435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Chapter 22

  Quayle we up on a thin mattress in a cell wearing a paper suit. Groggily he opened his eyes and saw the CCTV’s red eye staring down at him omnipotently. From his prone position he saw a plastic bottle of water next to him. Untwisting the cap he tipped it up and drank greedily. Sitting up on the narrow concrete shelf that acted as a bed he glanced towards the door. It hadn’t been locked and was opened by a uniform custody sergeant, and a nondescript man in a suit. Despite his groggy condition his Spidey Sense tingled and told him the suit man was intelligence services.

  “PC Quayle, we’re going to a quick debrief with the Superintendent, then you’ll be able to get some food and rest somewhere a bit more salubrious,” said the Sergeant. He realised they weren’t in his normal Custody Block.

  “We’re in deepest Scotland, this is Milltown Crags, it was built in the Cold War, we’re currently two floors down,” said the sergeant. Quayle looked around and saw the usual spartan décor of public sector buildings. There was a steel barred door as per usual at the top of the wing. But the steel blast door that lay swung back was definitely not standard.

  “So, what are the cells used for? asked Quayle. The Sergeant whispered, “Best not to ask,” as the spartan concrete gave away to pile carpet. Quayle had heard rumours of a similar set up somewhere on his force patch, an entire Custody Suite, hermetically sealed, in expected use for terrorist suspects held under terrorism legislation, indefinitely. Somewhere safe tucked away in the country, away from the prying media and pesky civil rights lawyers. They came to a closed office door, no name plate on the door. The Sergeant knocked.

  “Come,” said a stern male voice from within. Quayle was expecting a stuffed shirt with more cauliflower than the Tesco veg aisle on his shoulders. He was in for a surprise. Superintendent Ian Hartman as his name badge told, was, well built but slim, clean-shaven and wearing the ubiquitous long-sleeved black wicking shirt and utilitarian black trousers all uniform cops wear. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew that his boots would be parade shiny.

  “PC Quayle,” he said standing up from behind his desk. Walking towards another table surrounded by informal chairs he gestured for the other two men to sit. Apart from a few pep talks whilst training, Quayle had rarely seen any rank above Inspector, let alone an Executive Officer. That was no bad thing. Most rankers only saw the insides of an office like this when the shit had hit the fan. And then they would be standing in front of the desk, not invited to the soft chairs.

  The only thing more terrifying was an appointment in ‘The Big Room’ at Headquarters. Quayle had seen the huge noticeboard at the front desk that displayed those unfortunates who were to appear before the disciplinary panel of senior officers. The results would be group emailed to everyone on the force in an electronic version of public execution.

  “Coffee?” asked Hartman.

  “Yes please, Sir,” said Quayle.

  “We can drop the ‘Sir’,” he said. “How do you take it?” he asked striding over to a sideboard where he stood in front of a marvellous bean to cup machine.

  “Black please,” said Quayle. The smell of fresh ground coffee was music to Quayle’s nostrils.

  “Don’t worry, the taxpayer, didn’t pay for the Gaggia. It was a present from the wife,” said Hartman putting the coffee cup down in front of him. “So, take it from the top, what happened the other night?” asked Hartman.

  Quayle took deep sip of the espresso and wiped his mouth. “I was double crewed with Bozza, PC Bostock, as a Tango unit. We got given Briefings & Taskings, you know the standard night-time drive about. The Sarge asked to keep an eye out for Danny Boulstridge, a juvenile nominal who’s fifteen but got a record as long as the Trans-Siberian railway.”

  “One of those odd ones who just causes trouble for trouble’s sake,” the Intelligence went to interrupt, but Hartman raised a hand to cut him off.

  “Our first port of call was Tyler Barsby. He’s on curfew, for anti-social behaviour and shoplifting. He came to the window and all was normal, till he threw a stone at me. Not hard, just tossed it underhand,” said Quayle

  “And this was where you got the intelligence on Boulstridge?” asked Hartman.

