Wicked Game

by Matt Johnson

  I didn’t reply. What the hell could I have said?

  ‘You all right, guv? You don’t look well.’

  ‘Yes … fine,’ I managed to say. ‘Was it Mr Heathcote?’

  ‘Yeah, that was him. Poor bastard thought he’d been struck by lightning. He had some nasty scalp wounds, bits of glass embedded in his face, that sort of thing. We heard just a few minutes ago that both of ’em are alive. Apparently, they were struggling to get the ignition keys out when the bomb went off in a car just along the street. The blast took out the windscreen and went right over the top of ’em.’

  My mind raced as I made my way upstairs to get changed. I should have been in that police car. Heathcote had been covering at a time when I was supposed to have been duty officer.

  I drew the inevitable conclusion. The car bomb had been meant for me.

  As I walked past the chief super’s door, a great voice boomed out, calling me in.

  ‘Robert, you’ve heard the news?’

  Ian Sinclair was behind his desk. To his left sat my new Superintendent, John Poulter. In armchairs on the opposite side of the room were two heavily built, smartly suited men who looked like CID.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m just about to get changed then I plan on heading down to the scene, see what I can do.’

  ‘Yes, you do that. You were very lucky I understand.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, sir.’

  One of the detectives turned to Sinclair. ‘Why is the Inspector lucky, Ian?’ As he used the chief’s first name I figured that these men weren’t just run-of-the-mill detectives.

  ‘Mr Finlay here was supposed to have been in the police car that was destroyed. His car broke down on the way to work, so Dave Heathcote was covering for him.’

  The Detective turned to me. ‘You are a lucky man, Inspector.’

  I nodded and forced a smile. Although my insides were churning I was anxious not to show it. ‘Thanks. Is there any more news from the hospital? I just spoke to a TSG skipper who said they were ok.’

  As I replied to the Detective’s comment I felt a sense of déjà vu … and of recognition: I knew the man’s face. I remembered the expensive suit, the squad tie, the confident demeanour. He’d aged quite a bit and was now much heavier, but the face was the same. His name escaped me. If I remembered rightly, he had been on the hostage negotiation team at the Iranian Embassy siege and was part of the police briefing team, the day before we were given the order to attack the embassy.

  Sinclair spoke again. ‘They’re in surgery, both having the odd bit of glass and shrapnel removed, but I’m told that they will be all right.’

  I excused myself and headed for my office. The Senior Detective had been watching me closely, looking me straight in the eye. I had recognised him. I just hoped he didn’t return the compliment.

  I arrived at the scene just after midnight. It was devastation. The Fire Brigade had put out fires in several vehicles, but one car was still burning fiercely, thick acrid smoke billowing from its windows.

  The destroyed vehicles still smouldered, their smooth lines and gleaming paintwork now reduced to charred, wrecked skeletons. The air smelled of burning plastic and rubber.

  Except for the debris caused by the explosion and two fire engines, the street was now empty. The area was cordoned off and everyone was waiting for a ‘stand-off’ period to end. It was a standard procedure these days, in case secondary devices had been placed to kill the rescuers. As I got out of the car, one of my relief Sergeants approached. It was Paul Andrews, the youngest, just recently promoted.

  ‘Christ, am I glad you’re here, sir, we’re just waiting for the stand-off to end.’

  ‘How long to go?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘Were there any casualties apart from our two?’

  ‘No, the bomb went off in the middle of a thunderstorm. There was nobody on the streets at the time apart from our guys.’

  ‘It was quite a storm.’

  ‘I’ll say. The power surge fried a few computers, I was told. One of the bomb disposal blokes says it might have been a car bomb waiting to be delivered to its real target and that the electrical storm set it off.’

  ‘It does seem an odd place to plant a bomb.’

  ‘That’s what we all thought. Can’t think why they would want to put one here, of all places.’

  I shrugged. I had a feeling I knew.

  The night shift went quickly. I was kept so busy I didn’t have time to dwell on my own problems. A bomb disposal officer searched the area and then the Anti-Terrorist Squad went to work. I organised security so the squad could do their job and then sorted out some accommodation for displaced residents.

  I was able to satisfy my curiosity about the two detectives who had been with my Chief Superintendent. They were Bill Grahamslaw, the SO13 Commander, and his Superintendent, Mick Parratt.

  The one I had recognised was Grahamslaw. Although more than twenty years had passed since our last meeting, my memory had served me well. Fortunately, it seemed he hadn’t recognised me. Several times that night I saw him in deep conversations with his detectives, with the explosives officer and with my divisional boss. At no time did he give me a second glance.

  Just as Paul Andrews had overheard, the Anti-Terrorist Squad conclusion was that the car had been parked up waiting to be delivered to a central London target and that it had been triggered accidentally by the electrical storm.

  If that’s what they thought, that suited me.

  Keith Carter took over from me at six-thirty. Reports from the hospital were that Heathcote and Holbrook were as well as could be expected.

  I returned to the privacy of my office and for the first time, as I changed out of uniform, the enormity of my problem began to hit home. I sat down heavily in my chair, my hands frozen in the act of unbuttoning my shirt.

