“But why didn’t you say?”
“Because you’d have tried to persuade me just to carry on as normal. And I wouldn’t have taken much persuading. But I knew it was too big a risk. Easier just to stay away and say nothing.”
The door opened and the prison officer leant into the room.
“Two minutes,” he said, stepping back and this time leaving the door open. Tom called after him.
“Could you make that ten – or twenty?”
There was a brief pause.
“Fifteen minutes; no more.” The reply came and the door was closed again.
“Good, because I have to ask you this,” said Tom. “You were always real cagey about that incident in the Hindu Kush. Did you really have Abu el Taqha lined up for oblivion and the Yanks stopped you firing? The story gets bigger and better and less plausible the more it’s told. Last time I heard it, the US guy threw himself in front of el Taq to take the bullet.”
Jad laughed.
“The Shadow,” said Jad. “It wasn’t quite like that.”
“Why the Shadow, anyway?” asked Tom.
“The Turks called him ‘Golgesi’ after the bombings in Istanbul in 2003, which means ‘the Shadow’. There’s an ancient Turkish belief that if a man is evil enough, his shadow alone can bring death and disaster. It doesn’t stand up to close examination as a piece of folklore, because for the shadow to be there the guy casting it has got to be as well. But anyway, as you know, for quite a while el Taqha was Bin Laden’s right hand; ‘the hand that rocks the world’; reputed to be the one co-ordinating their world-wide terror campaign and also the main conduit to the affiliated al Qaeda-inspired attacks. And as such, he was almost certainly linked – directly or indirectly – to the carnage in New York, Bali, Madrid and London. Quote – the man who turns al Qaeda dreams into global nightmares – unquote.”
“Actually, I didn’t know all that,” said Tom. “So what happened?”
“It was later in the same year as Shah-e-Kot; I was with Ptarmigan trying to flush out the Taliban. To be honest there wasn’t much action at all. They were spread too thin; small groups difficult to track. Then one day we were out on patrol with a US group; overall commander was a Major Marty Kade. Good guy; newly promoted. We decided to split up into two groups – SBS and SEALS – to cover more ground more quickly, not expecting to see anything. We went east; they continued north.”
“You were still SBS then?”
“Yes, last mission before transferring across. Anyway, after about thirty minutes we got intelligence that Abu el Taqha was close by, less than a mile from our current position, but quite a bit further away for the Yanks. So we headed straight there and got there well ahead of Kade. El Taqha was down in this basin with around fifty guys; we got to this ridge above him less than five hundred yards away.” Jad was becoming agitated with the recollection. “He was standing on the back seat of this jeep, the others in a semicircle in front of him. I had a clear shot; he wasn’t moving; easy peasy!”
He paused. Tom waited.
“And… ” he said eventually. “What happened?”
“VTI, that’s what fucking happened.”
“VTI?”
“Our patrol leader contacted Kade and told him the situation. Asked him for permission to take him out. I could hear his side of the conversation. Anyway, long story short, Kade said to wait for them to arrive – only twenty fucking minutes away, they said. Our guy asked why; Kade said VTI – verification of target identity! For Christ’s sake! Too late by the time they arrived. He’d moved; no target. I nearly shot Kade instead!”
“I thought you said this Kade was a good guy… ”
“Not his fault. Never stopped apologising; he was just as pissed off as we were – and we were really pissed off. Just following orders, he said.”
“And the reason for the orders? As if I didn’t know – or couldn’t guess. Same as Tora-Bora.”
“Something similar. At Tora Bora it was – allegedly – insufficient air cover. This time, if you want my opinion, it was because they wanted one of the Yanks to get him. Show the folks back home that they were getting their own back for 9/11. Not leaving it to the Brits or the Aussies.
“In both cases, though,” Jad went on, “it was somebody behind a desk in Washington who took the decision – a political rather than military one. And who knows how many lives could have been saved in Bali and Madrid and London. Possibly none at all, but maybe also hundreds. Whatever the truth, I can’t tell you how much I regret not disobeying orders and taking him out.”
