by Matt Johnson
‘Yes. Probably a sleeper who’s been here for years.’
‘And where is he?’
‘According to the OP, he’s still at the house in Kentish Town.’
‘Brilliant, just brilliant,’ Grahamslaw continued. ‘So now, having lost Costello, we can assume that there is a bomb somewhere in London, waiting to explode.’
Grahamslaw saw the SB Commander’s face redden. ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’ The red face turned to a glare as he caught the eye of Rob Evans, the Detective Inspector in charge of the surveillance team.
‘Where did you lose them again?’ said Grahamslaw.
‘Just outside Potters Bar.’
‘Right, now for the other little surprise you’ve sprung on me. Who were the two gunmen on the landing when our SO19 firearms team arrived and what the hell happened to the police helicopter?’
The SO19 Chief Inspector coughed, as if having something to say but not the confidence to say it.
Grahamslaw was getting impatient. ‘Come on man, out with it, let’s hear what you have to say.’
‘Well, sir, my men believe they were Special Forces, or maybe Security Service. The accuracy with which my officer was shot … the speed of their departure and the way they abseiled down to ground level, they were professional – very professional – we think they were an assassination team.’
‘How many hitmen put their victims in straitjackets before they shoot them?’
‘Er … yes, sir,’ coughed the Chief Inspector, his face flushing at the obvious error. ‘A snatch team, perhaps?’
Grahamslaw sighed and took a seat. His anger was subsiding. He knew haranguing his team wasn’t going to get results.
‘How is the shot PC?’ he said, still stern, but in a calmer tone.
‘He’ll be fine. Just bruising and a bit shaken up.’
‘Good. Now perhaps you can tell me how these hitmen, if that’s what they were, got in without us seeing them?’
The question was met with silence. Grahamslaw paused, his chin rested on the fingertips of his clasped hands. ‘What do you think, Tom?’
Commander Williams spoke guardedly. ‘Who knows? If they were Secret Service a covert entry shouldn’t have presented them with too much of a problem. It’s well known that MI5 have operatives inside Special Branch. There might well have been an arrangement for someone to turn a blind eye.’
‘That might also explain how they got away so easily.’
The SO19 Inspector present raised his hand.
‘Speak, please,’ said Grahamslaw.
‘They had help,’ he said.
‘Explain.’
‘You asked about the police helicopter? It was in the air above the flats. The crew saw the suspects jump off the roof on their infra-red camera. They were following them when another helicopter pulled across their path.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Definitely. Our pilot says it was a military-type Sea King. He lost sight of it in the darkness so we’ve no idea where it went.’
‘And when the two men reached the ground, what happened to them, then?’
The Chief Inspector shrugged. It hadn’t been a good night for any of them.
‘It makes you wonder just exactly what is going on doesn’t it?’ said Grahamslaw.
It was Tom Williams’ turn to speak. ‘You mean, Bill, did our attempt to arrest McGlinty get in the way of an MI5 abduction?’
The SO13 Commander paused for a moment. ‘Tom, I think there is something that we need to discuss … privately.’
The SO19 officers and Special Branch Inspector took the hint and filed out of the office.
Once they were alone, Grahamslaw continued. ‘Right Tom, let’s hear it. What makes you think MI5 are involved here?’
‘Is Mick Parratt about?’
‘He’s over in Ulster checking on something for me.’
‘Ah … OK. It’s just that I mentioned my theory to him a day or so ago. Well, it’s more a hunch than a theory.’
‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘OK, let me run this past you. Did you know that all these recent attacks have links to former Special Air Service personnel?’
‘How’s that then? Bridges and Skinner were soldiers but not SAS,’ Grahamslaw bluffed, keen to learn what the SB man knew.
‘According to my sources, both were SAS. Bridges was a Sergeant and Skinner a trooper.’
‘But where’s the connection to the Stoke Newington bomb attack? Neither of those men was even in the army.’
‘The Inspector was – the one who should have been duty officer but was late for work.’
‘Finlay?’ So, Grahamslaw thought, he wasn’t the only one working the SAS line of enquiry.
‘You know him?’ The SB Commander raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, I’ve interviewed him.’
‘What did he have to say?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Hardly surprising. You can bet that he’s worked out what’s going on, though. He’s ex-SAS as well.’
Grahamslaw slammed his pencil down on the table as he maintained his pretence at being surprised. ‘I bloody knew there was a connection. So, where does the MI5 involvement come in?’
‘MI5 have taken over the Castlederg enquiry. Files stolen from there contained the names of retired Security Service people, possibly SAS as well. Suppose MI5 wanted those files back before too much damage was done? What better way than to capture the one man who is using the information that those files contain.’
‘Well, we have McGlinty at Paddington, and, as we speak, I’ve got people out looking for Costello. Suppose we ask them?’
‘They won’t say ’owt. Ever heard of the ROSE office?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, the MI5 director that looks after that office is an old friend. I’ll speak to him. He might let me know if they have an operation working in tandem to ours.’
‘This is getting messier by the minute. So MI5 miss their target, and working on your theory, the bomb the remaining terrorist has been off to plant will have been targeting another former SAS man.’
