by Frank Lean
‘Do you own this place?’ he asked distrustfully. He thought I was involving him in some complicated scam.
‘That’s what they tell me.’
‘Right,’ he said with a barking laugh, ‘and I own f**king Wythenshawe Hall, not.’
Further jollity was cut short by the deep roar of the V8 engine of the long wheel-base Land Rover Defender that hurtled round the corner of the house and slammed to a stop in front of me. It was painted navy blue with a coat of arms on each of the front doors and the words ‘Weldsley Estates’ underneath. From a distance it could be taken for a police vehicle.
‘It’s fully fuelled and serviced, sir,’ Kelly said. ‘I can arrange for it to be picked up wherever you want to drop it. My number’s in the glove compartment.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
I told Clint to come with me in the Land Rover and Lee and Tony to follow us. Then I set off to Topfield Farm.
‘Will those men be there?’ Clint asked as we rounded the last curve in the road before the farm.
‘No, they can’t be everywhere at once,’ I said hopefully.
Driving along the familiar lanes brought on a risky feeling of normality. I needed to keep reminding myself that danger could be waiting round the next bend and sure enough when we reached Topfield Farm it was.
Brendan Cullen’s silver Jaguar XF estate was parked outside the house.
The man himself waved to us as we approached.
As soon as the Ford stopped behind me Tony dashed to the barn door.
‘Can I?’ he asked.
I nodded and he disappeared into the barn. I knew exactly what he wanted. Meanwhile Bren came to the Land Rover and opened my door. He punched my shoulder. I stepped out and shook his hand as it seemed like an occasion to congratulate myself that I’d managed to survive so far.
‘Dave, you dodgy bugger, where were you? I’ve been waiting here for hours.’ Bren said.
‘Why?’ I asked. I was completely mystified.
He looked haggard. The well groomed look he’d been cultivating since his promotion to the Counter Terrorist Squad had vanished. He hadn’t shaved for two days and his suit looked as if he’d slept in it.
‘Why not, didn’t you get my message? I was sure you’d want to head back home when you were told that the heat was off and anyway I need to talk to you.’
‘Hold on. What do you mean about the heat being off?’
He stared at me perplexedly.
‘Rick Appleyard should have phoned you first thing this morning to tell you that you’re no longer a person of interest in the Sir Lewis Greene investigation. Four Somalis were arrested at Sparkbrook in Birmingham late last night. They had the knife they used to kill your uncle and a video of the killing which they were about to put on the internet.’
‘He didn’t phone and there was nothing about arrests in Sparkbrook on the news. In fact there was no mention of Sir Lewis Greene at all. That’s old news.’
I felt cold. The sun was shining but I felt very cold.
‘Bren, how would Appleyard be able to phone me?’
‘Oh, I gave him the Ridley Close number. I’d have phoned you myself but I’d no chance to get to an outside callbox. I wanted you to get the good news as soon as possible. I couldn’t phone because I had other things on my mind just then such as being suspended for a breach of professional confidence and anyway I wanted to keep our connection off the radar.’
‘What!’
‘Yeah, suspended, that’s me. Twenty years service and now I’m suspended on the say-so of some freaky spook from London. I’m supposed to be leaking stuff to the Sun. Need the money to maintain my lifestyle, don’t I,’ he said rubbing fingers and thumb together.
‘Bren, nothing you’ve said so far makes any sense. We’ve just dodged out of Ridley Close seconds ahead of a raid by a squad of paramilitaries who looked very like our friends from Wilberforce’s farm. They were firing live ammo and were shooting to kill.’
‘That’s right, parted Clint’s hair for him, they did,’ Lee said.
He led Clint in front of Bren and made him bend to reveal a faint crease where a bullet had passed close to the big man’s skull.
I felt weak at the knees. A fraction lower and the bullet would have taken off the top Clint’s head. It was typical of Clint not to tell me himself. He probably thought I’d pack him off to his farm.
