by Matt Johnson
‘Jen, get out of the way,’ I yelled.
Either she didn’t hear me or she was past caring. As Webb stood up straight, Jenny punched him hard on the temple. The surveillance cop was in front of me as we leapt forward, but Jenny beat us to it again. From somewhere, she found the strength to deliver a sharp side-kick to Webb’s ribs. He flew into the window and crashed through it. The last sound that Richard Webb uttered was a scream, before he crashed into the garden outside.
I threw myself at Jenny. There was a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth, held in place by a scarf. Around one of her wrists was the cord from my dressing gown. Webb had made a poor job of tying her up. As I made to comfort her, she pushed me away.
‘He’s wearing a bullet-proof vest. I could feel it.’
The surveillance cop looked out of the window and, as he did, a spray of bullets hit the outside wall and remaining glass. He fell backwards into the bedroom.
‘I’ll take care of him. You get that bastard, Finlay.’
For a brief moment, I hesitated. It seemed so unlikely that I should be taking orders from Jenny. I picked the Beretta up from the bed with my free hand, ran downstairs, out of the house and on to the drive.
There was no sign of Webb. I checked our car, behind and underneath.
‘Up the lane, I can see him running.’ Jenny was leaning out the broken window pointing away from the house. In the bright, morning sun, I could just make out the fleeing figure. I raced after him.
By now, Webb had over a hundred yards start on me but he was slowing fast. Either the fall or one of the bullets I had fired at him must have injured him. He was limping badly on his right leg. As I closed on him, he must have heard my footsteps on the gravel. He started to turn.
I raised the Glock and fired. My aim was good. The bullet struck his arm, sending the Uzi spinning away. It clattered to the ground, now far enough away from him to render it useless. The sound of the approaching siren was louder now.
Webb turned to face me. ‘Allahu Akbar, Finlay. God is …’
‘Cut the Jihadist crap, Richard.’
‘Twenty years I have waited for this moment. Twenty years to avenge my brother. Now … now what?’
Webb winced in pain. Blood covered his right hand where I had just shot him. His arm was shaking violently. Shards of glass glistened in the sun where they stuck in his scalp. With his left hand he brushed away the blood that flowed across his brow and into his eyes. He was in a real mess.
‘It doesn’t have to end this way, Richard,’ I said.
‘Shoot me then,’ he said.
I held the Glock steady in my hand, the barrel pointed at his chest. But I didn’t fire.
‘You can’t, can you?’
‘Can’t what?’ I demanded.
‘You can’t kill me. I knew you were weak, Finlay. I always did. You should have killed me the day you killed my brother.’
‘You weren’t armed,’ I said.
Webb laughed. ‘Have you any idea how much pain you caused me that day? I wish you’d shot me, I really do. It would have been better than a life wishing it had been me that died and not my brother.’
‘And now you expect me to put that right?’
‘No … you won’t. I know that. I’ve had a lifetime of nightmares. Do you know that I even see you in my dreams, Finlay? Even now, it won’t end. Even now, I’d put money that you’d try and wound me to spare my life.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ I said. Behind me, I could hear footsteps.
‘Look behind you, Finlay,’ said Webb. ‘Your little wifey has come to help, she has.’
‘Kill him,’ said Jenny. She was close to me, close enough to hear what was being said. I hoped Webb wouldn’t use her to force me to shoot him.
I kept my eyes facing towards Webb. Even now, he might be looking for a moment of distraction when he could reach for a concealed weapon. Behind him, the fast-approaching police car was now only fifty or so yards away. The crew had turned the sirens off as they drew close. For a moment, it crossed my mind that they were going to ram us. Suddenly, the police car slowed, the bonnet dipping as the driver braked hard. The tyres screeched as it started to skid, smoke pouring from all four tyres. From the passenger side of the car, an officer in blue uniform emerged holding an MP5 carbine.
‘He’s gonna shoot you, Finlay,’ said Webb.
