by Matt Johnson
The Anti-Terrorist Squad forensic team began with the car. Obvious clues were sought first. They had only been going about three minutes when one of them waved the two detectives over.
‘We’ve found something we think you’ll want to see,’ said the white-overalled scientist.
‘What is it?’ asked Parratt.
‘A briefcase. Looks like the victim was planning to go abroad, there’s tickets, currency, some files and a list. It’s the files and list that I thought you’d want to see right away.’
‘Let’s see it.’
The scientist held the list up in his plastic-gloved hand. Grahamslaw knew the names. Bridges, Skinner, Finlay, Jones. All with addresses and telephone numbers.
‘What about the files?’
The scientist held out one that he had placed in a plastic evidence bag. Grahamslaw could see it was a photocopy of a police file. The type that personnel branch kept at Scotland Yard. It bore the name ‘Jones, Kevin.’
‘Are there more?’ Parratt asked.
‘Several. Do you want to see them all before I seal them up?’
‘We’d better.’
The scientist returned to the remnants of the car and came back with three more bags. They were the same types of files. At the top were the names. Bridges, Skinner and Finlay.
‘Got a name for the body?’ Parratt was hopeful.
‘John Mills.’
‘John Mills? Who the hell is John Mills?’ said Grahamslaw, turning to Parratt.
‘It’s on the passport.’
The scientist produced a brand-new British passport. He gently eased the wet pages open to show a scorched picture. Grahamslaw and Parratt studied it. It was difficult to make out the face.
Grahamslaw wanted a confirmed identification, and quickly. ‘How soon can you get the body printed?’ he asked.
The scientist thought for a moment. ‘Right away – one of the hands is clean. If you can get me a car to run the prints up to the Yard, I should have a match in an hour or two.’
As the scientist started to print the body’s undamaged hand, Parratt took Grahamslaw a few steps away and spoke quietly.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking, guv?’
‘What’s that then, Mick?’ Grahamslaw replied.
‘John Mills is a false name.’
‘That’s about the sum of it. Fake passport, false name, just what I’d expect from someone about to flee the country thinking he’s about to be nicked.’
‘Finlay?’ suggested Parratt.
‘Yes, or the new one, Kevin Jones.’
‘Doesn’t explain the documents in the car.’
‘Maybe they got hold of their own files?’
‘Or maybe it’s Anderson. They got rid of the poor bastard when he was no longer any use.’
‘Might explain the SB block on the registration number.’
‘It might … smart money is on Finlay or Jones, mind.’
Chapter 82
I got up late. Sleep was still proving to be an elusive friend. Every time my mind wasn’t fully occupied, I’d be thinking about the ‘what ifs’ again. What if Kevin and I had been caught? What if I’d been shot? What would happen to Jenny and Becky? What was I going to do if it turned out Monaghan was behind the murders? It was beginning to drag me down.
At eleven a.m., the telephone rang. It was Jenny. She asked if I was ok and then told me to turn on the television immediately.
I put the phone down, located the remote control and pressed the power button. A news reader was describing damage to a London street; the accompanying film pictured the wreck of a blown-up car. When the commentary stated that Scotland Yard were unable to confirm rumours that the victim of the car bomb was another policeman, I felt my stomach tighten and hands begin to shake. It was several minutes before I remembered to pick up the telephone.
Jenny spoke first. ‘I thought it might be you.’ She was distraught, her voice almost breaking.
I was stunned. I had to sit down before I could reply. ‘No … no, it wasn’t me … I’m OK. I know who it is though.’
‘Who … how do you know? What’s been going on, Bob?’
‘It’s Kevin. I can’t say how I know. He was on his way to confirm something today. Looks like he didn’t make it.’
‘Confirm what?’
I should have got Jenny off the phone right then. Easy to say with hindsight, but I shouldn’t have told her. If I’d been thinking straight then I wouldn’t have. But it came straight out. All thought of security was forgotten. I just had to speak to her.
‘We’ve worked it out. All the blokes that have been targeted had affairs with Monaghan’s wife. All except me. Kev was going to check this morning, he was on his way to Hereford.’
‘All except you?’
‘Yes. I promise. But there were rumours.’
‘Rumours, what do you mean rumours?’
‘Just talk. Soldiers enjoying a good gossip.’
‘Is that what this is all about? Are you telling me that Monaghan man has been killing people that his wife had affairs with?’
‘Yes … looks like Kevin was his latest victim.’
‘But … you’ve got to tell him, you’ve got to speak to him. Tell him you know what he’s doing. Tell him you never went anywhere near his bloody wife.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘What do you mean, too late? What are you going to do?’ Jenny had regained her composure, her voice becoming calm and controlled.
God, she was tough, I thought. As I was cracking up, she was getting stronger.
‘Nothing,’ I said, knowing it wasn’t the truth.
‘I’m coming over.’
She knew.
‘No … don’t,’ I said
‘I’m coming over.’ The line went dead.
I thought for a moment, uncertain what to do next.
I rang Kevin’s home. It was the answerphone. Kevin’s mobile number had been programmed into the phone that had been destroyed when the Citroen was blown up. I couldn’t remember it. It would be a waste of time ringing it anyway.
