No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  The images of the shooter aiming at her kept coming in front of her eyes as soon as her mind stopped thinking. She had called the SFO director late last night; she had explained the interference as she had decided to call it. An attempt on her life sounded too grand or perhaps too scary. The long silence that had followed her account of events had said it all. It was up to her to decide whether she wanted to go ahead. “I’ll support you in whatever you do,” he had said.

  No “your life matters more than a bloody case”, not that the SFO director would have sworn in front of his staff.

  Marissa was ready for work and time was moving on. She could not quite bring herself to go out and make the call.

  “It must be shock,” Marissa grumbled.

  The intense determination she had felt last night had been replaced by a sluggishness she did not know herself capable of. Her mobile rang. Nancy’s name flashed on the screen. Always there when you needed her. Marissa held back a sob. The mobile went to voicemail. But as Nancy’s name disappeared from the screen Marissa felt the urge to speak to someone. She rang back.

  Marissa didn’t have to say much to Nancy before her former mentor suggested coffee and a chat. As she was about to leave, a young woman stood in the hallway. Marissa had almost forgotten the presence of the young police officer who had been dispatched for her protection. She stopped Marissa, reminding her she would be calling for a car to drive her to wherever she needed to go. The car arrived and Marissa was asked to sit in the back. She did not know what to say to her police escort. The young woman was now speaking to the driver about the best route to take, avoiding traffic or slower roads. Marissa turned her face to the window and absent-mindedly watched the scenery go by.

  The Groucho Club was buzzing at breakfast time: artists, TV producers, aspiring young and not so young actors, were huddled into groups, joking and whispering in a conspiratorial manner. It certainly was colourful. Marissa felt a little out of place with her plain black suit, white shirt and severe haircut. Nancy waved at her from a table in the Brasserie.

  “Thank you so much, Nancy; you’re always here when I need you.” Marissa said as she sat down.

  “The least I can do. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m not sure.” Marissa hunched over the small table. “Last night I was so certain; now I’m not so confident. I’m not frightened, which is odd too.”

  “You’re still processing what happened.” Nancy laid her hand on Marissa’s arm and squeezed gently. “We can simply have breakfast without talking about it.”

  “No. Well, I’d love a coffee but I also need to discuss options.”

  “You mean yours as well as Mark Phelps’?”

  Marissa wriggled on her chair, a direct question but to the point. She waited for the coffee to be served.

  “These people won’t stop at anything.” Marissa’s eyes had darkened and her voice had acquired a new hard edge.

  “I agree, but the real question is – will the fact that you stop working on the case make any difference to the outcome?”

  Marissa stopped stirring her coffee and looked at Nancy in surprise. “Are you saying Mark will remain a target for the rest of his life?”

  “That is part of the problem. We can’t be sure, but can we take the risk?” Nancy said.

  Marissa liked the “we”.

  “If it were the mafia, we would know what to do, but here we are in uncharted territory.”

  “I’d say these people are worse than the mafia.”

  Marissa’s hand wobbled and she put her cup down. “Mark has been outed anyway as a whistle-blower. He is protected but the harsh truth is that he will lose his job. Bank X is probably shredding documents as we speak.”

  “He is almost certainly past caring about his job by now. It is more a question of survival.” Nancy’s calm and ability to dissect a case had always impressed Marissa.

  “The only hope is to find out quickly who is behind the Panama structure. Then enrol Mark and his family in the witness protection programme.”

  “And we are back now to the thorny question surrounding Henry Crowne’s involvement.”

  “Mark has not made contact by the way.”

  “But does he know what happened to you?”

  Marissa drank some coffee; her face lit up, a little bit of goodness in a cup.

  “Not yet. But I will tell him,” she said, unhappy at her own procrastination.

  “It might —” Nancy shook her head, “No, I think it will make a big difference.”

  “Don’t you think he will be even more reluctant?”

  “Mark hesitated when I spoke to him – only once, but he did. I think the rational part of him wants to use Henry.”

  “But why would the incident …” Marissa drank a little more coffee, “…of last night, convince him?”

  “The only way to take some pressure off his family is to find the ultimate owner of the funds and even, perhaps, the people who are also funding the terror cell.”

  “Nancy, that is the huge leap. Do you really think he will think about it?”

  “My guess is he has been spending all this time thinking of the permutations. He will not rest until his wife is avenged. He trusts you and needs you to help. With this latest attempt the pressure has escalated. He can’t afford to make the wrong call and I think he knows it.”

  “Even if Mark is concerned about me, I am not so concerned about myself.”

  “This is why he trusts you. He also knows you will respect his decision.”

  “The SFO director will bypass me. I realised this last time I spoke to him.”

  “I can imagine.” Nancy topped up her cup of tea. “Does Mark really need to know you are working with Henry?”

  “Of course, I could keep it from him.” Marissa frowned. “It wouldn’t be honest though.”

  “Mark only needs to see the outcome of Henry’s findings. He has already given us all the information Henry needs. So what difference does it make if Henry works on it without Mark knowing?”

  “I suppose it could work.”

