Wicked Game

by Matt Johnson

  A cold chill ran down my spine.

  The approaching horizon looked ominous and menacing. I was heading straight towards the storm. For a moment I pulled in and stopped. The old 2CV Citroen never had liked the rain. Checking my watch, I realised that I didn’t have enough time to get back to the cottage and collect the Audi. I pushed on.

  As I turned onto the A1, the crash of thunder mingled with the roar of the peak Sunday-evening traffic. Weekend visitors and holiday-makers on their way home.

  All at once, the heavens opened. Clouds gave up any attempt to hold back, releasing their contents in sheets of seemingly solid water that bounced off the tarmac and clattered on the soft top of the 2CV. I kept to the slow lane next to where the hard shoulder had become a fast-running stream of water and debris.

  I had to slow down to below thirty. The wipers couldn’t cope and I could hardly see where I was going. Out of the side window I caught a glimpse of several women in a hotel car park racing towards the reception door. One of them held what looked like a magazine over her head in a vain attempt to shield her hair from the worst effects of the deluge. The shoulders of her dress were soaked and as she ran, the ground threw up splashes to add to her misery.

  The rain battered against the roof and windscreen as if furious at being left outside. My left foot started to feel cold; feeling beneath the dash, I grimaced; water was leaking through from the windscreen. My eyes returned to the road just in time. I was suddenly faced by the rapidly growing rear end of a lorry. I braked hard and swerved left as I came to a halt on the hard shoulder.

  I sat still, listening to the rain, my heart pounding in my chest. Closing my eyes for several seconds, I murmured a silent ‘thank you’ prayer to God for giving me quick reactions.

  I started off again but, just as I was about to pull back onto the road, the rear wheels of an articulated trailer ploughed through the deepening surface water, sending a grey wave crashing down onto me. For a few moments the brave little car kept going, then the water hit the electrics. The engine coughed, spluttered, picked up momentarily and then died. I coasted to a stop.

  I took a breath and counted to ten.

  It seemed that events were conspiring against me. This was not a good place to be stuck in a broken-down car with the heavens pouring out their contents.

  Cars, caravans and heavy lorries roared passed, the slipstream causing the Citroen to rock on its soft springs. There was no sign of an emergency telephone and the high verge next to the hard shoulder hid any clue as to nearby help. I tried the starter motor. It turned, there was plenty of power, but the engine didn’t fire. Resigned to my fate, I reached for the mobile phone.

  Once I’d told the police station I was going to be late I just sat there. In truth, there wasn’t a great deal of choice. I had a can of WD40 in the boot but I was buggered if I was going to get out in this weather. I would just have to sit it out.

  For the next ten minutes, there I sat, alone on the motorway with just my thoughts and the traffic thundering past as the rain lashed down.

  In the enforced solitude, Kevin’s words came back to disturb me. We were on a list, a target list. Two old mates had been killed in just a few days, and then at the funeral, the new regiment CO had told me, quite clearly, not to get involved. I wondered just what the hell I should do.

  For a few moments, I had the overwhelming urge to go and hide, to run away until everything got back to normal.

  The way that Skinner had been targeted troubled me the most. A drive-by shooting. That was very specific, very personal. A face-to-face between gunman and victim.

  The bomb that killed Bridges could have happened to anyone, but somehow the killers had found Skinner’s home. I knew they could have followed him, but what if they hadn’t? What if the killers knew where he lived? What if they knew where I lived?

  I switched on the car radio. It was linked directly to the battery and still worked. John Peel was doing a sixties special. Penny Lane was playing. Confused, surreal images washed through my mind as I listened to the words.

  More songs followed. I Am the God of Hell-Fire … Itchycoo Park … It’s All Too Beautiful. I was lost in a time before adulthood. I remembered my childhood well. The girls. The parties. Oh, to be able to turn back the clock, I thought. Now it seemed so very far away.

  The ten o’clock news came and went. I didn’t hear it. Only a certain kind of song could break through the kind of misery I was experiencing.

  And it came. It’s always struck me as strange how at certain times in your life songs can take on great significance. As I sat in the dark, with lorries and cars hurtling past me, it was Garth Brooks’ If Tomorrow Never Comes that triggered the tears: ‘…will she know how much I love her…’

  There were two girls in my life now and both meant the world to me. As I listened to the song, tears running down my cheeks, I knew there was no turning back. I was going to have to tell Jenny.

  I banged my fists on the steering wheel and screamed in frustration. ‘Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!’

  As if prompted by my display of frustration, the rain stopped almost as suddenly as it had started. I tried the engine again. The starter turned over and over. No joy. If the WD40 didn’t work, I was in for a long walk.

  I pulled the keys from the ignition and, as I started to open the driver door, a white police traffic car cruised past. I waved frantically.

  They saw me. The blue lights went on as they pulled onto the hard shoulder in front of the Citroen.

  I laughed. Emotions were catching up with me. ‘Who says you can never find a copper when you need one?’ I said to myself.

  I laughed again, but it wasn’t in humour. It was the kind of laugh that is only just short of a sob. Things were getting completely out of control. I didn’t like what I was being drawn into but could see no way out. And what was at stake was too terrible to contemplate.

