by Matt Johnson
The Sergeant did as he was told. Experience had taught him it didn’t pay to argue, he knew the damage it could do to his career. He replaced Hewitson’s record in the drawer.
Michael Hewitson was in a jam with no way out. Grahamslaw had spent two days trying to get that message through to him. Being woken up in the early hours to find a gun pointed up your nose was enough to rattle most men, but Hewitson had said nothing, not even so much as a ‘no comment’ to the series of questions that the interviewing team had put to him. Even when confronted with the forensic evidence he had stayed silent. There was no doubt that he feared the IRA more than prison. It was now time to let the Security Services have a go at him.
The Sergeant opened the cell door and then returned to his desk.
Hewitson was resting on the blue plastic-covered mattress that lay on the cell bench. Save for the wooden toilet seat, it was the only comfort the tiny room contained.
‘Come with us,’ said the DI, as Hewitson stood up.
Grahamslaw watched impassively as one of the detectives slipped a set of rigid handcuffs onto Hewitson’s wrist, turned him around and then locked them behind his back.
‘Can’t I have them in front?’ he asked.
‘Not this time,’ replied the Detective.
Hewitson followed as the DI led the way. A second detective held his right arm and a third walked behind. Grahamslaw trailed along, a few feet behind the group. They passed the door to the interview rooms and then entered a lift. The DI pressed the lowest button and, as the lift started to descend, Grahamslaw saw there was a look of confusion on Hewitson’s face. He had noticed the change from the normal route to the interview rooms.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
The three policemen stood, stony faced. They made no attempt to reply although they had clearly heard him. Hewitson didn’t repeat his question. Grahamslaw smiled to himself. The detectives were playing their parts perfectly. The change in tack would have caused confusion. Likely as not, Hewitson’s heart rate would be increasing as the uncertainty of his situation sank in. Until now, the interviewing officers had been quite reasonable to him. They had warned him, cajoled him, threatened and tried to trick him, but always they had talked. The silent treatment was a new tactic, something that might unsettle him and get him talking. For the first time during his period of detention, Michael Hewitson would be afraid.
Chapter 61
Once the lift door opened, the DI led the way along a long corridor. Fluorescent lighting and vinyl floors gave the MI5 floor at Paddington Green the appearance of a hospital. It even had that same antiseptic smell. Unlike a hospital, though, the corridors were quite empty. No people, no trolleys, nothing at all to indicate recent use. As the group walked along, their footsteps echoed.
Hewitson’s expression had changed again. He was starting to look nervous.
‘A man could disappear in a place like this,’ quipped one of the detectives. ‘Who would miss him? Who would even care?’
The mind games had started.
They came to a stop at a door on the right-hand side. The DI knocked. From inside, Grahamslaw heard a muffled voice and then the door was opened for them. As the group entered, Grahamslaw saw Hewitson glance at the layers of sound-proofing on the heavy door. Once inside, it swung closed with a heavy thud. It was a large room, devoid of furniture or decoration with one notable exception. In the centre sat an old dentist’s chair.
A voice came from behind the group. It was the man who had opened and closed the door. Hewitson turned to face him. Grahamslaw smiled to himself. The MI5 officer was wearing a white coat. A little extra to add tension to the role play.
‘Mr Hewitson, I presume?’ said the officer.
‘Yeah … yes. What … what is going on…? Where am I?’
The MI5 officer was about fifty with grey hair. Beneath the white coat, he wore what looked like an expensive suit and a military looking tie.
He spoke again. ‘Don’t be afraid, Mr Hewitson. I want to ask you some questions. Give me the answers I need and you will be returned to your cell.’
Hewitson was starting to get agitated. His voice rose. ‘And if I don’t, what you gonna do, tie me to that chair and beat the crap outta me I s’pose?’
The MI5 officer continued, his voice calm and assertive. ‘In a moment I will ask these officers to remove your hand-cuffs. If you would care to look at the chair, which I agree is for your use, you will note that there are no straps on it that could be used to tie you up as you suggest.’
