regiment before my posting ended in late 1984.
I returned to the artillery, expecting a promotion to major, only to discover that, due to my time away, I had slipped well down the seniority rankings. I walked out of the barracks at Woolwich, caught a train to Paddington and completed a police application form.
Looking back, I suppose it was something of a knee-jerk reaction to being passed over for promotion. But choosing the Met had been easy. I liked the cops I had met at the embassy siege and, being from London, it seemed a natural thing to do.
So that was my life for the next twelve years. By 1997 I was in a good position: I was a police Sergeant at Barnet in North London and had just passed the inspector promotion exam. It was then that the opportunity to join Royalty Protection presented itself.
A colleague who belonged to a pistol club based at the police range beneath Old Street Police Station invited me along for an evening. It was a social shoot, a meeting of friends who shared a hobby. I accepted the invitation with mixed feelings – curiosity and some trepidation. After twelve years, I’ll admit I was curious to find out if my old skills had deserted me or whether I could still hit a target.
Using a borrowed Smith and Wesson, I managed to outshoot all the attending members, with the exception of a lad from the specialist firearms team, SO19, who was the current Met champion. My ability with a pistol didn’t go unnoticed. In the pub afterwards, an off-duty member of the Royalty Squad told me about a vacancy that had come up for an inspector on their back-up team.
And there was an immediate incentive. The post was a promotion and came with a good payrise.
I thought about it for a couple of days before making an application. At the time, I was single with no family commitments. I decided to apply and, after an interview held near Horse Guards Parade and a psychological profile test, I was appointed to the job. Just three weeks later I put my uniform away in the wardrobe and paraded at Old Street Police Station to be trained as an authorised firearms officer.
The next four years passed all too quickly. A lot had happened in that time to cause me to reflect on the future. Greatest amongst the changes was my marriage and the birth of my daughter. My priorities were now radically different. And I was looking forward to getting back into uniform.
Arriving at Buckingham Gate, I headed for the canteen and was alone at a table when I was joined by another of the protection officers, Steve Reid.
‘The old man’s been looking for you,’ Reid said, as he put two mugs of tea on the table.
‘Does he know where I’ve been?’ I smiled. I had a lot of time for young Steve. The son of an old army friend, he reminded me of myself when I was younger.
‘Yes, he does. How did you get on? It’ll be the last one you do for some time I suppose?’
‘I passed: good enough mark even with that Chief Inspector’s strict rules.’
‘He doesn’t know your pedigree I suppose?’
Steve was one of the few who knew my true history. His father, Rupert, was a decorated bomb disposal officer who, like me, had gone on to join the Met.
‘No, he doesn’t and, as you know, I would prefer it stayed that way.’ I did my level best to sound patient. ‘Just resist the temptation even to mention it,’ I went on. ‘People like your father and me have enemies in the most unlikely of places and those enemies don’t play games. You do understand?’
Steve nodded and raised his hand in apology. He understood fully. His father had made it quite clear to him the lengths that the IRA would go to in order to identify and locate former members of the Security Services, especially ex-SAS officers. Our safety lay in anonymity.
I sipped at the tea. ‘Wonder what the old man wants?’
‘Word is he’s going to offer you a prestige principal as a carrot to persuade you to stay in the department.’
I smiled. ‘You’ve been offered the Duke of Gloucester, I hear?’
‘Yeah … bit of a shock, that one. I thought I’d never get off the back-up team.’
‘You deserve it. When old “pop” Larkin retired you were the natural choice.’
‘Apart from you, of course.’
‘Maybe, but then I’m off back to division,’ I said.
I drained the tea and stood up. ‘I should see what he wants.’
Heading for the Chief Superintendent’s office, I had to admit I was interested to find out what he was going to offer me. But it would make no difference. I’d made up my mind and, as I saw it, I had good reasons. The old man would just have to accept them.
The boss’s office was behind a heavy, oak-panelled door. I paused, and knocked hard. The familiar Scots accent reached my ears as clearly as if the door had been open. ‘Enter,’ he called.
Even from just that one word I sensed an angry edge. This is going to be interesting, I thought. I opened the door.
The imposing sight of Chief Superintendent Hugh Kinnoch looking up from his desk had caused many a pair of knees to weaken. He didn’t waste any time before laying into me.
‘Sit down, Finlay’, he barked.
I did as I was asked.
‘What’s this crap?’ A quivering finger pointed to where my application sat on the desk in front of him.
I bit my tongue. Kinnoch was clearly not happy.
‘A new start,’ I said. ‘It’s all explained on the form. Family, my age … that kind of thing. This is a job for younger men.’
I squared my shoulders and prepared myself. This wasn’t going to be easy.