‘Good, isn’t it Dave?’ Clint said evasively, ‘Bob always says they’re only goals when they hit the back of the net.’
I turned to apologise for almost getting him killed but Lee shook his head at me.
‘Yeah, that’s right Jaws,’ he said, taking Clint’s arm and patting his hand. ‘They only count when they’re in the back of the net.’
Clint beamed a gratified smile. He was delighted by the attention.
Brendan Cullen had looked ropy before but now whatever colour remained in his face drained away. For a moment he swayed in shock. But he was made of stern stuff and quickly rallied.
‘Dave, I swear that when Rick Appleyard told me that about the militants in Birmingham he was telling the truth. I know you don’t like him but he was straight with me. A copper gets a bad feeling when people are lying to him and I’m certain he was telling me what he believed was God’s honest truth.’
There was an uncomfortable pause, drawn out longer than a few seconds.
I trust Bren’s instincts but my instinct of self preservation is stronger than my trust. Kick it around as much as you like but there was no getting away from the bad news that Brendan Cullen had given away my location and that soon after men arrived at that location to kill me.
It was Tony who broke the awkward silence. He emerged from the barn with bulging pockets and a carrier bag full of stuff …
‘Dave, we’ve been here about five minutes and if I was thinking of springing an ambush I’d do it just about now.’
He was right. We weren’t followed but Bren could have been.
‘Back in the cars,’ I shouted.
Encumbered though Tony was, he and Lee moved to the Ford with the speed of experienced escapees, Clint more slowly. I was left facing Bren. He looked anguished.
‘For Christ’s sake, Dave, say you trust me.’
‘With my life, Bren, with my life; but you weren’t the one who dreamed up that fairy story about four Somalis. They didn’t suspend you for leaking to the press. They suspended you so you’d lead them to me. You were being played, whether it was by Appleyard or someone else is what I need to find out.’
‘Yes,’ he gasped.
‘Follow us.’
I dashed to the Land Rover and he got behind the wheel of his silver Jag.
We rapidly backed out to the lane and formed a convoy heading towards Bollington. It didn’t make much sense to go back by the way we’d come. My Land Rover was about three hundred yards from the house and cresting the hill that gives Topfield its name when there was a thunderous explosion. The ground shook and the road moved enough to toss the heavy Land Rover into the air. It fell back onto its rugged suspension with a jolt.
I felt as if I’d been stabbed through the heart. After such a blast, there wouldn’t have been much left of Topfield Farm or of us if we’d all been standing in front of it. Six months of back-breaking labour, that’s what Topfield Farm had cost me: that and the even harder struggle before for my liberty and a normal family life.
What would I tell Jan?
The thought of her and the children gave me a surge of strength. Jan was tough enough for both of us. We’d pull through this as we’ve pulled through everything else.
I needed to put some distance between myself and the ruin of my home.
I drove on winding lanes towards Bollington and from there down the ‘Silk Road’ to Macclesfield. I didn’t stop in the market town but turned onto the Buxton Road. I followed its tortuous curves, scenes of innumerable motor cycle fatalities, until I reached the summit and then the car park of the Cat and Fiddle pub. Stee
ring the Land Rover round those bends was demanding and took my mind off the near disaster at Topfield but I didn’t stop thinking.
‘What is this, Dave, a scenic tour of Cheshire?’ Bren complained when we gathered by the Land Rover.
The Cat and Fiddle is the second highest pub in England at nearly seventeen hundred feet above the Peak District on the Cheshire/Derbyshire border.
‘Yeah, shouldn’t we be heading for the Channel Tunnel or somewhere?’ Lee whined.
‘No, we damn well should not,’ I snapped. ‘It’s one man who’s behind all this. He’s manipulating the Security Services with lies about Islamic terrorists but he’s not going to manipulate me out of this country. Lee, if you’ve had enough take the Ford and head for Wythenshawe. I’m sure your friends will hide you until the radiation starts.’
‘Chill Boss, I’m no coward,’ Lee protested. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I was.’