  Chapter 31

  Grahamslaw checked his watch as his car struggled through the traffic on the way to Stoke Newington. It was nearly ten o’clock. The night shift would soon be arriving for work.

  They were in for an interesting night. A heavy storm was predicted to hit north London at about half-past ten. According to the forecast, upwards of two inches of rain would be dumped on the capital in less than an hour.

  By the time the bad weather arrived, he would be having a chat with the officers who had been working with the murdered PC on the night he had been shot. Losing a fellow officer was never an easy thing. Without exception, every man and woman on that shift would have asked questions of themselves afterwards. Some would have been angry; others would have decided that the job was no longer for them. All would have been affected in some way, most for the worse. They would now want to know how close the enquiry team was to identifying the killers.

  Grahamslaw had seen it before. In April 1984, as a Detective Inspector at West End Central, he had been given the job of breaking the news of WPC Yvonne Fletcher’s death to her colleagues. It was a day he would never forget. Yvonne had been working on a vice squad he had been supervising. With a team of fellow officers, her main role was to target the prostitutes that frequented the local area. On the day she was shot, Yvonne had been posted to supervise a small demonstration, a group of people allowed their democratic right to protest over an issue they felt strongly about.

  Then, in a moment no one could have expected or planned for, a gunman had opened fire on the demonstrators from a window that overlooked their position. Yvonne had been struck and mortally wounded.

  The failure to arrest the gunman and the political decision to allow all the suspects to leave the UK had angered Grahamslaw. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand it, he simply didn’t agree with the principle of permitting people to escape justice.

  Within a fortnight, he had applied to join the Anti-Terrorist Squad. His first application had been rejected, the powers-that-be recognising, correctly, that it was a knee-jerk reaction to Yvonne’s murder. Six months lat
er, when he applied again, they accepted that his was a genuine desire to specialise in a challenging field of police work.

  Seventeen years later, with four successful promotion boards under his belt, Grahamslaw now commanded the squad that had questioned his initial motivation for joining it. And, as its commander, the responsibility of talking to the dead officer’s colleagues fell to him.

  As he approached the rear of the police station, a uniform Sergeant, inside the building, saw him and opened the glass security door.

  ‘Grahamslaw, Commander SO13,’ he said, aware that in plain clothes he was unlikely to be recognised.

  ‘I remember you, guv. Sergeant Holbrook. I was on duty the night you were here – when PC Evans was shot.’

  ‘You’re from the night shift?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m just getting the postings sorted.’

  ‘It’s your lads I’ve come to see. Is your duty officer around?’

  ‘Ah … sorry, guv. That’s our new Inspector, Mr Finlay. His car has broken down on the way into work. I’m just on my way to ask the lateturn Inspector to cover until he can get here.’

  ‘You have a new Inspector? What happened to young Heathcote?’ Grahamslaw frowned.

  ‘The chief super has given him an admin job. He’s doing his final late turn today, in fact. It’s him I’m on my way to see.’

  ‘Lead the way, then.’

  Grahamslaw followed the Sergeant up the stairs to the first floor and along the corridor. He recognised the office door they arrived at. It was closed.

  As the Sergeant went to knock, Grahamslaw pushed past him, opened the door and stepped into the office.

  Heathcote was typing away on a laptop. The office telephone was ringing, but the Inspector seemed to be ignoring the call. He didn’t even look up.

  Grahamslaw coughed.

  Heathcote glanced up, impatiently. His face flushed and he scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Hello again, David,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘I’ve come to have a chat with the night shift. I understand from Sergeant Holbrook here that you are likely to be covering it for a while.’

  Heathcote looked confused and turned to face the Sergeant, who was now standing in the office doorway. The phone continued to ring.

  ‘It’s Inspector Finlay,’ said Holbrook. ‘Hertfordshire Police Traffic Control have been on the blower. He’s broken down on the motorway. They’re towing him home so he can use a second car to get into work. As he won’t be here for an hour or so, we were hoping you would cover until he gets here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Heathcote. ‘Can I answer that phone call?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Grahamslaw.

  Heathcote pressed a button on the phone to answer it on speaker.

  ‘Mr Heathcote?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Control room here, sir, Sergeant Tillbrook. Inspector Finlay has been on the phone. Apparently he has broken down on the way in. He asks if you could cover until he can get home and get his other car.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Sergeant Holbrook just told me. Did he give any idea what time we can expect him?’

  ‘About midnight, apparently. And there’s a complaint just come in.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Nasty one, I’m afraid. An allegation of racist language against a late-turn PC. I’ve got an address: 65 Big Hill. A Mr Erasmus. It’s just come over the computer from the complaints branch at the Yard. They want you to ring them and for us to go and see the complainant. If you like, I’ll ask Sergeant Holbrook to parade the troops then run you round there.’

  Heathcote managed what looked like a half-hearted smile as he hung up the phone.

  ‘You ring CIB, David,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’ll go with your Sergeant here to talk to the officers on parade.’

  ‘Yes, yes please … that would be fine. Have there been any developments?’