The act was perfect. Grahamslaw was convinced, even though he knew it was a ruse. The MI5 officer exuded the menace of someone used to getting what he wanted. The tension in the room was now palpable.
Hewitson suddenly began to shout. ‘If you touch me, how you going to explain it to a court? Soon as I see a brief, I’ll tell what you did. You know I know nothing, why ask?’
One of the detectives walked up behind him. Hewitson jumped and, as he did, Grahamslaw saw that beads of sweat had formed on his face. The detective slipped a small key into the handcuff lock and gently removed them. The MI5 officer waited until the handcuffs were removed before speaking again.
‘Mr Hewitson you may use the chair if you wish. Do not be afraid. I’m going to request that these officers join me as we leave the room. In a few moments, it will be just you, this nice chair and the four walls. Make yourself comfortable. All I ask is that you answer my questions honestly. Is that clear? As for you showing the marks of torture to a solicitor, I assure you that you will do no such thing.’
Hewitson was silent and his face was tense and still, apart from his blinking eyes. The impact of the words clearly wasn’t lost on him.
The interviewer continued. ‘You will not leave this room, Mr Hewitson.’
For a moment, Hewitson seemed to panic. He glanced at the door, as if checking for a chance to escape.
As Grahamslaw exited through the door and made his way to the observation room, he felt a sense of satisfaction that progress was being made. Hewitson didn’t seem to realise it, but the skilled military interviewer had already got him talking. The use of fear had played tricks with his mind and his confidence was low. It was only a question of time before he cracked.
But Hewitson didn’t crack. Just like McGlinty before him, he kept up the front. He said nothing apart from the occasional ‘no comment’. The questions kept on coming. Where had he been recruited? Who had recruited him? Who were his contacts? Who had prepared the car bomb? Did he know who his target was? The interviewer kept at him for nearly an hour. Hewitson didn’t even seem to listen to most of the questions. After a while, he accepted the invitation to sit on the ‘dentist’s’ chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, he commented. Soon, the hypnotic voice of his interrogator sent him to sleep.
Hewitson had saved them time. As their prisoner drifted off, the MI5 officer pressed a small, green switch. An invisible gas seeped, inexorably, into the room through small jets in the ceiling. Hewitson’s breathing slowed as his natural sleep artificially deepened. He experienced no sensation of presence or pain as a hypodermic needle gently eased into a vein in his right arm. The contents of the syringe would stimulate him sufficiently to enable him to talk. As he spoke, he would now answer honestly. He would suffer no pain and would remember nothing. The MI5 officer had, at least, been truthful in that respect.
Later, when he woke up, his mouth would be dry and he would feel groggy. By then he would be back in his cell. He would think that he had fallen asleep during the interrogation and that the interviewers had, once again, given up. And he would be completely unaware of having revealed anything and everything useful that his memory could recall.
Chapter 62
In a quiet corner of the King’s Head, we could have been two dads comparing holiday photos.
‘I know that face … just give me a moment or two.’ Kevin stared intently at the picture in my hand.
‘Monaghan says he’s Iranian.’ I tilted
the photo to try and catch the light from the bar. ‘Think he could be the kid from the embassy?’
I’d started being really careful now that I knew Grahamslaw was suspicious. A pub had seemed as good a place as any to meet. Kevin was familiar with the King’s Head in Ilford and knew that its quiet alcoves would mean we could safely watch our surroundings. In a previous life, Kevin and I had been taught how to look out for surveillance, but we were ten years out of date. Technology, in particular, had improved. Truth was, a satellite could be watching us for all we knew, maybe even listening to our conversation.
Kevin slammed his pint on the table. ‘Got it!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well c’mon,’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Who is it?’
‘Well, I’m not saying for definite, but he looks more like a boy I had to do an obbo on back in the late seventies, early eighties. But if it’s him, he’s changed a lot with age.’
‘So you’re not sure?’