Although Webb was tormenting me, he was right. In civilian clothes and pointing a pistol at an injured man, I was the one presenting the most apparent danger.
‘Drop the weapon,’ the cop shouted.
He was aiming at me.
Webb was standing with his back to the police car, his good arm now concealed by his jacket.
I hesitated.
‘Drop the weapon … now,’ came the repeated order, this time even louder.
‘Allahu Akbar …’ Webb said, quietly, as he moved his left hand further inside his jacket.
He winked at me and then spun around to face the police car. A second cop had now emerged from the rear seat and was pointing a Glock pistol in our direction.
Webb moved quickly. He ducked slightly, pulled his hand from inside his jacket and then thrust both hands forward as if about to fire. His hands were empty.
Both armed cops reacted immediately and instinctively. They opened fire.
Chapter 95
I stood for several seconds, staring at the motionless form before me. There was no sign of life. Thick, red blood ran in narrow rivulets back towards the house. Dig two graves, I thought. The words of Jenny’s text came back to me just as I felt her hand touch mine. Whoever thought that up knew what they were talking about. For Webb, it was now truly over.
The cops repeated the instructions for me to drop the Glock. With the danger from Webb removed, I complied with their instructions, lying face down on the tarmac as they handcuffed me and then searched my pockets. Only when they found my warrant card were the plastic cuffs cut and was I allowed to stand back up.
My guess was that Webb was dead. One of the ARV cops reckoned that he could feel a pulse. From what I could see, the sad figure lying prostrate on the tarmac only had one eye intact and half his skull lay in pieces on the nearby grass. I doubted very much if he’d survive.
Jenny clasped me to her and we stood silent for some time, unable to speak. Finally we turned back towards the cottage and she told me what had happened while I had been on the phone to Grahamslaw. Webb had been hiding in the bathroom. He’d jumped her on the landing and then told her he was going to kill me and make her watch. I didn’t say anything, but my guess was it would have been the other way around.
I tried to tell her about what Webb had claimed, about the firefight when I had been ambushed by him and his mates. Clearly distressed, she told me to leave if for another time.
As I had with Monaghan, I wondered what kind of a man could harbour such hate for so long. It wasn’t a question I would be able to let go easily. I was going to have to find out as much about Webb as I could. Even if he died, I would need to understand what had made him tick. Only then would I be able to put things to rest. Only when I understood could I put things behind me.
Grahamslaw was one of the last to arrive. He was in a chauffeur-driven Volvo and had a young press liaison officer with him. That was all I needed. As if I hadn’t stomached enough, now there was going to be press interest.
By that time, shock had started to get the better of Jenny and she wasn’t in a fit state to talk. At my suggestion, she started making tea for everyone. I hoped that keeping busy might stop her thinking about what had just happened. But I probably wasn’t doing her justice. As she had with me, I’d seen a side to my wife that I hadn’t known existed.
It wasn’t long before I managed to get Grahamslaw on his own. I was walking down the garden when he came to join me. The press officer was still in the house using the telephone.
‘How are the two ARV cops?’ I asked.
‘As good as can be expected.’
‘They did the right thing. Webb wanted them to think he was going to shoot.’
‘I know … but that isn’t what you really want to talk about is it, Finlay?’
Grahamslaw was right. There were some important questions to which Kevin and I needed answers.
The Anti-Terrorist Squad Commander was generous with his explanations. I learned about the birth certificate, about the meeting with the Commissioner and how my name had come up in the conversation. It was how the Commander had made the link and why he had called me with the warning. He corroborated what Webb had claimed about being a hired gun recruited by Monaghan for the job. But there was more than simple generosity in his words. There was warmth, sympathy. He understood the predicament that Kevin and I had faced.
‘What do you think about the snatches that Monaghan asked us to do?’ I asked.
‘Only an opinion, but I agree with what Webb told you before he was shot. Monaghan was tidying up, getting everyone in one place where he could dispose of you all in one fell swoop.’
