by Matt Johnson
Costello moved quietly away from the parked car and into the dark sanctuary of a small garden. At the side of the house, a small fence gave him access to the back gardens and a safer route away from the street. It was just what he needed. The fences between properties would slow him down but hide his movement. He’d done it before, many times. As a younger man he had led pursuing RUC and army patrols many a merry dance as they tried to chase him through the back yards of Belfast. They had never caught him, not even come close.
After forcing his way through several gardens, he stopped for a moment to regain his breath. Crouching down in the darkness, he listened. There was more shouting, someone giving orders. Another man, responding.
A noise came from further along the gardens. The sound of wood splintering. Someone was following him.
Costello stood up and pulled the Glock from his waistband. In the light from the street, he could make out the silhouette of a figure labouring over the same garden fences he had just climbed.
Raising the pistol, he aimed and fired twice.
The silhouette disappeared.
Silence followed the loud retort of the pistol. For hundreds of yards in all directions, every cop in range would have heard the crack. His best hope was that they wouldn’t be able to work out where it had come from. For a few seconds, he waited. The gardens stayed quiet.
It was time to press on. He started to run again and reached the final fence of the street. Just as he was about to climb it, the sound of an oncoming car caused him instinctively to duck. It was moving fast, the engine smooth and powerful. A police car.
The sound grew louder and closer and then died away. A moment later he heard the sound of tyres skidding on tarmac and then … a sickening thud.
The street fell quiet again.
Costello peered over the fence. The police car had come to a halt at the nearby junction. In front of it, a lone figure was struggling to stand. Even in the dark, he could see that the man was bleeding badly from a long cut across his forehead. He recognised the jacket and the mop of curly dark hair. It was Seamus.
On the road next to the boy, Costello saw Seamus’s pistol lying on the tarmac.
A shout came from the far side of the police car, near the driver door.
‘Stop … armed police.’
Seamus turned to face the cop. He was panting, desperately out of breath.
For a split second, Costello thought about trying to rescue him but it was too great a risk: he didn’t know where the other cops were.
Seamus raised his hands. At first, Costello thought he was surrendering and then he realised: Seamus was shaping his hands as if to shoot.
Except the Browning still lay on the ground.
Seamus closed his empty trigger finger just as the cop fired.
As he fell, Costello closed his eyes and cursed. Slipping the Glock back into his belt, he climbed as silently as he could over the fence. The cop was leaning over the now prostrate figure of Seamus.
Costello moved forward. He would get one chance and would have to be quick before other officers arrived to help their mate. He pulled the pistol from his belt.
The cop was vomiting. Costello felt no sympathy. This was payback, an eye for an eye. Seamus was an old friend, he was Dominic’s brother.
A shout interrupted him. It came from behind.
He turned. Two more cops were sprinting towards him.
There was no time.
He ran, into the darkness and away.
Chapter 14
A phone was ringing.
For several moments, Bill Grahamslaw listened to the noise. So deeply had he been sleeping that, at first, he thought it was part of his dream. But as the volume increased, he realised that the sound was coming from about three feet away, from the chest of drawers next to the bed.
He reached out, groping in the dark for his mobile phone.
The device finally responded to his fumbling fingers.
‘Mr Grahamslaw?’ The voice was female … curt and official sounding.
Who else was it going to be? Grahamslaw thought. And at this time of night.
‘Yes.’ His voice sounded deep, throaty. Whoever the caller was, it would be obvious to her that she had woken him.
‘Sorry to wake you, guv. SO Reserve, here. Are you free to speak?’
Grahamslaw sat up slowly and glanced over his shoulder. In the half light from the phone he could see that Emma was still sleeping.
‘Give me a minute,’ he mumbled.
Easing himself from beneath the duvet, he stepped as quietly as he could across the bedroom floor to the door. The air felt chilly, and as he stepped into the hallway he reached for the woollen bath robe that hung on the door.