Kevin sighed. ‘No, I’m not. And anyway it couldn’t be him.’
‘Why not?’
‘That boy’s Irish. Thought you said this one’s Iranian.’
‘That’s what Monaghan said. His name is Yildrim.’
I was starting down the road of confusion again. I was sure Kevin was going to confirm the picture as being the surviving terrorist from the embassy. Now he was confusing him with some Irishman. This was no help.
‘I can’t remember his name.’
‘Look, Kev,’ I said, a little impatiently. ‘This is a Special Branch photo. They say he’s an Arab. Monaghan says he’s an Arab. Now start thinking Iranian Arab instead of Irish.’
‘OK, but I’m telling you. There was a young IRA kid who looked like an Arab. Black hair, big nose, thin lips. It sure as hell looks like him … wish I could remember his name.’
‘OK, Kev, I’ll tell Monaghan what you’re saying. He might be an Arab; we don’t know. Alternatively, Monaghan might be wrong … and he might be an Irishman who looks like an Arab … but we can’t remember his name. He’ll be well impressed with us.’
‘You said Monaghan gave you the photo, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Well, more I took it rather than he gave it.’
‘Funny.’ Kevin looked puzzled. ‘Even if it’s not the Irishman, you would have thought he would have seen the resemblance. It was Monaghan that ordered the obbo.’
I tucked the picture back in my jacket pocket just as the barmaid appeared to collect our empty glasses. ‘I’ll ask him,’ I said.
Chapter 63
Grahamslaw was livid. He slammed the telephone receiver down at the end of the call from his surveillance team. ‘Where the fuck does a fuckin’ inspector from fuckin’ Stoke Newington get copies of Special Branch pictures. Will somebody fuckin’ tell me?’
Mick Parratt looked up from the set of papers he was studying. ‘Ever noticed how much you’ve been swearing lately guv’nor?’
The off-the-cuff remark short-circuited Grahamslaw’s anger. It was one of Parratt’s skills, to diffuse a tense moment. It complemented Grahamslaw, helped make them a good team.
Grahamslaw laughed. ‘No, I fuckin’ … sorry … no, I didn’t. OK, Mick, so I do … Now what do you think?’
‘Someone is playing a wicked game with players outside our control. That same someone has powerful contacts. Maybe that same someone knows Finlay. Maybe there’s a leak straight from the Branch, maybe there’s a middle man. Maybe this, maybe that. Who knows?’
‘That’s a lot of maybes with not a lot of ideas. So you’re saying we have a leak?’
‘Has to be,’ said Parratt. ‘Someone copied that photo and gave it to Finlay.’
‘When I was talking to him, he mentioned that his old CO had been in touch to warn him about the ROSE files going missing. Maybe that’s the connection … to Special Branch … or maybe to MI5?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time. SB and MI5 work very closely together, sometimes.’
‘Fat lot of help you are,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘Right … let’s run through what you said on the phone. You’re telling me there are no ROSE files missing from Castlederg?’
‘Correct. There are no missing files.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I spent two days with the RUC looking at the burglary report, talking to their forensic people and such. They knew absolutely nothing about any missing MI5 files. What they actually said was that the whole idea was absurd. There never have been any army personal files stored in their Special Branch offices.’
‘So the idea that was fed to Finlay by his old CO was bollocks?’
‘Yes. Does “bollocks” count as a swear word?’
‘Christ’s sake, Mick. If you start another swear box I’ll have you out directing traffic quicker than you can fart.’
Parratt laughed. ‘I’ll go get us some teas while you calm down.’
‘You do that.’
Parratt smiled broadly as he headed for the tea trolley.
When his number two returned, Grahamslaw was once again on the telephone. He waved Parratt in and gestured for him to sit. Parratt placed two steaming mugs of tea on the desk. The telephone conversation ended, Grahamslaw lifted his mug and sipped gingerly.