  Soon I was going to have to tell Jenny. I just had to find the right words.

  Chapter 34

  During the long drive home, I couldn’t help turning over all the latest developments in my head.

  Bridges had been bombed while at work and although Skinner had been shot at home, there was no telling whether or not the attackers had his address. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to follow him. He had been out of the army for over twenty years and would never have been looking for a tail.

  The thought made me check my mirror. I’d been so wrapped up in my troubles that I hadn’t thought about this possibility.

  I took a diversion, drove into a cul-de-sac, turned and waited.

  No vehicle appeared. I repeated the manoeuvre using a car park until I was happy I wasn’t being tailed myself. In a way, I would have been pleased if I had. At least that would have meant that they didn’t know where I lived – where Jenny and Becky lived.

  As I resumed my journey, the realisation hit me. I had no choice. I had to start making plans.

  First thing would be to contact Jones and Monaghan. Then tell Jenny. After that, I would move her and Becky to Jenny’s mum’s place for a while.

  I would have to keep going to work; pulling a sudden sickie might cause suspicion. After a while I’d have to go sick, though; something like stress, so I’d be off for some time.

  I remembered that one of Jenny’s relatives had a holiday cottage in Scotland. We’d head there, lay low … and wait.

  The house was empty when I arrived home. A note from Jenny lay on the kitchen table. She and Becky had gone shopping for the morning.

  I went to bed, but the sleep I needed eluded me. I dozed, thought, planned and occasionally got up to jot ideas down on a note pad before I forgot them. The hands on the clock moved very slowly.

  Clear skies appeared in the afternoon. I gave up trying to rest, made a mug of tea and then tried to ring Monaghan and Kevin Jones. Neither of them answered. Kevin had left me his mobile number so I sent him a text message asking him to make contact.

  My next task was talking to Jenny.

  I knew that whe
n she went shopping, she would normally arrive home at between three and four. As I rehearsed what I was going to say, I pictured Jenny talking about the shops, her mother and who she’d met while out. But despite having the words ready, I couldn’t seem to find the right moment to make my great speech.

  Perhaps she would start to talk about the car bomb. That might be the introduction I needed.

  I wouldn’t hold back on anything. I would be completely honest. I envisioned Jenny listening, not saying a word. As I finished she would stay silent. She wouldn’t scream at me, ask difficult questions or throw accusations. For someone who was about to discover that her husband had a secret past that would upset her life in a big way, my plan had her taking the news incredibly well.

  Unfortunately, when I did it for real, I knew it was going to be much harder.

  So, I practised my speech time and time again. I had to get it right, had to find a way to tell my wife someone was trying to kill her husband. Explain to her why I had lied about myself. I had to tell her in a way that ensured she understood and didn’t fly off the handle. And I had to get things in the right order.

  So I rehearsed again and again.

  Chapter 35

  The briefing room in the Anti-Terrorist Squad offices on the fourteenth floor of New Scotland Yard fell instantly silent as Grahamslaw entered.

  It was nine o’clock, the morning after the storm.

  Everyone present, from the newest DC to the Chief Superintendent, stood as the Anti-Terrorist Squad chief took his place at the front. His audience included members of his squad together with Special Branch, explosives officers and forensic scientists. Many of them had been working through the night. From the military there were representatives of both MI5 and army intelligence.

  Grahamslaw turned to face them all and, at a motion from his hand, they all resumed their seats.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you all know me and you know why we are here.’

  The Commander had a deep and powerful voice. He knew he could hold the attention of even the most apathetic listener. And he also knew that now was a time to use this charisma.

  At his signal, the lights were dimmed and a large video display screen started up.

  ‘What you are about to see is the aftermath of three attacks on Metropolitan Police officers,’ he began.

  As he continued, images of the abandoned Hackney lorry bomb and the Selfridges bombing were followed by the scene at Rod Skinner’s home, the burnt-out Escort van that had been later recovered and then the devastation at Big Hill. The film ended with close-up stills of two men.

  ‘Let me make this perfectly clear,’ said Grahamslaw into the darkened room. ‘These were targeted attacks against uniform police officers. The car bomb at Selfridges was a distraction to facilitate a secondary device. Last night’s bomb was preceded by a hoax call that was designed to bring us to that street. This wasn’t random, this wasn’t bad luck or a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. These terrorists have decided to kill London police officers. It is our job to stop them.’

  The small amount of background conversation that had started up as the film was showing died down as the significance of his words hit home.

  A slide showing face-on pictures of two men appeared on the screen.

  ‘Some of you will know these two but, for those of you who don’t: the one on the left is Dominic McGlinty and the other is Declan Costello. MI5 and army intelligence confirm that they are missing from Belfast. There is every reason to believe that these, and maybe some others, are the active service unit currently at work in the capital.’

  McGlinty and Costello’s pictures remained on the screen as the lights were switched on.

  Grahamslaw continued. ‘I have it on very good authority that the ceasefire is intact. These are IRA men. But this is not the work of the official or provisional IRA.’

  Grahamslaw paused for a moment, allowing the effect of his words to sink in.