‘Sorry, Lee, all this running away is getting to me as well, but what I said is right. It’s just one man who’s setting this up. I came here because we can see the road for miles in both directions so we’ll know if they’re coming for us by road and if they go for an airstrike we’ve always got the pub to shelter in.’
‘Thinking ahead, Boss,’ Tony muttered, ‘I like it.’
We instinctively glanced at the pub. Built of limestone with thick walls for protection against hard winters, it resembles a bomb shelter.
There was nothing on the road and the sky was clear.
Bren began talking.
‘OK, up to last night it pressure, pressure, pressure. COBRA was in nonstop session and the planning for a major civil disaster was going full steam ahead. Say what you like about the Civil Service but there are contingency plans for almost everything including an invasion by men from Mars. Whether terrorists had taken a school hostage like they did at Beslan or blown up a stadium full of kiddies they have the response written down just waiting to be issued. Sir Garret McGarrigle, the Cabinet Secretary, was in constant contact with the incident room …’
‘Where is it?’ I interjected.
‘You’ve been in it. It’s at Manchester Airport. It’s the nearest fully-secured, comms centre to Sir Lew’s house. Bury was always a mistake for MI5. The top bods from London can be in and out of the airport in no time. That was part of the trouble. They didn’t trust Appleyard to handle the Manchester end. Once there were suspicions raised about him and his deputy, Claverhouse, they shipped other people in from London.’
‘Suspicions?’
‘That’s the way things work in Spookworld: if you can’t blame someone when things go wrong on your patch you’re in the shit. Appleyard had two things going wrong: a trusted Judge getting decapitated by terrorists and two of his own guys getting terminated. The system is that he gets the blame until he could prove himself innocent.’
‘Maybe they’re right.’
‘No, I believe him but think what you like,’ he said with a shrug. ‘The result was to put us all under a cloud. The men on the spot were suspect so DG came up with another plan.’
‘DG?’
‘The Director General of MI5, Sir Freddy Jones.’
‘That’s not really his name?’
‘It is and will you shut up for a minute?’
‘OK, but get to the point where they raided Ridley Close.’
‘I was never at that point,’ he said bitterly. ‘They kicked me out before then, remember?’
‘Go on.’
‘Jones hasn’t got an endless supply of trusted agents he can pull in. London’s stretched as it is. So he recalled a shed load of retired officers, “reclaimed assets” he calls them. Talk about Dad’s Army, half are on Zimmer frames and the rest have sticks but McGarrigle and Jones reckon they’re trustworthy and they began converging on Manchester just as fast as their invalid buggies could get them there. Some of these guys date from an era when ordinary police were expected to approach the Security Service on bended knees. Their idea of co‑operation is to ask you to make them a cup of tea while they get on with the serious work.’
‘Tough!’
‘It bloody well was. The big idea was that a terror strike against children was imminent …’
‘MOLOCH.’
‘That’s right, these guys are all well schooled in the Old Testament and they had us shutting down or investigating every public event involving more than thirty children right down to kiddies dance displays. They were on the point of shutting the schools. That is until they nabbed the Birmingham cell. Then it was …panic over … start the blame game.’
‘Bren, there is an attack but it’s nothing to do with an Old Testament god and it’s very much not over.’
38
Friday: 11.00 a.m.
‘What?’
‘Lew’s word, the clue he spent the last seconds of his life scratching out, wasn’t MOLOCH it was M.O.Lochhead and the bastard behind all this has used the suggestion about the Old Testament god to divert your whole team from discovering that fact.’
He looked unconvinced.
‘Nice one Dave, so who’s this Lochhead?’
‘It’s not a person but the name of a company,’ Tony said, ‘at least according to this.’
He held up his iPhone.
‘I Googled Manchester warehouses and here it is … M.O.Lochhead and Sons, established 1945, warehousing. They have a warehouse near Oldham Road.’
Bren still wasn’t jumping for joy.
I took out Lew’s notebook.