‘That was Lynn Turnbull in Special Branch,’ he said. ‘They confirmed that their officer was following a known operator, codename “White Dove”, when their target met up with Costello. Luckily, the surveillance photographer was at our briefing and knew we were looking for him. He called it in but the ARV crew missed him.’
‘Pity. He’s as slippery as an eel, that lad. What’s White Dove’s actual name?’
‘She did tell me but I’ve forgotten again. It’ll be faxed across to us in a few minutes, anyway.’
‘So who is this White Dove character?’
‘He’s a known operator from Iran. For one minute, I thought they were going to say he was the surviving terrorist from the Iranian Embassy.’
‘What made you think it might be him?’
‘Something that Inspector Finlay said while you were away. It turns out that Finlay and the others were all on Operation Nimrod, the embassy raid.’
‘So, I was right about the link, then.’ Parratt swigged his tea with only a little smugness. ‘What exactly did Finlay say?’ he asked.
‘He asked me if the surviving terrorist was out of clink. He had a theory that the attacks were linked to the embassy.’
‘I can tell you for definite that the Arab kid you’re referring to is still in prison,’ said Parratt.
‘I know … I had that checked.’
‘So that blows Finlay’s theory out of the water. What shall we do, pull Finlay in? Ask him where he got the picture?’
‘Lynn Turnbull is going to see if she can work out how that picture was leaked. As regards Finlay, he might yet be proved right. If this White Dove character is connected to the group that attacked the embassy, that could well be the motive.’
‘And what about pulling him in? Finlay I mean.’
‘No, then he’d know we were watching him. If he was one of the commando types at Alma House, chances are we’d never prove it anyway. I would like to know where he got that picture, though. When we’re finished, can you contact SO11? I want a full surveillance team put on him. There’s more going on here than meets the eye. Get the technical support boys on it too, telephone tap, mail intercept, everything, I even want to know when Finlay blows his nose, understood?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Parratt, as he jotted down the list of instructions. ‘He’s trained in counter-surveillance, you know.’
‘He’s years out of date. Nowadays we can do things he’d never imagine.’
‘SB still managed to lose the bombing team.’
‘It wasn’t much of a team by then. We’d already housed McGlinty and Hewitson.’
‘Did you get anything from them?’
‘Not a bloody thing. Even the MI5 interrogator had to admit defeat. It looks like the o
nly one who knows what’s going on is Costello.’
‘Or that Arab he just met up with. Maybe Costello is just a trigger man as well.’
‘OK, OK, you made your point. Now, what about this photo?’
‘Two thoughts…’ said Parratt.
‘Give ’em to me.’
‘Well … given that Finlay still has contacts in the Security Services, perhaps someone gave him a legit copy simply to see if he recognised the Arab. Ours might not be the only investigation going on involving Costello and his contacts.’
‘Possible.’ Grahamslaw swung in his chair as he considered the idea.
‘Second idea is a bit more radical. Like you, I think Finlay and his mate are the two from Alma House. When I phoned in from Ireland, you mentioned McGlinty was trussed up like a chicken. That meant they planned to talk to him rather than kill him. In their own way, they might have been trying to find out what’s going on and who’s behind the attacks. They missed their chance, so their next target is likely to be Costello or this White Dove character. The fact that Finlay and his mate were looking at a picture of the Arab makes me think that he might be the next on their list. Maybe they plan to kill him, or maybe MI5 still think the Arab’s got the fictitious Castlederg files.’
‘Which, as we know, are not actually missing.’ Grahamslaw pondered Parratt’s thoughts as he sipped at the hot tea. ‘I go with that, Mick. Let’s think, now. We’ve got two in custody. If Costello saw the ARV trying to catch him then chances are he’s now headed home across the Irish Sea. This Arab, a known operator, is seen meeting Costello. Is he the paymaster, the weapon supplier or what?’
‘Maybe both,’ replied Parratt.
Grahamslaw rubbed his neck as he thought. ‘So what we’ve got is this: a series of attacks on former special forces men by a mixture of IRA and Middle-Eastern terrorists.’