His recounting of the story had taken its toll on Jad and his mood had dipped dramatically.
“I think that’s why I didn’t hesitate to get the Bradys,” he went on. “Different scale, same principle. Remove the few and save the many.”
The door opened. “Two minutes.”
“You’ll come again?” asked Jad, anxiously, as Tom started getting to his feet.
“Of course. I’m going to keep a close watch on you from now on. Probably bring Mags next time.”
Jad shook his head.
“I’m not sure I really want her to see me in here, Tom. But I’ll leave it to you – and Maggie – to decide. Give her my love, won’t you? What is she doing with herself these days? I see her picture all over the place. Business journals, conservation stuff, human rights… She must be one of the most photographed women in the country. I could never understand why she didn’t become a model.”
“Well, she had her chance,” said Tom. “In her late teens she was offered the opportunity; really big bucks, as well. Anyway, she was in her ‘down with the sexual exploitation of women’ phase at the time and turned it down. She wasn’t always the shy, reticent weakling she is today, you know.”
Jad laughed. “I can’t imagine she’s very supportive of your new justice plans – I am right in saying they’re yours, aren’t I? Not really Jackie Hewlett’s.”
“Right on both counts,” said Tom. “They are my plans and Mags is not very supportive. In fact, that is the biggest understatement I’ve heard this century.”
Both men laughed.
“Well, perhaps the second biggest,” he added, becoming serious and showing the emotion in his eyes. “Number one has got to be what Mags said the night we found you again. She said ‘John Deverall is a very special man.’”
The guard stepped in again and then back, not speaking or looking at them but leaving open the door as a clear signal for Tom to leave. Both men stood up, Jad swallowing hard to control his tears.
“Look,” said Tom, “if there’s anything you want me to do – apart from springing you, of course – then just ask. I owe you more than I could ever repay.”
They did not shake hands this time; just repeated the long embrace. There were tears in both men’s eyes as they parted.
CHAPTER 17
Twenty-five days after his near-death experience outside the Dog and Duck, Ben Neville was taken by ambulance from the hospital back to his farm. The damage to his neck and throat had healed, but the experience had left him frail and weak. Although there were no medically assignable causes, he was now unsteady and slow compared to his previous robust self.
With him in the ambulance were one of the nurses who had attended him during the previous ten days in the recovery ward, and an occupational therapist who would be carrying out a survey of his property to assess to what extent he would need ongoing assistance, and whether any modifications to kitchen, bathroom, stairs or bedroom would be required.
Following the ambulance was a police car with two uniformed officers, which parked in front of the house, its occupants still inside, as the survey was carried out. Some time afterwards, a pink Toyota Yaris pulled up and disgorged a very large dark-haired woman in a navy-blue pin-striped trouser suit carrying a calf-skin brief case. She walked over to the police car and identified herself.
“Shaney Levenbrooke,” she said. “Mr Neville’s lawyer. I assume he’s home.” She nodded at
the ambulance.
“Hospital staff are just checking out the place,” said the driver. “Shouldn’t be long now. They’ve been in there for nearly an hour.”
“And what exactly are you here for?” asked the lawyer. It was more of a challenge than a question. “Are we to expect a twenty-four hour watch on him from now on?”
“We’re not sure, ma’am,” said the other officer. “We’ll do as we’re told, as always. We sort of assumed it was for your client’s protection.”
He looked away with obvious distaste. Ms Levenbrooke bristled, and then turned back to her car.
“I guess I’ll wait until they’ve finished,” she said, half to herself, and squeezed back into the driver’s seat.
When the medical staff had departed, the lawyer spent a couple of hours with Ben, leaving around 3.30 pm. She told him she would return at 10.00 am the next morning to accompany him to Marlburgh Central Magistrates Court, where he would be formally charged. As she walked from the house to her car she looked across at the police vehicle and nodded goodbye. The driver waved a friendly hand while his passenger looked pointedly the other way.