‘Or another go at someone they missed…’
A penny dropped. Grahamslaw sat bolt upright. ‘Where did you say you lost the tail?’
Williams answered quickly. ‘Potters Bar.’
‘That’s on the A1, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, near the M25, A1 interchange.’
Grahamslaw picked up the phone and dialled. As he waited for a response he spoke. ‘I know where the bombers were heading and I only hope we’re not too late.’
The phone was answered. ‘Ops … good, Grahamslaw here, get on to central records. Get me Inspector Finlay’s home address and phone number, bloody urgent, and before you call me back get a bomb disposal officer and send him up to my office … and get an SO19 team. When you get Finlay’s address send them there … and hurry, man, hurry, it could be a matter of life and death.’
Grahamslaw was breathing heavily as he replaced the receiver.
Williams spoke again. ‘You think they’re going to have another crack at Finlay?’
‘Damn right I do. He lives near the A1, north of Potters Bar. I only hope we’re not too late.’
‘What do you want us to do about Costello and Hewitson?’
‘As soon as Costello appears on the radar, have him lifted. If Hewitson leaves his home then nick him too. I’m tired of pussy-footing around with this, trying to work out why this and why that. With the flat sealed, forensics will give us what we need to get them to the Old Bailey.’
‘We might force Costello to go into hiding.’
‘Don’t you worry, we’ll find him.’
Williams stood, ready to leave.
Grahamslaw raised his hand to stop him. ‘Before you go, Tom, what do you know about the Arab kid that survived the Iranian Embassy? You know, the one that the SAS were caught trying to take back into the building.’
‘Last I heard, he was rotting in prison.’
‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Do you think he’s involved in this?’
‘Not really. It’s just another line of enquiry we were looking at.’
There was a knock at the door. It was the Bomb Disposal Officer.
Chapter 51
With the body armour and respirator safely stored, I opened a beer and sat down at the kitchen table. As the cold liquid hit my tongue, I felt myself start to relax for the first time in many hours.
Our escape from Alma House had been a slow one. With no cars of our own, no late-night trains and no cash for a cab, we had been forced to use the only means of transport we had available, our legs. It was a long time since I had walked so far.
Kevin and I split up as soon as we were clear of the Hackney area. After that, I shoved all my kit into a black bin-liner that I acquired from a rubbish bin and then headed north out of London. I used the side streets to avoid patrolling police cars and only once I reached the M25, did I allow myself the luxury of a rest.
Good fortune lent me a hand at a set of traffic lights when I spotted a flat-back transport lorry that I knew would be heading to a depot about five miles from the cottage. I jumped on the back and enjoyed a fast, if rather chilly trip of about twenty miles that ended up with me reaching home before dawn.
All that remained now was to conceal the hardware. As I ran the cleaning rod through the barrel and polished the oil from the exterior of the weapon, my thoughts returned to the landing at Alma House.
I just couldn’t get my head round what had happened. It was a complete disaster. I wondered where the hell the SO19 boys had come from and whether their appearance had been a coincidence. Had we been set up? Who could have known we were going to be there? I was also worried about the PC I’d shot at. If I’d badly hurt or even killed him, both Kevin and I were in deep shit.
Breaking the news to Jenny wasn’t going to be easy, either. Tough cookie though she was, she’d been relying on me. I’d hoped to get this over with quickly and now we had cocked it up.
As soon as I’d got home, I checked the TV and radio news. There had been nothing said about a policeman being shot or about the raid. There wasn’t even mention of a terrorist being arrested. That seemed a little strange. Normally the police press bureau would be keen to get good news like that into the papers.
I didn’t have a clue what to do next.
The telephone disturbed my thoughts. I checked my watch. It was still before six. Who the hell would be calling me at such an early hour? I picked up the receiver slowly. If it was Jenny, I didn’t know what I’d say.
‘Finlay?’ The voice was deep, familiar.
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘Commander Grahamslaw. I’m relieved you’re an early riser. Stay on the phone while I get someone to speak to you.’
My heart sank. The game was up. Grahamslaw knew it had been us at Alma House. This was probably going to be a hostage negotiator who was about to persuade me to come out without a fight. I cursed both my luck and my stupidity for hiding the weapons at the cottage. Still, it was too late now.
‘Inspector Finlay?’ the voice of the negotiator, I guessed.
‘Speaking.’
‘We’ve met, Finlay. Northern Ireland, more years ago than I care to remember, this is Rupert Reid.’
Rupert Reid. It was the kind of name that was difficult to forget, and Reid was the kind of man you would never forget. The biggest, burliest and hairiest bomb-disposal man the army had ever seen. What the hell was he doing on the phone?
‘Rupert, what’s going on?’ I asked. ‘You’re not quite who I expected to be speaking to.’
I felt myself relaxing. The adrenaline surge at the fear of discovery began to subside as I lowered myself into the armchair. My legs felt very weak. There was no negotiator, no firearms team at the door. There was time to put right the mistakes before awkward questions were asked.
‘I’ll get straight to the point, Finlay. Last night, Special Branch lost a suspect carrying a bomb at Potters Bar. The man was heading north. We’re working on the assumption that the device has already been planted.’