A call from Special Ops Reserve meant one thing: an incident. The officer manning the night-duty phone line wouldn’t be calling the Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad without good reason.
Grahamslaw shivered as he stepped into the hallway, slipped on the robe and quietly pulled the bedroom door closed.
‘OK … I’m awake now. What is it?’
‘There’s been an attack … Stoke Newington Area. Local CID have informed us it’s terror related. They’ve asked SO13 to attend. I’ve sent a car. It will be with you in about ten minutes.’
‘They’re sure? Last time someone did this to me it was a handbag that some Doris had left on a station platform.’
‘Yes, it’s definite this time. A lorry filled with explosives, one officer shot and wounded, another missing.’
Grahamslaw was fully alert now. ‘Badly hurt?’
‘We don’t have any more information at the moment. An ARV is on scene – they’ve reported hearing more shots from a street off Kingsland Road.’
‘OK, I’ll head straight up there. Get an explosives officer on his way and dig out Superintendent Parratt. Tell him to get to the hospital where the injured PC is. I’ll be ready in five.’
Grahamslaw hung up the phone and headed for the shower. He needed to wake up properly.
As the hot water soaked life into his brain, he started to gather his thoughts and make plans. It had been a relatively quiet year for SO13, the Met Anti-Terrorist Squad. In days gone by, a lorry full of explosives in central London would only mean one thing: an IRA campaign. Now, with so many terror groups appearing on the radar, it could mean anything.
Having an Armed Response Vehicle on scene was useful. They could deal with any immediate threat before leaving it to the local Duty Inspector to seal off the scene of crime. The local CID would then handle anything that couldn’t wait until the Anti-Terrorist Detectives arrived.
The shower room door opened. It was Emma. ‘I’ve made you a coffee. It’s on the kitchen table.’
‘Thanks, love. I’ll be right there.’
When he emerged from the shower the hallway and bedroom lights were on. Despite his attempts to keep as quiet as possible, the call had woken up Emma. She was at the bedroom window, looking out for the pick-up car.
‘It’s one in the morning,’ she said.
‘It’s a lorry bomb … in Stoke Newington. PC shot, apparently.’
‘Oh, shit … I’m sorry, Bill. How bad?’
‘I don’t know yet. The girl from SO Reserve is trying to find out for me.’
‘That’ll be Mandy Sullivan. She’s nights this week. I’m scheduled for next.’
‘Will I see you later?’
‘Afraid not. Joe will be expecting me home. I should really have left an hour ago. Besides, isn’t it about time you put in appearance at your home?’
Grahamslaw smiled as he sipped at the coffee. Emma was right. His wife would be wondering if something had happened to him.
As far as she knew, the Beckton flat was a simple retirement investment and provided an easier commute into work for her husband. For Grahamslaw himself, it was a little haven in which to meet a lover.
Emma had fulfilled that role for nearly ten years. When they first met, she had been a young Detect
ive Constable and Grahamslaw had been her DI. The two of them had been working in the CID office at Vine Street. It hadn’t only been rank that separated them, the age difference was also significant. Emma was nearly twenty years his junior; she had been just twenty-one when they met.
For two years they had worked together, she admiring his charismatic personality, he being unable to resist the occasional sly stare at her slim figure. Then, at a CID Christmas do, the drink had been flowing freely and they had ending up dancing together. The dance had led to a long personal chat about loveless marriage and their mutual attraction had been revealed. That evening, they enjoyed their first kiss.
For two years afterwards they had used hotels, meeting as and when they could. Then, when Grahamslaw bought the flat after being promoted to Superintendent, it had provided a perfect spot to rendezvous.
The relationship was one of the best-kept secrets in the Specialist Operations Directorate at New Scotland Yard. To Grahamslaw’s knowledge, only Mick Parratt, his deputy at SO13, knew about it. That wasn’t a risk. Parratt knew how to keep a secret and was as discreet as he was loyal.