  ‘You will be aware that McGlinty’s brother, Seamus, was shot dead by the crew of an armed response car last week. At the present time we have absolutely no idea where they are holed up. With the exception of the bomb near Selfridges, there have been no telephone warnings and no claims of responsibility. I now intend that all departments will brief everyone present on current developments within their sphere of operation.’

  Grahamslaw paused again and stared hard at his audience. He looked from face to face ensuring every pair of eyes met his.

  ‘My aim is simple. I want no secrets kept today. If you know or even think something, let’s hear it. I want these bastards caught and I want them caught quickly.’

  The Special Branch Chief Superintendent stepped forward as Grahamslaw sat down on a vacant chair at the front of the room.

  From the SB officer, the meeting learned that all known sympathisers and haunts were under observation.

  An MI5 officer stood up next. Resplendent in Saville Row suit and Guards regimental tie, he reported that internal Republican sources knew nothing about the current London attacks. So far as the intelligence services were concerned, the ceasefire was still intact and the recent attacks were either the work of an unknown splinter group or McGlinty and Costello were renegades, acting on their own.

  The scientists reported that they had managed to obtain only one fingerprint. It was from the car outside Selfridges that had contained the primary device used to lure police to the area. Fingerprint records were currently being searched, as were all new sets taken from arrested persons. So far, the owner of the fingerprint had not been identified.

  As the final speaker returned to his seat, Grahamslaw stood up once more.

  ‘From today people, all leave is cancelled. We will not rest until these men are detained.’

  At the end of the meeting, Grahamslaw returned to his office. He kept a percolator on the go at all times and was pouring himself a drink when there was a knock at the door. It was his number two, Mick Parratt.

  ‘Come in, Mick,’ he called. ‘I hope you’ve got some news for me. The briefing didn’t produce anything fresh.’

  Parratt had been Grahamslaw’s sidekick since they had worked together on the major investigation team covering North London. The Superintendent was a detective of the ‘old school’, exploiting informants, working every hour God sent and keeping his ear to the ground. The new breed of investigator used statistics, computers and technology to get answers. Parratt knew the best results were achieved by getting out there, on the streets. But he was also an ideas man, a thinker; and therefore formed a link between what was happening on the ground and the managerial levels at which Grahamslaw now operated. He was someone that the Commander had come to rely on. And he was also the only person who knew about Emma. Within a fortnight of his appointment as Commander, SO13, Grahamslaw had Mick Parratt installed in an office along the corridor.

  ‘That went all right, don’t you think?’ said Parratt.

  ‘As well as could be expected, I suppose. I had been hoping that somebody might come up with a gem that we hadn’t thought of. Still, it’s not often you get SB and MI5 actually turning up for a meeting.’

  ‘Not that they actually contributed much.’

  ‘No, but then I reckon these attacks caught them on the hop. They didn’t even know that Costello and the McGlinty brothers had left Ireland until we asked them to check.’

  ‘Did you get anything on the hoax call to Complaints?’

  ‘Nothing. It was recorded and we had a chance to listen to the voice, but it was heavily muffled and sounded like an assumed West Indian accent. The mobile number that the caller gave was false.’

  Grahamslaw sighed as he slumped into his chair.

  ‘You ok, Bill?’ asked Parratt.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. What makes you ask?’

  ‘Just a gut feeling. Things all right at home?’

  Grahamslaw scowled. ‘Shut the door, Mick.’

  Parratt did as requested.

  ‘What gave me
away?’ Grahamslaw asked.

  ‘When we were at Stoke Newington nick you sneaked off a couple of times to take private calls. It was pretty clear something was rattling you.’

  Grahamslaw took a deep breath. For a moment, he struggled to find the right words. He could feel his emotions wanting to surface. His voice quavered slightly as he answered. ‘It’s Emma,’ he said. ‘She wants to finish things. Her old man wants to start a family.’

  ‘Are you surprised? She’s at that age when she needs to decide before it’s too late.’

  ‘I know … it’s just … well, I’ve come to rely on her.’

  ‘What … as a regular shag, you mean?’

  Grahamslaw smiled inwardly. It was a gentle ribbing that managed to defuse the emotion Parratt had clearly sensed in the room.

  ‘No … more than that. She’s the woman I should have met when I was younger.’

  ‘Maybe, but what if you weren’t right for her? She likes you cos you’re older and wiser.’

  ‘A father figure?’

  ‘That’s about it. When you were younger she wouldn’t have given you a look-in.’

  ‘I guess you’re right. I’m just not sure how I’ll be without her.’

  ‘Ha … don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find you another hot young thing to wear out your old bones.’

  ‘Not like Emma, you won’t.’ Grahamslaw breathed deeply again. He was slightly cross with himself. His personal life was a distraction that shouldn’t be interfering with work.

  ‘So … what you got for me?’ he asked, sitting up.

  Parratt did have news. He had sent his detectives to search through the files of the officers attacked within the previous few days. And they’d turned something up.

  ‘It could be something, it could be nothing,’ said Parratt.

  ‘That’s the type of statement that solves murders, Mick. Let’s hear it.’