  “As long as you still want to take the case on.” Nancy said with a kind smile.

  Marissa sat back in her chair, drinking her coffee in small gulps.

  “The time for hesitation is over. I’m in. I won’t let the bastards get away with it.”

  “Quite positive?” Nancy asked, her face now serious.

  “It won’t be another BAE Systems.” Marissa finished her cup. Time to resume her work at the SFO.

  * * *

  The small queue for breakfast moved rhythmically: tray, plate or bowl, eggs or porridge, toast with a very small piece of butter wrapped in foil, marmalade or jam. Gone were the days of luxurious breakfasts at the Four Seasons Hotels or the Shangri-La, an endless choice of foods catering to international tastes.

  Henry shuffled with everybody else. Kamal would want to speak, he thought. Henry had not given any dates confirming when he was meant to be let out but a substantial delay would alter his credibility or, worse, affect Kamal’s plan. Henry scooped a couple of greasy eggs onto his plate, chose two pieces of toast that seemed edible. He poured tea into a plastic mug and sat down at a table from which he could watch the crowd moving in and out of the canteen. One of Kamal’s latest recruits appeared at the end of the line. He started shuffling too: eggs, toast, tea. He walked to a table close to Henry’s and sat down so that he was facing him. He ate his breakfast slowly, observing the other inmates who chose to sit away from him. This seemed to suit him. The young man glanced at Henry a few times.

  A couple of officers sat in the room. There was never any privacy at HSU Belmarsh. Henry was just about finished and expected not to hang around. He saw the young man drop the flimsy paper napkin that came with the cutlery to the floor. Henry stood up and moved towards the conveyor belt for trays. As he wal
ked past, he told the young man about the napkin; he bent down to pick it up, thanking Henry. This is what the guards saw.

  “When does he want a chat?”

  “Library, this afternoon.”

  It was all Henry needed to know.

  * * *

  The library had just opened. Henry had taken a seat at the small desk, opened the box containing index cards for books borrowed and returned using a key the officers had given him. He was waiting. The library opened every day for a couple of hours with a rota of librarians picked from a list of “suitable” inmates. Henry was alone for the first fifteen minutes. He stood up, went around the bookshelves. No new books had arrived. He went on to a small window, the pane of glass was opaque and thick but it was the closest he would get to daylight. He had not heard from Nancy although the post was late yet again and had not arrived before he had to leave his cell.

  A couple of inmates entered. Only a limited number of people were allowed into the library at any one time. It was all very efficient; inmates wanting to use the library would take a number and wait until their number flashed up on a board. They were allowed fifteen minutes inside, no longer.

  “Cashier number five,” Henry murmured with a tired smile. The anger of the previous night had sapped his energy. He just wanted to have a quiet day, but Kamal might have other plans.

  Inmates picked up books. Henry filled in the cards. They left.

  Uneventful. Perfect.

  The clock was moving forward; a few more inmates came and went.

  Henry walked out of the library to pour himself a glass of water, looking down the corridor in a nonchalant way. Only twenty minutes left before the library closed. Irritation had been replaced by anger and, more worryingly, doubt.

  Did Kamal know something Henry did not?

  Henry slumped into his chair, then straightened up and checked the cards one more time. He would let off steam with a workout on the rowing machines after the shift had ended. He needed to stay calm. If the Jihadi group Kamal belonged to was serious about building a financial empire, they needed him. Didn’t they?

  The soft steps of someone walking in refocused his mind. Kamal had put down a couple of books on Henry’s desk without a word. He was now browsing the bookshelves. Henry could hear the soft movement of books being taken out, the cover being opened, the pages turned, the slight effort of returning the book to its place. Kamal emerged from the row of shelves with one book, a biography of Richard Wagner – intriguing.

  The guard had popped out for a minute, ready to close the library for the day.

  “How is life treating you Henry?”

  “Not bad?” Henry replied whilst filling in the card.

  “Ready for a change of scenery I understand.” Kamal’s face was soft, his long beard left uncut, a sign of rebellion that made him look more like a poet then a murderer.

  “And you?”

  “Always ready for what God presents me with.”

  “God and I are not on speaking terms,” Henry replied, miming the need for a signature on the card.

  “Not yet, not yet.” Kamal signed and pushed the card forward but did not let go of it when Henry tried to pick it up. “Be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Be ready.”

  Henry let go of the card. It was not good enough. But Kamal simply left the card on the desk and walked out. Henry stood up abruptly and fought the desire to follow Kamal, slam the door of the library shut and punch him in the face. Instead he stretched. Patience.

  Henry consulted the clock on the wall, ten minutes to go. He walked to the window again, turned his back to the door and pretended he could see through the frosted glass.

  He heard him before he saw him walking through the door. The low whistle that preceded him everywhere he went. It was not a tune, or at least not one Henry or anybody else had ever heard before. It was animal-like, a warning the way a dangerous creature might announce itself.

  Ronnie Kray walked through the door.

  Henry turned back in a flash.

  “We’re shutting down,” he said walking back to the desk and closing the box of indexed cards.