At 4.30 pm Ben’s GP arrived, leaving at 5.15, just as his afternoon carer pulled in through the gate to make his evening meal. The police watched the comings and goings with cynical amusement.
“Christ, you’re never alone with a murder charge, are you?” said the driver.
“Too right! If you want to be waited on hand and foot, seems you’ve got to either win the lottery or blow somebody’s head off.”
The following morning, Shaney arrived promptly at 10.00 am and knocked on the door of the farmhouse. She noticed a different police vehicle, this time occupied by two women officers, both of whom gave her a rather over-enthusiastic wave of welcome.
The door was opened by Ben’s morning carer, who had found him in low spirits but at least up and dressed and ready for his breakfast. Twenty minutes later all parties left the house, Ben finding his lawyer’s mode of transport even more cramped for his bulky and less flexible frame than she did. The short convoy of vehicles – the carer’s small 4x4, the Yaris and, lastly, the police car – bumped through the farmyard gate and up the rutted track to Settlement Lane, turning right and leaving the village.
Ben pleaded guilty to the charge of murder and was remanded on bail pending an appearance at Stansbury Crown Court in six months’ time. By 11.30 am he was back at the farm; Shaney left at 11.50, ignoring the occupants of the police car.
Jo Cottrell walked unannounced and unexpected into the Parkside MIT room exactly three weeks to the day from when DC Catherine Baxter had taken her home. She was greeted with three seconds of absolute silence followed by half-a-minute of sustained applause. All the composure she had carefully constructed before entering was washed away on the wave of sound and she slumped onto a chair, tears flowing above the widest of smiles.
David sprang from behind his desk and raced out of the office to embrace her, finding himself about seventh in line in an enthusiastic queue for the same privilege. It was worth the wait; she clung to him as his turn came and gradually retrieved her poise and dignity. There were friendly cries of “Speech! Speech!” followed by laughter as Jo waved her arms in a gesture declining the invitation.
“Well, I’ll make a speech,” shouted Omar above the rabble, climbing onto a chair. “Jo – ahem, I mean, Detective Sergeant, ma’am,” – more laughter – “we are so pleased to see you back, and if I may be so bold, you look absolutely gorgeous!”
There were cheers and whooping all round. Jo pointed to her wet face, striped by lines of still-running mascara.
“I always suspected as much, DC Shakhir, but now I know for certain. You’re a bloody liar!”
They suddenly noticed Detective Superintendent Pickford in the doorway and the noise abated. Omar dropped down off the chair; Jo turned away briefly and wiped her face with a tissue hastily taken from her shoulder bag. Allan stepped forward as she turned back to him and shook her hand, holding on to it as he spoke.
“Great to see you again, Jo. Welcome home. And just for the record” – he addressed the whole gathering – “suspending protocol for a moment, I totally agree with DC Shakhir.”
He reached forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. There were more cheers and whoops, suggestive ones this time. Allan stepped back and raised his hands.
“Right, that’s enough!” he growled. “Protocol back on again.”
The mood was perfect. Her appearance had lifted the whole group; top to bottom.
The round-the-clock watch on the farm continued for a week, after which it was reviewed in the light of there being no interest shown by anyone near the property, except for a stream of well-wishing visitors, all of whom were required to identify themselves until they became familiar to the police. A decision was taken to stop the continuous surveillance and replace it with regular drive-bys every four or five hours. This was just about sustainable up to Ben’s court appearance; 24/7 was definitely not.
Ben had not yet been told of this change as the last of the two-person shifts parked up just inside the farm gate to relieve the overnight pair at a few minutes before 8.00 am on the final morning of the watch. So – it was later concluded – what followed was simply a coincidence with respect to timing.
The officers – one male, one female – got out of the car to conduct their inspection of the grounds around the property – a task which each team was required to do a couple of times during their shift. As they set off across the yard they heard a shot from inside the house. They raced to the front door. It was locked.