The old man’s chat lasted over an hour and in that time he tried every persuasion technique in the book. He was friendly one minute, angry the next. He even tried flattery. Apparently, I was just the kind of protection officer that the Royal Family liked. It was classic good cop, bad cop stuff. I resisted, politely but firmly.
After a quick lecture on loyalty, Kinnoch suggested a solution.
It was, he clearly thought, a trump card. And it was just as Steve Reid had predicted: He offered me the job of personal protection to the Princess Royal. I was impressed, but unmoved. My decision had been made.
The simple fact was that I was at an age and stage in life when I wanted something different. Looking after the Royals ruined family and social life. The hours involved were lengthy and absences from home frequent. I was now married and had a little girl, Becky. I tried to explain this to Kinnoch but, well, let’s just say that his priorities in life were different. That’s how you get to be a Chief Superintendent, I guess.
The chat came abruptly to an end. Kinnoch threw his glasses on the desk in exasperation. He
was defeated and he knew it.
‘OK, Finlay,’ he said. ‘You win. I’ll contact personnel today. You’ll have some news by this afternoon.’
Later that day I was supervising a Special Escort Group planning meeting for the visit of a Cuban diplomat. When the phone call came through, I ran up the stairs to the admin offices.
‘You’re going to Stoke Newington, Inspector,’ the Chief Super’s clerk hardly looked up from her papers. ‘Seems they have a vacancy and the old man thought it would be a challenge for you. You are to report to the local Chief Superintendent at ten a.m. Monday week.’
Chapter 12
Declan Costello heaved himself up into the rear of the small lorry and began counting the plastic bags. There were twenty, each weighing about fifty pounds.
The two McGlinty brothers, Dominic and Seamus, had spent an entire day mixing up the chemicals in the right proportions. With the correct type of detonators, the combined explosive effect would be colossal; anyone standing within a hundred yards would be toast.
But that wasn’t the plan.
Costello had decided that the bags would be split up and stored at the three lock-ups Dominic had acquired the previous week. They were safe and anonymous. According to Dominic the owner had asked few questions and had been grateful to be paid in cash. When the time was right, the bags could be transferred into vehicles for delivery to their respective targets. In the unfortunate event that one of the explosive caches was discovered, the remaining two would still contain enough material to get the job done.
Costello had spent his day in less energetic but no less important work. Two of the lock-up garages were in Hackney, the third in Stoke Newington, the adjacent London borough. At each of the hides, he had checked the surrounding area thoroughly, looking for any sign of police activity, any indication that the intended repositories were being watched.
Finally, content that the area around the first hide was secure, he had given the order to bring in the lorry.
It was nearly midnight when the brothers had arrived. Darkness gave them good cover and there was less traffic on the road. But, ever cautious, Costello knew the prospect of bumping into a nosy copper was slightly increased at night. And although there was a lot of goods-vehicle traffic from the markets, lorries tended to stick out. For that reason Costello had told them to wait until they saw a passing market lorry and then follow it along the main roads as if they were in convoy.
‘You have to be fast to keep up,’ Costello had told the brothers. ‘Tradesmen at the early London markets drive at breakneck speed. They all want to get their goods on the market stalls first.’
Costello knew that was the market driver’s motivation. Anonymity was his.
The lorry was now parked at the first lock-up and ready to be unloaded. Dominic’s younger brother, Seamus, jumped into the rear beside Costello, and began moving the bags. He was young and fit so made light work of it. Costello was pleased with his choice. Both the brothers were experienced operators. Neither had ever been caught, despite the number of operations in which they had been involved. Their kind of professionalism was what he needed on this job. Working in London was very different from the familiar streets of Northern Ireland. Here, there was no support network; if something went wrong, they were on their own.
Seamus heaved the last of the bags onto his back. As Dominic pulled down the rear shutter of the lorry, Costello looked into the cab.
‘Did you bring the scanner?’ he asked.
‘On the front seat,’ said Dominic. ‘We left it on but turned the volume down so we didn’t disturb anyone.’
‘Ok, I’ll come with you on this trip. You drive. Give Seamus a wee rest after moving the bags. I’ll take the scanner.’
Costello leaned into the driver’s cab and found the small communication receiver where Dominic had left it. It was a new model, unlike anything he had previously encountered. Older versions had been bulky, limited in the number of frequencies they could monitor and requiring manual tuning to find the transmissions of the local law-enforcement agencies. The new type did it all automatically, scanning both the emergency channels used by New Scotland Yard and the local, personal radios employed by patrolling police officers.
With the garage re-secured, Costello listened in.
‘All quiet?’ asked Seamus in a low voice.
‘For now. I’ll make the call to get them occupied and then we’ll move off.’