  “Still five minutes mate,” Kray replied with a wink. He walked straight to the far end of the library and started browsing through the shelves. The whistle had started again, covering the noise of books being moved around.

  The officer came in, banged his fist against the open door. “Five minutes. Make your choice.” He was standing outside the door.

  What could happen now?

  Henry relaxed and took out the card with Kray’s name on it. What a ridiculous idea. Change your name to emulate some fucked-up bloke, who did, after all, spend more than twenty years in prison.

  “Bloody idiot,” Henry muttered. He looked up to find Ronnie Kray standing in front of him.

  The fist that flew in his face was barely a surprise to Henry. Henry threw his body to one side but Kray’s blow caught him on the edge of his head. The chair screeched and bounced against the wall. Neither man had made a sound.

  Henry stood up before Kray could come around the table and throw his second punch. Henry had hunched forward, fists at the ready. Kray launched into him head first, trying to catch Henry in the stomach. Henry swirled to his right too late. The knock propelled him against the wall. He contained a yelp, rolled sideways on the floor to find that Kray had caught his shoulder against the bookshelves. He had fallen on one knee. Back on his feet Henry took a defensive position again. The scream of a whistle did not stop Kray. He took the chair that was now lying on the floor and hurled it with all his might at Henry. The back of the chair caught Henry’s shoulder and threw him against the row of books. The lot collapsed with a clap of thunder. Other guards had arrived, running through the door, sticks at the ready, and then slowly approached the two men. “Come on. You don’t want to do this.” One of the officers was doing the talking. The others advanced steadily towards Kray. Kray ignored them. Henry had retreated between the other shelves. He could see Kray’s face, intent on inflicting damage, eyes crazed, a mix of hatred and glee. Kray had been waiting for this and there would be no reasoning with him. All Henry wanted to do now was to be his victim. He could not be sent to The Box.

  Could not.

  The guards were at each end of the bookshelves. Kray lunged forward with a scream that stunned everyone. Henry braced himself for impact once more. The Kung Fu leg kick propelled him against another lot of bookshelves, books tumbled again. Kray dashed forward, slipping on the books and falling to the ground. The guards threw themselves on him, four of them. Their sticks came down on his back, arms and legs. One of them managed to pin him to the ground with an armlock. It was over. Henry had not moved. His face was throbbing. His chest burning with pain. Two officers grabbed him by the shoulders, stood him up and handcuffed him. They would sort out later who had done what. Henry wiped the blood coming out of his mouth and nose on the side of his shoulder.

  Henry’s mind was working fast. Damage limitation was essential to avoid The Box. “Bloody idiot” had been directed at himself. He thought he had made a mistake. The story might hold. In the distance he could still hear Ronnie Kray, yelling, swearing, spitting.

  One of the guards opened the door of the corridor leading away from the main area of HSU. Henry found himself in front of a room he did not know. The cuffs were removed and he was pushed into it. “Wait in here, Crowne.” The door closed shut and Henry limped to one of the chairs. He sat down slowly.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Henry mumbled. He lifted the bottom part of his T-shirt and wiped the rest of the blood that had started congealing on his chin. “It can’t be happening now.”

  * * *

  “These are my conditions,” Mark said, a calm voice that had not lost its determination. He had insisted he wanted to see Marissa at the SFO offices after she had told him abou
t her own brush with death.

  Marissa looked at the sheet of paper on which Mark’s conditions had been listed in neat yet rather large handwriting. She nodded.

  “I agree with most of them.”

  “But?” Mark asked somewhat surprised.

  “About Crowne?”

  “The IRA banker,” Mark’s voice tightened.

  “I am not sure this is entirely practical?”

  “I don’t care, Marissa. I can see he is the right man for the job and this is my price for working with him.”

  “I’ve thought about it too. I have no desire to work with this – monster either but I need to squeeze every bit of information from him, and I mean everything. I am not letting these —” Marissa stopped herself from swearing, “these other monsters get away with it.”

  “How about this Nancy woman?”

  Marissa hesitated. How much was she prepared to tell Mark?

  “She is a very smart woman. I have worked with her before. She is an extremely good lawyer.”

  Mark waited. It was not what he wanted to hear.

  “She does know Crowne very well, too.”

  “A little too well?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “What are you saying, Marissa? That perhaps she might not be objective?”

  Marissa hesitated for a fraction of second. She had not asked herself that question.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied slowly. Mark picked up on it.

  “Why are you hesitating?”

  “Because so far I have had no cause to doubt her.” Marissa’s mind had been made up. She needed to steer Mark away from the dangerous waters into which he was wading. “In any case, I will be the one dealing with her directly.”

  “And with Crowne as well, as agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Crowne was a terrorist but at least he was behind bars. To her the IRA felt dated but somewhere, very deep, in the darkest part of her soul, she understood what being the conquered people, the underdog, meant.

  Marissa focused on Mark again. He had dropped his chin against his chest, a sign he was reflecting, she had learned. She gave him the space to think. She poured some water into two glasses; the gurgling of the bottle emptying sounded almost too loud.