  “Yes, well I’m not sure it would be intelligence, it seemed to fit in as part of settling a grudge,” replied Quayle.

  Hartman nodded to see if Quayle wanted a refill. He nodded tin the affirmative. Hartman busied himself with the Gaggia while the Intelligence Suit put a question in.

  “So we all know the outcome of the shooting, one dead, one on life support and one unconscious. But what did you make of the incident?” he asked.

  “Well I didn’t know those facts, but thanks,” said Quayle.

  “Findley died of shots to the head, John Parsons in on a ventilator in an induced coma but is expected to pull through. Bozza is in coma but breathing on his own. They’re awaiting the results of an MRI scan.”

  “And, err, Martin, before we ask PC Quayle his opinion, I believe we should furnish him with the full facts,” said Hartman placing another black coffee in front of Quayle.

  “Okay Ian, as you wish.”

  “Well Mr Boulstridge was in fact an informant with ROCU. A year or so ago he was facing some real time for a sexual assault. Five years or more that would mean he would be doing time in an adult jail. He was shitting it. And we turned him,” said Intelligence Suit.

  “A bit low down the pecking order, isn’t he?” said Quayle. “

  Yes, but he had skills that a certain Patrick Marber, needed, procuring naïve teenage girls…” said the Suit.

  Draining his first coffee and making a start on his second, Quayle asked. “For sex?”

  The Suit nodded. “In part, but mostly as runners. A white teenage girl makes a good mule for a county lines drop. So, for the price of dropping a charge we got a line straight into Marber’s circle, but back to your take on things,” he said.

  “Well it was a set up that went wrong… Marber was aiming to shoot up mine and Bozza’s car but got Findley and John instead. I don’t know why but he was, that’s what he said before he carked it.” Also, the mob with the bats and the petrol bombs were not organic. Even the trash at Craddock Court don’t have petrol bombs on hand. In hindsight I think that the tip from Barsby was genuine and coincidental. So, there must have been another call or something,” said Quayle.

  Pursing his hands, the suit looked at Hartman as if to say, ‘should we tell him?’ Hartman nodded. Slipping a piece of folded paper from his inside jacket pocket, he unfolded it, placed it on the table and smoothed it out.

  “A call log from the OCC (Control Centre) from the night in question. Eleven minutes before you pushed your orange button. A young male from a burner mobile phone. Somehow, they knew that you and Bozza would be on Briefings and Taskings. But it went wrong when Findley and John went in all lights blazing,” said Hartman. “So there’s a leak within the shift.”

  “That makes it the Sarge or the Boss,” said Quayle.

  “Or someone who had the leverage to make someone on your shift, someone with a lot of cauliflower on their shoulders,” said Hartman.

  “Jesus, you mean Harrison got to Bozza,” asked a stunned Quayle.

  “We think so, hence his heroics in splatting Marber. And the gunman’s last words seem to suggest he was put up to it too.” said the Intelligence Suit.

  “These are big fucking potatoes, I’m not sure where I fit into all this,” said a bemused Quayle.

  “You’re an unfortunate pawn in a bigger game. But don’t sweat it. Harrison thinks he’s a King, but he’s a rook at most. We’re working for the Queen to defeat the King,” said the Intelligence Suit. Harrison was keen to run covert ops before. But …”

  Quayle swigged the last of his espresso. “So why do I end up the target of a guy with a submachine gun and if you know the play, why did you leave me in the shit?” said Quayle.”

  “We don’t want him to get wind we’re onto him. Plus, in this game
you’re a bit of a free radical. We didn’t know if you’d come across his radar. But when you started getting pally with DCI Carding it ran up a red flag. We know Carding plays a straight bat and Harrison has tried to get him to join his little club in the past. But he got a ‘no’. Which is why he’s terminal at DCI while Harrison is in the top deck. But to answer your question, he must have accessed your personal file and seen your application for Six. Thinking you were a plant he arranged a convenient end for you.”