‘And it was nothing to do with the embassy?’ I asked, wondering if there had been clues that I had missed.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘So why try and bring about a situation where Kevin and I were likely to get captured?’
‘A bit of a mystery. My Superintendent thinks he might have had two plans. One to get you nicked and, if that didn’t work, one to bump you off.’
‘Why get us arrested, though?’
‘To ruin your lives … like he believed you had ruined his. He wanted revenge, pure and simple.’
I stopped walking. ‘So, what now? Are Kevin and I both finished?’ I asked, my heart in my mouth. It was crunch time. Only now would I learn what fate Kevin and I faced.
Grahamslaw kept moving for several steps before he stopped and turned to face me. The look on his face was solemn. It didn’t look good. ‘Finlay … you and your mate have shot at a PC, conspired to kill and kidnap, thrown grenades at SO19 and you expect me not to nick you?’
‘The PC was OK, wasn’t he?’ I did my best to sound desperate.
‘Yes.’ Grahamslaw chuckled. ‘And you gave yourself away when I pretended he’d been killed. Tell me now … what would you do in my position?’
‘What would you have done in mine?’ I replied, reassured that Grahamslaw seemed amused but, at the same time worried that he was playing games with me.
Grahamslaw smiled broadly. That smile warmed me through to the very core. He stepped towards me and put his hand on my shoulder.
The next question surprised me. ‘You’re wasted in uniform, Finlay. Would you be interested in joining my team?’
It was my turn to grin. ‘Me and Kevin?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps … we’ll see.’
As we turned back towards the house, we could see Jenny through the kitchen window. She was making a brew for the paramedics who were still working on Richard Webb. She waved and smiled bravely.
The press liaison officer was scuttling down the garden towards us.
‘I suppose there’s no way we can keep this out of the papers?’ I said to him.
‘No way,’ he replied. ‘Unless something really big happens today, this is going to be on the front page. You’re a hero, Inspector. Just what the job needs.’
His mobile telephone started ringing. As he answered it, I turned back to Grahamslaw. ‘Are you married, guv?’
‘It’s complicated. You might say I’m married to the job.’
‘Kids?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a pity. It might make it easier for you to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘I’ve had more excitement in my life than most people even read about. I’m forty-eight years old and I’ve got a child and a wife that I love. I’m not a hero, just an ordinary bloke. I just want a quiet life now. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Guess not.’ Grahamslaw paused for a few moments, as if running something through in his mind. ‘OK, leave the press to me. I’ll see what I can do. Like the press officer said, though, this is a big story. It’ll take something pretty major to bury it.’
Chapter 96
Grahamslaw headed back to New Scotland Yard shortly afterwards. On the way, word reached him from the paramedics at the scene that Webb had died. MI5 would arrange for disposal of the body and would soon be over to talk to the Finlays about re-location.
He told the driver of his car to turn the radios off so he could concentrate on starting his report.
‘Thought Mr Parratt said we were going to be arresting that chap?’ said his driver.
Grahamslaw just smiled. That had been his intention. Then, when he’d seen Finlay taking care of his wife and the way they were together, he’d began to question that decision. Despite professional success, he was in a loveless marriage and had now lost the woman he wished he’d met when younger. Finlay, despite his problems, had a relationship that he envied, something he felt he had no right to destroy. Something worth preserving.
He was pleased that Finlay hadn’t seemed hostile to his offer. With his background and experience, the inspector would be an asset to any enquiry team. With everything that had happened, Finlay was dreaming if he thought he could stay in the police and go back into his old job at Stoke Newington.
On the journey, Grahamslaw scribbled notes onto a jotter book. There would have to be an inquest. He would have to find the means to justify giving Finlay and Jones immunity from prosecution. It could be done. The two men were heroes. The public interest would never be served by putting them in front of a court.
He wouldn’t have noticed if his driver hadn’t commented, but at every television shop they drove past there were crowds gathered, looking in the shop windows.