“Mr Neville!” Police Constable Lisa Milner shouted as she pushed hard against the door. She was a tall, powerfully-built woman, but could make no impression on it. Her companion, PC Aidan Connor, peered in through the window next to the door, hands held above his eyes to reduce the reflection from outside. He could not see anybody in the kitchen and ran to the next window – the main living room. There was no-one there either. Lisa was still throwing her shoulder against the big oak door and shouting frantically. “Ben! Ben, open up!”
Aidan raced round the back. The rear door to the house was also locked but presented no problem. An elbow through a pain of glass and a turn of the key – still in the lock – gained him access. He checked the two rooms at the rear of the ground floor – dining room and large utility room – no-one there either – and then went to the front door to let Lisa in. The morning carer was just pulling into the yard.
They both shouted from the hallway.
“Ben! Ben! Where are you?”
“Are you okay?”
After checking out the two front rooms again, and, satisfying themselves they were empty, they ran upstairs, Aidan leading, his long legs taking the stairs three at a time. The smell from the gunshot took them straight into the largest bedroom at the rear of the house. They both reeled back and spun out through the door onto the landing, hands covering their mouths. There was not much left of Ben above his chest. He was lying on his back on the bed with his legs over the edge just reaching the floor. The shotgun lay at his feet. The force of the blast had thrown him backwards from his sitting position on the side of the bed.
Aidan slumped to the floor on the landing, his back against the wall. Lisa unhitched the radio from her belt and called in, her free hand clutching the banister at the top of the stairs for support. The carer appeared white-faced at the bedroom door and then fell forward in a dead faint without uttering a word. One of the oak panels on the bedroom wall had been pulled away, revealing an empty cavity behind it.
The following morning, David Gerrard was sitting with his head in his hands when Allan walked into his office.
“You alright, David?” he asked.
“No,” said his Detective Chief Inspector, looking up. “Most definitely not.”
“Look, it’s not anybody’s fault,” said Allan. “We couldn’t have expected the search team to start taking the walls apart. Remember, th
ey’d found and removed two shotguns and two rifles; that’s six guns altogether counting the two that were used on the night. There was absolutely no reason to suspect he would have another stuck behind a wall. So don’t start beating yourself up – or beating anyone else up, either.”
David sighed. “You’re right, sir, but so soon after the Enderbys… ”
“Don’t even think of making that link, David. Not now we’ve got Jo fully back on board. Don’t let’s risk her slipping back. This is completely different anyway. It wasn’t up to us to decide whether he was fit to be on his own. I’m not throwing bricks at anyone else, by the way, but it’s most definitely not our fault. So let’s not try to takest away the sins of the world. That’s someone else’s job.”
David managed a smile at the irreverent quote as Allan left the room. Jo slipped in after he had gone and sat on one of the chairs in front of the DCI’s desk.
“You alright, sir?” she asked.
“Everyone’s very concerned about my well-being,” he replied. “I think I’ll have to issue a bulletin or something.”
“Well, speaking for myself, what with all that’s gone on, I’ve still not had my appraisal; so my asking is just plain creeping.”
David gave a little laugh.
“Well, to be honest,” he said, “I wasn’t feeling all that great until a few minutes ago. But my two closest colleagues have just made me feel a whole lot better.”
“It wasn’t anybody’s fault, you know,” said Jo. “You could hardly expect the search team to start ripping down walls and… ”
“Hey, just a minute!” put in David. “Those are the exact words I’ve just heard from the Super. Have you two been rehearsing this?”
“Discussing, not rehearsing,” said Jo, sheepishly. “We were just concerned you might react like I did with the Enderbys. You know, ‘God, it’s all my fault’, when – like you told me – if it hadn’t been the gun it would likely have been something else. Please, don’t be a victim, sir. We don’t need any more victims… ” She paused, staring into space as if deep in thought and tapping her chin with her forefinger. “Now where have I heard that before?”
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