Even when Emma had moved in with her partner, Joe, the secret meetings had continued. For each of them, they filled a need. Grahamslaw had a marriage to preserve but craved intimacy and female company. Emma needed what she called a ‘fuck-buddy’. Each found in the other what they lacked in their daily lives.
In recent weeks, the relationship had turned a little rocky. Emma was now thirty-one and was feeling the need for a family. Joe had been pressuring her to come off the pill. Emma had made it clear to her ageing lover that as soon as that happened, she would only be having sex with one man. The ten-year affair would be at an end.
Grahamslaw preferred not to think about the prospect. Emma was the woman he should have married. She was intelligent, articulate and exciting. It wasn’t that his wife wasn’t attractive; she was. It was that the good looks he had fallen for in his twenties hadn’t been enough. The couple shared no interests, didn’t socialise together and, when at home, they hardly talked. Emma was everything that his wife wasn’t.
The thought of no longer seeing his lover frightened him.
‘Car’s here,’ she called, from near the window.
They hugged and shared a brief kiss. Grahamslaw turned to leave and, as he did so, a feeling of sadness crept over him. When he next returned to the flat, the bedroom would be empty and the bedding cold. Emma would be gone, perhaps for good.
Picking up his leather briefcase, he headed for the street. He didn’t look back, preferring not to. One day, in the not-too-distant future, he hoped they would enjoy a last meeting, a last night together that wasn’t interrupted.
Then he would sell the flat. It held too many memories.
Chapter 15
Grahamslaw’s arrival at Stoke Newington proved timely. As he walked into the Control Room, the Duty Inspector was taking a call from his Chief Superintendent.
The news was mixed.
Grahamslaw listened in as the Inspector reported that a local response car, Golf Four, had carried out a routine stop on a lorry. PC Manning, the driver, had been shot in the chest. Fortunately for Manning, he was old school and still wore his uniform tunic with chain and whistle. The bullet that had been fired at him from point-blank range had struck the whistle and deflected up through his shoulder. He was alive and in theatre.
A second officer, PC John Evans, had last been heard on the radio network, in pursuit of suspects. One suspect was dead at the scene, shot by a member of the ARV crew. The lorry had been opened to reveal what looked like a large quantity of chemical explosive.
Grahamslaw waited until the Inspector finished the call and then introduced himself. ‘Bill Grahamslaw, Commander SO13. Anything more on the missing PC?’
‘No sir, nothing,’ the Inspector answered.
‘Shall we adjourn to your office? You can fill me in on what happened while we wait for my lads to arrive.’
The Inspector led the way up to the first floor of the new-build police station. Grahamslaw noticed how busily he walked. Although he was young and seemed brimming with confidence, he wasn’t going to be impressed with what Grahamslaw intended to say to him the moment they reached the privacy of his office.
Just as the Inspector opened his door, a personal radio on his shoulder burst into life. The control room reported the arrival of the explosives officer, who was now on his way to check the lorry.
‘My apologies, sir. I’m David Heathcote, by the way.’ The Inspector held out his hand in greeting.
Grahamslaw scowled. ‘Don’t worry about that. You’ve got a missing PC out there.’
‘Yes … the operator from the area car. We lost contact during a foot chase.’
‘And who, may I ask, is out there co-ordinating the search?’
‘I sent two of my sergeants, sir. Good men, both of them.’
Grahamslaw sat down and sighed. ‘How old are you, Heathcote?’
‘Twenty-six next month, sir.’
‘Time in the rank?’
‘Six months.’
‘Hmm … My guess is this is your first posting since promotion?’
‘Yes … I was lucky to be sent here. Best nick in the Met.’
‘Maybe … maybe. Most contentious, certainly. Now listen … I didn’t ask you up here for some peace and quiet. I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your shift.’
‘Embarrass me?’
‘Yes. You’ve got a missing PC, a PC who has been shot, and you have a search going on. Where do I find you? Inside the nick, in the warm, manning a phone. What’s your first name again?’