‘It’s all in here. I found the woman claiming to be April Fothergill and got Lew’s notebook off her. The name Lew wanted to give me was M.O.Lochhead. He never knew who the head of the conspiracy was, at least not until the bastard murdered him.’
‘Dave, I don’t believe this. They’ve got the guys in Sparkbrook for the terrorist plot but nothing’s ever simple with you is it? First there’s a mysterious Mr Big with his name in a missing notebook and now it’s a warehouse company in a sleazy part of Manchester.’
‘Sleazy part of Manchester, weren’t you born in Gorton?’
‘So what? The Moloch enquiry has closed down apart from those involved in nailing the bent coppers who leaked to the press,’ he said bitterly.
‘Bren, there’s a lot more evidence if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen. It’s all here in the notebook. Lew told a guy called Alban Pickering, a high up in the Secret Service about this …’
‘Did you say Alban Pickering?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been on a watch list to be arrested since last Thursday.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s suspected of being too close to the Islamic militants and of being the one who facilitated the MOLOCH boys. He worked for MI6 in Kenya and the Horn of Africa and they think he went native.’
‘Suspected? Suspected by the same people who think you’re bent? Who are they?’
‘Dave, they don’t consult me about these things. High ups.’
‘Well, they’re wrong. Alban Pickering was a trusted friend of my godfather. He was checking this warehouse out on Monday morning and his wife hasn’t heard from him since.’
‘He’s probably been picked up. They don’t always tell the next of kin immediately.’
‘You’re so stupid! Do you think I just invented the story about the paramilitaries who came round to Ridley Close and started shooting as soon as they saw me?’
‘Now you mention it you’ve been known to exaggerate before now. Admit it. They were probably guys from MI5 who wanted your slant on how Jeremy Myers and Idwal Morgan came to a sticky end. They still have a theory that Clint here somehow used his strength to force the security van off the motorway.’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘No, it’s not. The back of that van had been forced open by someone of abnormal strength.’
‘What about Claverhouse? She was there.’
‘Claverhouse … Shmaverhouse! I told you, she and Appleyard are about to be shat
upon from a great height.
‘It’s all in here Bren, read it!’ I said thrusting the notebook at him.
He gave me an odd look but went to his car and began studying the notebook.
At one point he took out a mobile and phoned someone.
‘Dave, what if he’s phoned that hit squad?’ Tony asked.
‘I trust him with my life.’
‘What about our lives?’ Lee growled.
‘Them too.’
Bren got out of his Jag. He took a blue LED light strip with the word POLICE from the back of the car and clamped it on the roof. When he plugged it in it started flashing. So did Bren, transformed from the defeated and harassed individual I’d met at Topfield: energised, determined.
‘Right, they stay here,’ he said, pointing at my three companions. ‘This is a job for professionals. That means me and my lads. The bastards sent them home, same as me.’
‘Surely you can get official help?’
‘No, I told you, I’m suspended, a pariah.’
‘There must be some way.’
‘Dave, there’s no point me trying to get help from the Counter-Terrorism Unit. The boss there, Detective Chief Superintendent Blenkinsop, is the one who suspended me and HQ isn’t taking calls from me.’
‘Give him the new information.’
‘He won’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe it myself.’
I realised then what Bren’s game plan was. He intended to break the case himself and take the credit.
‘Do you believe it?’
‘Yeah, I don’t think even you would forge the stuff in this notebook. So it’s down to me … Caesium-137. You can come, Dave, as everyone seems so anxious to meet you.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
He was running at maximum revs and missed my sarcasm.
‘My lads will get together and meet us at the Lochhead warehouse then we’ll see who sorts this thing out: the police or Sir Freddy Jones’ pensioners.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said grabbing his arm. ‘Not so fast. I want that notebook back.’
‘Police evidence, Dave and also my insurance policy if this thing goes pear shaped.’
‘Well, you might say thanks,’ I said hotly. ‘You were telling me I was delusional a few minutes ago.’