  “So he got to Marber?” asked Quayle.

  “No, he got to the mole that’s planted or at least their comms to ROCU,” said the Suit.

  “Bloody hell, this is all getting a bit Le Carré,” said Quayle.

  “Let’s make it simple,” said Hartman. Quayle looked pensive. “At the moment, Harrison

  thinks you’re cosseted away for your own protection. You’ve got three choices, go back on shift and play our game, go back and take your chances. Or die,” Quayle’s jaw dropped.

  “Die?” Hartman diffused the situation with a laugh.

  “You’d disappear. Officially you’d have died of previously unknown complications or similar. Her Maj gives you a legend, passport and some dosh and off you go,” he said, frankly.

  Quayle tried his best to lo nonplussed. “I’m all in to taking help to take down Harrisbon but what’s the plan, supposing you have one“

  Intelligence Suit smiled. “I think there’s been enough revelations and surprises for one day. Go have a shower and some decent grub and a sleep and we’ll put you in the picture tomorrow,” he said.

  “The Sarge will show you what’s what, he’s outside,” said Hartman.

  “Thanks,” said Quayle getting up and leaving the room.

  “By the way, the Intelligence Suit’s name is Martin,” said Hartman with a wry smile.

  “See you tomorrow,” Martin, Quayle laughed.

  Outside the door, the custody sergeant was waiting. Quayle was shown to a furnished room in which there was a sports bag containing civilian clothes. Off the bedroom was a bathroom fully stocked like a hotel. After showering and changing into a tee shirt and jeans, he picked up the phone and dialled 8 as the Sergeant had s instructed him. He was shown to something of a canteen. Eating alone he demolished several plates of Mac ‘N’ Cheese washed down with Diet Ce and his tiredness caught up with him.

  As his head hit the pillow, he thought of how much his situation was like Patrick McGoohan’s character in The Prisoner. “Without any bloody balloons,” he said falling into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 23

  “This bag of tricks should help you get started,” the man said to Palfreyman, as they both grabbed the rope handle at the end of a large wooden crate off the back of a well-used Land Rover Defender 90.

  “Professional, but not cutting edge, not your backroom internet crank, but not state sponsored,” replied Palfreyman.

  Stowing the bulky crate next to three similar ones in the stone-built barn they both to[3] a breather from their exertions and sat on a low wall. From where they sat the land rolled away down to the blue of the Cromarty Firth, which separated the peninsular of The Black Isle from the mainland on two sides. A traffic bridge to traffic across to Inverness and a railway ran across the mainland side.

  From this distance it all looked like a diorama. As a backdrop were the mountains, including Ben Loyal. Some of them were still snow-capped.

  “That is some view from the office,” said Palfreyman, taking out a roll-up from a cigarette tin and lighting it.

  “It is that, for sure,” said the other man. In his early fifties of medium height and build, clad in the garb of someone who spent their life in the outdoors. Practical and once expensive, but none of The North Face stuff favoured by Yuppies who made brief forays to a muddy wood in their pristine Range Rover Evoque. Palfreyman didn’t know the man’s name, although they had worked together on and off for more than twenty years. He was just the ‘Quarter Master’ or ‘QM’ for short. Years ago, whilst burying a cache of ‘jarked’ weapons in the graveyard of a rural Catholic Church, he had said. “Just in case you ever need a name, call me Derek.”

  They smoked in companionable silence for a while. Derek to a last drag on his Lucky Strike then stubbed the butt out on the wall. Reaching into his trouser pocket he opened up a small foil lined pouch and dropped the butt in. Palfreyman crushed the end of his rollup and also dropped it in. Both men walked back into the barn, Palfreyman slid the wooden door to and dropped a steel pin down to secure it. Derek switched on the lights and revealed the interior of the barn. Of the same vintage as the house, the barn had stone walls three-foot-thick to withstand the gales and a stone floor. To one side, forming a mezzanine was a hayloft accessed by a set of wooden steps.