  ‘We have a name for the dead terrorist. He was IRA from Belfast. It’s given us a few leads on who the other two might be. I’ll fill you in on the details later.’

  Grahamslaw left the Inspector to make his telephone call. He had more important work to do.

  Chapter 32

  Costello leaned over the balcony wall to check his view of the street.

  Dominic had called to say that a police car, driven by a Sergeant and carrying the target, had left the police station at about ten fifteen. If he was right, the Inspector would be arriving outside the location in a few minutes.

  Costello had chosen an address where the street was empty. He had parked the Fiesta outside a suitable house, primed the detonator and then made the call to the police complaints branch.

  The police took racism complaints sufficiently seriously that they always assigned the local Inspector to do the initial investigation. So, just as Costello had expected, the police station had assigned their duty officer to attend and speak to the complainant. Only this time, there was no incident; and there was no Mr Erasmus.

  The sole purpose of Costello’s call was to lure the night-shift Inspector, Robert Finlay, to Big Hill and have him park near the car containing the bomb. Then, as he approached the address ‘Mr Erasmus’ had provided, the device could be triggered.

  He had chosen a good vantage point. Close enough to watch the street, but far enough away to be safe from the blast and any flying debris.

  The late summer evening had been humid, but now the leaves in the nearby trees rustled. He shivered. The air was growing colder and he could feel the wind starting to pick up. Costello smiled. Hopefully, the evening television weather presenter had been right in his prediction. If the rain came soon, the two men in the police car would park close to the address, possibly right next to the Fiesta. As soon as they were out of their car and close enough, he would have them.

  Costello saw several people hurrying home, scanning the heavens, quickly scurrying into their homes in anticipation of the incoming storm. The air felt tense, electric.

  Just as the first few spots of rain started to fall, a police car pulled into the street. It was moving slowly. The two occupants were checking the houses, looking for the right address.

  The officer in the passenger seat would probably be the target.

  As they approached the Fiesta, the driver of the police car turned in to the kerb and stopped. They were just a car’s length away from the bomb. Probably close enough, thought Costello. But best to wait until they were outside the protection of their car.

  A moment later, as if the clouds had been waiting for the first few drops to settle before unleashing their heavy load, the air was filled with falling water.

  No wonder they call it stair rods, Costello mused, turning up his collar. Inside the police car, it must feel as like they were going through a car wash. He waited; the two policemen seemed reluctant to leave the dry sanctuary of their car.

  Within a few seconds, Costello’s jacket was soaked. He cursed. Unable to move and find shelter, he had to watch and wait. The rain was soon inside his collar. He shivered again as small rivulets began trickling down his back.

  In his pocket, the transmitter was starting to feel damp. He wrapped his hand around it to keep it dry, careful to avoid the red button that would send the signal to the receiver beneath the car.

  Visibility dropped to just a few yards as sheets of grey rain whipped up by the wind combined with the spray rebounding from every surface.

  All at once, the air reverberated to the crash of the first peal of thunder. The storm was directly overhead – the boom almost instantly followed by a fork of lightning.

  For several more minutes, he waited. Soon they would have to leave their car, he thought. Soon they would be close enough.

  At last the thunder moved on, rumbling and crashing as it went, the strikes of lightning becoming less frequent. The rain eased and the air took on a sense of freshness. The gutters flowed fast and flooded the road as the drains struggled to cope with the sudden influx of water.

&
nbsp; The passenger door of the police car opened.

  A figure emerged, pulling on a waterproof jacket as he stepped onto the pavement. The man glanced at the sky nervously, anxious to avoid the next wave of rain. The driver remained in the car, apparently fiddling with the ignition key. Costello heard him shout.

  ‘Won’t come out of the lock, guv.’

  ‘Hurry up, it’s about to pour down again,’ the target replied as he leaned back onto the passenger seat to where his driver was struggling to extract the key.

  Once again the air turned cold. And once more, the heavens opened. The Inspector pulled his legs into the shelter of the car just as thunder and lightning struck simultaneously. It was one of those awesome demonstrations of natural power that stuns all who witness it. A surge of electrical energy flowed through the atmosphere.

  Nestled beneath the waiting Fiesta, the time and power unit of Dominic’s bomb, short-circuited.

  Nature had no sense of timing.

  Chapter 33

  I would have to have been a complete fool not to have realised, as I pulled into the station yard, that something major was going down.

  Both the Chief Superintendent and Superintendent’s cars were in their bays. Parked nearby were gleaming Fords and Volvo S60s of the type the Anti-Terrorist Squad used. An explosives officer’s Range Rover with blacked-out windows roared past me, its siren blaring.

  I squeezed the Audi into the only space available, the wash bay.

  There were small groups of PCs sitting in the canteen – none of them from my shift. As I walked in through the rear door to the main building I caught the attention of a Sergeant from the Territorial Support Group who was heading out to the yard and asked him what had happened.

  Cautiously, he asked me who I was.

  ‘Night-duty Inspector, got delayed on the way in,’ I explained.

  ‘Christ, you’re a lucky bugger,’ he answered. ‘A car bomb’s gone off over on the east side of your ground. The late-turn governor and one of the skippers are in hospital.’