‘In my house?’
‘Or your car. Most likely the car, based on what they’ve done so far.’
‘And I’m the target?’
‘Got it in one.’
I took a deep breath. For some crazy reason, I felt quite calm. I guessed it was the mixture of relief that I wasn’t about to have my collar felt, coupled with the realisation that the terrorists quite possibly had my home address. The sense of foreboding disappeared; it was fear that had caused it. And now that fear had become a reality. Now I knew what I was facing. And, with a collection of weaponry sitting in my kitchen that could have seen me looking at a long prison sentence, luck had bought me some time.
‘OK, what do you want me to do?’ I said.
‘There’s a team on its way to you now. I’ll be right behind them. But first things first: have you touched your car this morning?’
‘No, it’s on the drive unlocked. Do you want me to check it?’ I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn’t already used the car.
‘Yes, keep the line open. You know the drill, look, don’t touch.’
I placed the receiver gently on the table.
In the kitchen, I quickly wrapped the MP5 in a towel and placed it in the holdall. I then ran down the garden and out into the field. A short, fifty-metre sprint and I’d reached an oak tree that had been killed by lightning several years before. I carefully levered a section of the hardened bark away with my fingertips to reveal a hide that I had hollowed out in preparation for just such an occasion. It was large enough to conceal the holdall and more. With the bark wedged back in place, the tree’s secret was superbly hidden.
As I jogged over to the car, I checked around for any clue, such as a gate left open, a broken fence, anything to indicate unwelcome visitors. There was nothing. I didn’t really expect there would be. And the Citroen was as dirty as ever. The dust from local combine harvesters covered every outside surface at this time of year.
Returning to the cottage, I took a small mirror from the bathroom and a torch from the kitchen. Outside, I used them to look behind the wheels and around the wheel arches. It was a stretch, but I just managed to see around the petrol tank and under the driver’s seat. Again, there was nothing.
As I stood to pause for a moment my eyes were drawn to the sill beneath the driver’s door. There were marks in the dust. It looked as though someone had been under the car and had used the panel below the door to pull themselves out. Dust covered the whole car bar those marks. I swore.
Rupert was waiting on the phone. ‘Find anything?’
‘Can’t see a device, but someone’s been under the car, finger marks left in the dust, clear as day.’
‘Right, I’m on my way. You’d better start evacuating the area, old chap. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.’
‘Not much point in evacuation, Rupert, I’m pretty isolated here, as you’ll see. Still, I’ll keep out of the way.’
I checked the house for signs of entry. As I searched I also made sure there were no clues pointing to my own activities. The last thing I needed would be for the approaching search team to unearth something I would have the devil’s job explaining.
Within a few minutes, a distant siren signalled their approach.
Chapter 52
A specialist search team arrived, along with officers from the local Hertfordshire police. I recognised our community PC, posted for the day on the local response car. Also in attendance were his Sergeant and a couple more PCs, wearing the blue shirts of the local force. They set about cordoning off the cottage with ‘POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS’ tape. I was ordered behind the cordon and told to wait about two hundred yards from the cottage.
It was now getting light, the first rays of sun appearing over the eastern horizon to announce what looked like a pleasant, sunny day.
From where I stood, I could just make out the little yellow Citroen parked on the driveway. The bright colour of its paintwork contrasted strongly with the subtle shades of green and brown that dressed the surrounding countryside. The scene looked very peaceful, a pleasant watercolour that probably concealed a dreadful horror.
Rupert Reid arrived about twenty minutes later. As he climbed out of the passenger seat of a shiny grey Range Rover, he greeted me like a long-lost friend, grabbing my hand and shaking it firmly. Easily six feet four and twenty stone, Rupert was a bear of a man. He wore a full beard and, from what could be seen poking out from the edges of his shirt, every other part of his body was covered in similar hairy growth.
‘Failte duibe,’ he said in Gaelic.
I’d picked up a bit of the lingo in Ireland, just like I’d picked up a little of several languages I’d experienced in other parts of the world. It wasn’t sufficient to be confident, but enough to get by.
‘Welcome to you, too, Rupert,’ I answered.
As he started to pull off his civilian clothes and change into his working kit, Rupert got straight down to business, asking me to describe the layout of the cottage and where the car was parked.
As we were talking, the SO19 firearms officers arrived. Armour-clad policeman carrying MP5s and shotguns emerged from the rear of a white Dodge van. In a few moments, black figures were sprinting towards positions surrounding the cottage.
I crossed my fingers and watched as Rupert’s driver helped him to dress. Soon, heavy-weight armour covered his whole body. A helmet sat on the car seat for his head and face. He saw me watching him.
‘Bugger all use up close, old son, but good enough at a distance.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t blow up my car at all, Rupert.’
‘You’ve got another one, haven’t you?’
‘My wife’s got it. She’s taken our little girl to her mother’s.’
‘Wife indeed? Reid roared, his amusement obvious. ‘Well, well. One of the greatest charmers in the British Army married at last, never thought I’d see the day.’
I smiled. I knew I’d had a reputation. Mostly, it wasn’t deserved. ‘She’s quite a girl. You’ll have to meet her.’