‘David, sir.’ Heathcote’s face looked suddenly flushed and warm.
‘Right, David. I want you to get out there and do what you’re supposed to do. You should be co-ordinating the search, not leaving it to your bloody sergeants.’
Heathcote didn’t reply. Instead, he opened the door of a tall, steel locker and pulled out a uniform cap. He wasn’t about to argue, it seemed. As he opened the office door, the radio on his shoulder started transmitting again.
‘Golf November One receiving, over.’
‘Go ahead, over.’ Heathcote answered.
The message was from one of the sergeants at the search scene. The missing PC had been found.
It was a tough call, asking unarmed officers to search gardens and houses for a missing gunman. But when there weren’t enough armed officers to do it, one officer had already been shot, and there was a missing PC to be found, you had to make difficult decisions. Grahamslaw acknowledged to himself that at least the young Inspector had got that part right.
When the Sergeant made a further transmission to stand the searchers down, both he and Heathcote guessed why. Heathcote offered to drive them both to the scene. They made the journey in silence.
A dog handler met them at the front of a smart terraced house. He glanced at Grahamslaw before turning to speak to Heathcote.
‘Didn’t want to transmit it over the radio, guv, but I’ve found your missing PC. I’m real sorry, it ain’t good news.’
Heathcote said nothing as the dog handler led him through the house to the rear garden. Grahamslaw followed.
In the front room, a Sergeant was sat talking to a couple who Grahamslaw guessed were the house owners. They were pressed up together on the settee. The man had his arm around his partner’s shoulders. The Sergeant glanced across to Grahamslaw and nodded, solemnly.
In the garden, John Evans lay on his front, face down in a flower bed, the gaping hole in his neck clear evidence of his fate.
‘You’ve checked for signs of life?’ Heathcote asked.
‘None, guv,’ the dog handler replied. ‘Looks like the bullet hit him in the throat and exited through the back.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
Despite his years of experience, Grahamslaw felt the coffee in his stomach start to rise.
Chapter 16
It was nearly five
in the morning when Mick Parratt arrived from the hospital.
Grahamslaw was with the local Chief Superintendent, Ian Sinclair.
Sinclair poured the arriving detective a coffee and invited him to sit. Parratt had news.
‘Mick Manning had a lucky break,’ he began. ‘The trauma consultant was already at the hospital putting together an injured biker. The operation on our lad took two hours but the prognosis is he’ll be ok. No major organs damaged. He woke up about an hour ago and was able to talk.’
‘Did you tell him about PC Evans?’ Sinclair asked.
‘Had to. It was the first thing he asked.’
Grahamslaw scowled. It was the worst thing that could happen to a cop – have a colleague killed alongside him. A local Sergeant who had known both PCs had provided him with some background on them. Manning was a veteran PC with over twenty-five years in the job. He’d been at Stoke Newington for his entire career, the last fifteen years spent on shift, driving the area response car, Golf Four. The deceased PC was John Evans, just three years in the police and an ex Royal Marine.
‘How did he take it?’
‘Not too good.’
‘Were you able to ask him what happened?’ said Grahamslaw.
‘Yes … there were a few tears but he was incredibly lucid considering what he’d just been through. It was a routine stop, apparently. The armed response crew had just cancelled them attending an emercall to a nearby pub when Manning clocked the lorry. He thought it odd that there were three men in a market delivery wagon. They pulled them over and it turned out that all three men had Belfast accents. They claimed to be travellers from Cork on their way to a fair in Enfield. Our two lads weren’t happy so they decided to call the ARV as back up.’
‘Sensible,’ said Sinclair. ‘So, what went wrong?’
‘Manning said he thought they were the sweetest-smelling travellers he had ever met. When Evans got on the radio, it must have spooked one of them. He pulled a gun on Manning. The gun went off. Manning says from the look of surprise on the shooter’s face, it was an accident.’