  “Down here is just for storage. Upstairs there’s a bit of a workshop where we can sort out the fireworks,” said Derek. Leaning over the crates he snapped the catches open on all four. “Six L1A1’s, vintage but reliable and matches any firepower Police Scotland can muster. A few pineapples for close up work and booby traps”, he said, pointing to the hand grenades nestled in straw like lethal shrapnel eggs. Palfreyman nodded his approval

  “A hundred sticks of dynamite, blasting caps, fuse wire, and a bunch of wind-up alarm clocks. You still au fait with that old setup?” asked Derek.

  “Old dog, old tricks,” replied Palfreyman, leaning over and selecting some items. Taking a Leatherman multitool from inside his coat, he jogged up the wooden steps. There was a click and a pool of light as a lamp was switched on.

  “You’ve got the time it takes for the machine, to make a jug of coffee,” Derek said tapping his much-worn Citizen Eco Drive watch and leaving the barn. Not much after twenty minutes later Derek ambled back into the barn through a rear door clutching two mugs of steaming coffee. Palfreyman was sat on one of the boxes slotting rounds into a clip/magazine for the L1A1 rifle.

  “Sorted?” asked Derek placing the mugs on another crate. “Yep,” said Palfreyman nodding and carrying on filling the clip/magazine.

  “Where is it then?” he asked.

  “Them, you mean,” replied Palfreyman. “They’re on and around the Defender, set them for half an hour, just. You’ll be needing these,” he said handing Derek some pliers” Without a word the Quarter Master jogged from the barn.

  Quayle had been awoken earlier that morning, showered and had a desultory breakfast alone. A different Sergeant escorted him to Hartman’s office where the Superintendent was busy working on the Gaggia. On the sofa, sat Martin or whomever he might be, cross-legged and relaxed. On the coffee table in what modern designers would call the ‘breakout area’ was a backpack. Not new, not old but perfectly nondescript and full.

  “Morning” said Hartman placing two coffees on the table.

  “Morning,” replied Quayle with a brief nod to both men.

  “Decision time,” said Martin looking like a cat toying with a mouse.

  Quayle to a deep sip of espresso, wiped his mouth and said “I’m in.”

  Martin smiled.

  “Good Man,” said Hartman raising his coffee cup in a toast.

  “Right, let’s get started…” said Martin dumping a dun brown folder on the table. “The outline of ‘Operation Cumberland’; purely between us here and no further, understand?” Quayle nodded doing his best to lo solemn. “Yes, I have signed the Official Secrets Act,” he replied. Both men laughed in unison.

  “Dear laddie, this operation doesn’t fall under the remit of that. You see before, during and after, this operation never existed.” Quayle nodded.

  “Burn after reading,” he said tapping the folder. “Burn it, fucking eats the ash and then give yourself an enema,” said Martin.

  “Cumberland is a dual operation – with Claymore being its subsidiary,” said Hartman. “In you’re reading you’ll see that there’s been a few half-arsed attempts at nationalist insurgencies in Scotland and Wales, the Tartan Terrorists, Sons of Owain Glyndwr and so on. But
we need something full fat to be going on. Wales can wait for now. Their National Assembly is just a bunch of windbags and Plaid Cymru is nothing to worry about. They’re too focused on having everything in Welsh, which is fine for now. Of course, when the EU funding dries up, they’ll be back at Whitehall with the begging bowl. Thankfully, they’re also divided between the Coal Eaters in the South and the Spit Spreaders in the North. As long as the dole checks keep coming, we’ll always have a welcome in the valleys. And the Spit Spreaders are mostly concentrated on hating the English and playing fucking harps,” he said.

  “Eisteddfod, therefore, I am,” laughed Hartman.