At New Scotland Yard, Grahamslaw left his driver to park the Volvo and entered the building through the front foyer. He was surprised to see that it was deserted apart from the security staff, most of whom were in a side room watching the television. It was the same in the lift area and on reaching the ‘Special Operations’ floor, the corridors outside the Anti-Terrorist Squad offices were empty.
As he dropped the notes he had written onto his desk, curiosity got the better of him. He headed into the squad briefing room, where the whole of his team were stood with their eyes glued to the television screen. There was a film showing. A disaster movie.
He looked more closely. It wasn’t a movie. It was CNN live news. A passenger jet was flying into one of the towers at the World Trade Center, the second tower was on fire.
Grahamslaw watched in silence as events unfolded. He didn’t bother to contact the press liaison officer.
The story of Robert Finlay would never make the papers.
Acknowledgements
Three years ago, as I typed the final words of the first draft of this book, I had no idea what changes it was going to bring about in my life.
Not only had the mechanics of writing improved my mental health, but the novel itself was about to launch me into a new and unfamiliar world.
I started writing as a result of a suggestion from an enlightened, forward-thinking PTSD counsellor called Jane Watling. Jane worked with Dr Sam at the Orchard Surgery in Buntingford, Herts. Sadly, I am no longer in contact with either Jane or Sam, but if they happen to read this, please accept my sincere thanks for everything you did for me.
Writing a book takes a great deal of time and effort. Not only did I learn that an author must exercise personal discipline, but that a task cannot be completed without the support of those around them. And so, I must extend enormous thanks to my partner, Heather, who has not only helped me, guided me and sympathised with me, but read, re-read, proofed, checked and encouraged, as I struggled to commit this story to paper.
My brothers, Steve and Simon, I thank for encouraging me to write and for giving me the nudge when I needed it. My mum, Maggie, I thank for being the meals-on-wheels when I needed it and my driving force when the energy levels drop
ped.
A special thanks to ‘Hawkeye’, more correctly known as Sian Phillips (@_Sians) whose ability to spot typos is so amazing.
Thanks to two special ladies, Julie Williams and bare-foot runner, Lynne Allbutt (LynneAllbutt.co.uk). All three of you listened to me, checked wording, read, counselled and advised me. You encouraged me when things were tough and I needed that help.
From the literary world, I wouldn’t be writing this if author Antony Loveless hadn’t read a first working of the book and recommended me to his agent, James Wills from Watson Little. James introduced me to Karen Sullivan from Orenda Books, who turned out to be just the kind of exciting, motivated publisher that a debut author would dream of meeting. To Antony, James and Karen I extend a special thanks.
When the editing process started, I was introduced to West Camel. A more talented and patient editor I couldn’t have wished to meet. Over the last few months I have gone through a crash-course in creative writing that has taught me a great deal. Thank you, West, for your skill, diplomacy and counsel.
I save my – almost – final thank-you for, possibly, the most important people in this equation – my readers. These are the people who have given up their valuable time to read and to review the fruits of my labours. You have reassured and encouraged me, embarrassed and humbled me. To you all, I am most grateful.
Finally, may I pay a special tribute to the soldiers and cops who I have worked with and known throughout my service life, some of whom are still my friends and many of whom are no longer with us.
And now, it’s time to return to the keyboard, as Finlay has more experiences to share with you.
About the Author
Matt Johnson served as a soldier and Metropolitan Police officer for twenty-five years. Blown off his feet at the London Baltic Exchange bombing in 1992, and one of the first police officers on the scene of the 1982 Regent’s Park bombing, Matt was also at the Libyan People’s Bureau shooting in 1984 where he escorted his mortally wounded friend and colleague, Yvonne Fletcher, to hospital. Hidden wounds took their toll. In 1999, Matt was discharged from the police with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. While undergoing treatment, he was encouraged by his counsellor to write about his career and his experience of murders, shootings and terrorism. One evening, Matt sat at his computer and started to weave these notes into a work of fiction that he described as having a tremendously cathartic effect on his own condition. Wicked Game is the result. Matt is currently working on a sequel, Deadly Game.