As my heart raced and my anger grew, I headed down the garden to the old oak tree. Finally, I knew what had to be done.
Chapter 83
I headed to the only place I thought it likely to find Monaghan. His club.
With the hire-car safely parked, I began to wonder how I would handle it. Shoot the bastard first or talk to him and then shoot him? I was past caring about being caught now. All logic seemed to have given way to anger. Now I wanted revenge. Bridges, Skinner and Kevin Jones had been in the wrong, but what Monaghan was doing was way over the top. He had to be stopped.
On the passenger seat sat the small bag that contained my old Beretta. Taking a deep breath, I slipped the pistol into my belt and zipped up my fleece jacket.
Within a few moments of my ringing the bell, the doorman opened the heavy oak door. Although unexpected, he recognised me immediately and politely bade me enter. I did my best to look calm. Inside, my stomach was churning.
The doorman wasn’t sure if Mr Monaghan was in, but he agreed to go and look for him. I waited. He seemed to take an age.
After about twenty minutes, he reappeared.
‘If you’d like to follow me,’ he said.
We made our way to the same opulent room that I’d met Monaghan in before.
‘Is Mr Monaghan here?’ I asked.
If you’d just like to wait here, sir.’ His reply was bland, non-committal. He said nothing more as he closed the door gently behind him.
Now alone, I fingered the butt of the pistol, checking it was safe. The feel of the metal provided me with a little reassurance. I had to concentrate, stay cool. Breathing was hard. My heart was racing, demanding that my lungs supply more oxygen. My brain was saying, no … breathe steadily, don’t give anything away. The adrenaline was winning.
The door behind me opened. I was ready.
And then in walked Commander Bill Grahamsl
aw and Superintendent Mick Parratt.
I was stunned. Speechless. All thought-processing seemed to grind to an immediate stop.
Grahamslaw looked solemn. Staring hard at my face, he spoke first. ‘Are you looking for Mr Monaghan, Inspector?’ he asked.
I could only mumble, ‘Yes.’
Feelings of confused panic started to overwhelm me again. There was a gun in my belt. I was in deep shit. I thought of Jenny. She would be at the house by now, panicking and wondering where I had gone. Becky would be at her mother’s, innocently playing some game or other, blissfully unaware that he father was about to be arrested. I wondered how they would cope. Now Kevin was dead and I would never get to Monaghan. What a bloody mess.
‘Would you mind telling me why?’ said Grahamslaw.
I moved my gaze between the faces of the two detectives, searching for a clue as to what was going on. Both stood, stone-faced and still.
‘We’ve some unfinished business,’ I replied, my voice trembling.
Grahamslaw turned away from me, sat down and indicated for me to do likewise. Again, I looked for a suggestion or hint that would reveal the reason for this unexpected confrontation. There was none.
Once seated, the SO13 Commander spoke again. ‘Your business with Mr Monaghan will have to remain unfinished, Inspector Finlay. He was killed this morning by a car bomb.’
I was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond or react. I was sure it had been Kevin that was killed. Were they referring to the same bomb? ‘The one that’s on the news?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice flat.
‘Correct.’
Stood before the two detectives, I felt vulnerable and weak. The invitation to sit down became a very attractive one. As I gripped the arm of the chair and took the weight off my feet, I realised there was no possibility of them having missed my stunned expression. I sat still for a moment, while the implications of what had just been said sank in. Kevin wasn’t dead. And where did this leave our theory about Monaghan being behind the murders? We must have been wrong. Now that my anger was subsiding, an uncomfortable realisation was dawning on me. I had come very close to murdering a man, and in such an ill-conceived and reactive way that I would never have gotten away with it. I would have lost everything.
‘Are you Ok, Finlay?’
I looked up to see Grahamslaw staring at me, a puzzled look on his face.
‘How did you find me here?’ I blurted the words out, trying, and failing, to sound in control.
Grahamslaw glanced across at his colleague. Experienced detectives as they were, my pre-occupation with my own thoughts hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘We’ve had a tail on you, Inspector. We found the address of this club in Monaghan’s briefcase this morning and when our surveillance reported that you seemed to be headed here, I decided it might be time we joined you.’
So, they had been following me. I held my tongue; I wanted to know how much more the Commander knew. The pistol dug into my back. For a moment, I’d forgotten it was there. Christ, I hoped they didn’t search me.
‘Also in Monaghan’s briefcase, we found some letters. They were letters to his late wife. It appears that, many years ago, your friend Kevin Jones was her lover.’
‘Her lover? I find that hard to believe,’ I lied.
Grahamslaw scowled. ‘As you wish, Finlay. But something tells me that you may know more than you’re letting on and, I can tell you, that hacks me off a great deal.’
‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to sound flippant.’
‘The fact that I understand your need to keep things close to your chest doesn’t mean I like it, Finlay. Shall we turn to you and Mrs Monaghan?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There was a passport in the briefcase together with a plane ticket. It was in a false name, giving every indication that Monaghan planned to leave the country. We also found other correspondence which suggested that he thought you were also his wife’s lover at one time.’