Costello pulled a mobile telephone from his jacket pocket and dialled 999. It was answered almost immediately.
Less than a minute after Costello ended the call, the three men listened in as the scanner picked up the transmission from the Scotland Yard emergency dispatcher.
‘Golf Four from MP.’
There was a short delay before the crew in the response car, ‘Golf Four’, acknowledged the call.
‘Golf Four and any other unit to assist, the Marquis of Hackney public house, Kingsland High Street, East Eight, shots fired, believed a serious disturbance, to Golf Four, MP over.’
Costello gave a thumbs-up. It was a serious enough call to commit all the local manpower. Even if one of them spotted the lorry, they would be fully occupied for the next few minutes until the all-clear was given and the call declared a hoax.
Dominic started the engine.
They waited for a few minutes, but there were no passing market lorries.
Costello frowned, impatient. ‘We can’t wait forever,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long before they realise that call was a hoax. We’ll have to go. Just keep it slow and careful.’
Dominic pulled the lorry out onto the main road. He drove cautiously, stuck to the speed limit and obeyed all the traffic lights.
But despite their care, just a few minutes later, Dominic looked into the rear-view mirror, then over at Costello. He was biting his lip. ‘Peeler car just passed, and now it’s done a U-turn.’
‘Damn,’ murmured Costello and turned up the volume on the scanner while he checked the nearside mirror.
‘He’s matching speed with us, Declan,’ said Seamus, hurriedly, as he craned his neck to get a view of the police car in the left door mirror.
‘Just relax … he’s probably heading in for some tea,’ said Dominic.
In the mirror, Costello could see the police car. It was about fifty yards back, making no attempt to catch up or overtake.
‘Next lights, take a left,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if he does the same.’
The police car followed them.
Costello triggered the communication receiver to scan the local radio frequencies. A few seconds later, a male voice could be heard requesting a ‘PNC’ check. An officer was asking for available information on a vehicle that was stored on the Police National Computer. The operator then asked for the registration number.
Dominic swore. ‘They’ve switched on their blue lights, Dec.’
Costello was listening intently to the scanner. ‘OK … stay calm. They’ve just done a check on the lorry,’ he answered. ‘Now, remember the story. Keep to it, no variations. Do as I say and we’ll be away from here in no time.’ Costello kept his voice steady and calm. The last thing he needed now was for one of the brothers to panic.
As the police car overtook and pulled in front, Dominic slowed the lorry to a stop and switched off the engine.
Costello switched the scanner off and then tucked it behind the passenger seat. Glancing across at Seamus, he saw his eyes were wide as he looked nervously towards his elder brother.
‘Relax, Seamus. Just try and let me do the talking.’
From his belt, Costello pulled a Glock pistol that he shoved down the front of his trousers. In the reflection from the windscreen he saw Dominic give his brother a reassuring wink. Seamus half-smiled in response.
Costello took a deep breath as he wound down the passenger window.
In the door mirror he could see the police car door opening and a figure appearing.
‘OK, boys,’ he said. ‘Time
to smile for the lads in blue.’
Chapter 13
Costello ran.
Behind him there were shouts, the sound of a police car screeching to a halt and the sounds of a siren bouncing off the nearby houses. Blue light filled the night air. The cops were close.
Seamus had been a fool.
It had been clear from the word go that the two cops were suspicious. They had made all three of them get out of the lorry, separated them to ask questions and had then compared notes out of ear shot. When the younger cop had gone to the police car radio, Costello knew it was time to act.
Both of the brothers knew the drill: Costello had run through it several times. If compromised by a police patrol car, they were to disable the officers and destroy their means of communication. Only then would they have any hope of escaping with the lorry and its contents.
But Seamus had panicked. He had pulled his weapon on the older cop and then, when they all heard the sound of an approaching siren, he had fired it, straight into the cop’s chest.
That had been the trigger to run.
Costello glanced behind him. A cop was checking on his friend who lay prone on the road. Three others were climbing out of a second police car. Nobody was chasing them, yet.
It was time to get off the street and put as much distance as he could between him and his pursuers. He stopped running and checked his belt for the Glock. It was there. Glancing around, he checked for any sign of Dominic or Seamus. There was none. Then he remembered the scanner. It was still in the lorry. He cursed.
Ducking down behind a parked car, he looked back to the main road. One officer was now heading towards him carrying a small rifle, a second seemed to be talking on his radio.
He thought quickly. In minutes the area would be alive with cops. But they would hold back, fearful of what might be waiting for them in the dark. They would surround the area, seal off the streets and then start a safe, systematic search. That would take time to organise, time that gave their quarry an advantage. In ten minutes, given a bit of luck, he could be a mile away and safe.