‘Incredible…’
‘Were you her lover, Mr Finlay?’
‘No … but I heard recently there were rumours … and I’m going back nearly twenty years to when I last saw Mrs Monaghan.’ My heart was slowing, my voice becoming steadier. ‘You’re saying Monaghan was behind Skinner’s and Bridges’ deaths … and it’s all been about vengeance over his late wife?’
Grahamslaw didn’t answer my question. ‘We also found a small list of targets,’ he said instead, ‘you included, and a list of safe houses that the terrorists have been using. There was a contact number for someone called SY. We presume this to be an Arab, Selahattin Yildrim. It appears, Mr Finlay, that, as I originally warned you, this whole episode is a bit more complicated than IRA bombers blowing up London coppers.’
‘So who got to Monaghan?’ I asked. My confidence was returning. The line of questioning was informative, not confrontational. And they hadn’t searched me.
‘Initially we thought it was you, Finlay. Perhaps that’s why you are here, who knows?’
‘No, it wasn’t me. So you do think Monaghan was behind the bombings?’ I pressed for an answer. I needed to know if I’d been right.
Grahamslaw sighed. ‘I think we will find that your Mr Monaghan, for some reason, chose now to settle old scores. He tried setting you up, maybe he wanted to humiliate you. If that didn’t work, the bombers would get you. Now, I’m hoping that we’ve seen the end of this mess.’
I smiled and nodded my head. ‘I hope so, too, sir.’ God, did I hope he was right. He had to be right.
‘One thing I will tell you.’ Grahamslaw sat forward in his chair. ‘But I want something in return.’
‘Ask away.’ I was feeling generous. It was if a load had been lifted from my shoulders. Monaghan had been behind it all the time. The story of the files had to have been a lie and now the perpetrator of that lie was dead. Life could get back to normal. As if that was ever going to be possible.
‘What was the part played by the Arab in all this?’ asked Grahamslaw.
‘I don’t know.’ I answered. ‘A link between Monaghan and the bombers, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. But if you didn’t kill Monaghan, who did? And why?’
I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I could have taken a guess. Monaghan had told us where to find Yildrim. The Arab would have known he’d been betrayed. Perhaps he took his revenge. I couldn’t give Grahamslaw an answer without telling him it had been me at the hotel, me that had thrown the grenades at his SO19 boys.
‘What was it you were going to tell me?’ I asked.
‘Your files – Monaghan had them all the time. Thing is, they weren’t ROSE files. They were copies of your police files. Seems there never were any SAS files stolen from Castlederg.’
The two detectives didn’t search me. As I climbed up the steps to the street, the muzzle of the Beretta still dug into the small of my back. It was another hot day. The heat of the sun warmed my weary body as I walked. For the first time in days, I relaxed.
It was time to call Jenny, time to give her some good news for a change. I switched on my phone. Almost immediately a text appeared on the small screen. It was from her. A short and clear message, it read ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves’.
She’d guessed why I had already left the house before she reached home. She was so right. What had I been thinking? If it hadn’t been Monaghan in the car then I might well now be a fugitive from the law, running from the very people who employed me. It was time to head home, to be grateful to ‘Lady Luck’ and, once more, to put the past to bed.
Chapter 84
Grahamslaw and Parratt remained silent while they watched from a window as Finlay walked down the street away from the club. Only when they had left the building and closed the doors of the SO13 Range Rover did Parratt speak.
‘That man is close to breaking point.’
‘I agree,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘He’d already worked out what’s been going on and, if he
thought Monaghan had murdered his friends, the unpalatable truth is that he wasn’t here to have a nice little chat about it.’
‘You didn’t buy the “unfinished business” bit, then?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘And he also knew more about the Arab than I expected.’
‘That surprises you?’ Grahamslaw replied, as he clipped in his seatbelt.
‘A little. I think I half-hoped to find that it wasn’t them in that taxi. Shall I have him and this Jones character brought in?’
Grahamslaw thought for a moment. As he did so, a call on his mobile telephone interrupted the conversation. It was the Special Branch Commander, Tom Williams. Checks that his detectives were doing on hotel booking-in registers had produced a name. A man known as Hassan Al-Tikrit had checked into a low-class Bayswater hotel the previous day. The Branch database had revealed it to be an alias used by Selahattin Yildrim. Arrangements were already in hand to place the hotel under observation.
Parratt listened in.
‘They’ve housed Yildrim?’ he asked, as Grahamslaw ended the call.
‘Looks like it. With that in mind, we’ll leave Finlay and Jones for now; they’re not going anywhere. It looks like we might be on the verge of capturing a major player.’
Chapter 85
The journey home was a lot easier than the one into London had been. Not only was the traffic lighter, I was feeling a lot better in myself.
It was confirmed. Monaghan was behind the attacks. I could hardly believe it of my old friend. I knew everything had pointed to him but to hear it confirmed by Grahamslaw had hurt almost as much as it had given me relief. And, most importantly, I had been saved from myself. If someone hadn’t got to Monaghan first, by now I would be a murderer and fugitive, my life and family in ruins.
I smiled to myself. Yes, I had a lot to feel grateful for.