by Kim Hughes
When she had gone to the toilet at the bar, without her bag, he had unchivalrously checked the contents. She did appear to be exactly who she said she was. A school teacher. The driving licence checked out. She was twenty-nine and lived on the Caledonian Road, in the studio flat he was currently in. When she returned, she came bearing tequila shots. It was surprisingly easy to dispose of a thimble-full of clear fluid while he still had her eyes screwed shut from the liquor burn and the acidity of the lime.
It also wasn’t difficult to persuade her that they should share an Uber, nor that he should come in for one last drink. She probably thought they were going to have sex. The sort where, the next morning, you not only asked: How was it for you? but threw in And how was it for me? for good measure as well.
Well, you could’ve done it as a bonus ball.
Yeah, thanks Nick. When I want moral guidance from the dead, I’ll ask for it.
He wasn’t after sex. He was after somewhere to spend the night that was off the grid. He had held her shoulders while she vomited in the bath, helped clean her teeth and rinse her mouth, had put her to bed, fully clothed, cleaned up the mess, and got in a couple of hours of semi-slumber in an armchair. He had made sure he had her mobile in his pocket, just in case he was wrong, and it was a honeytrap.
His new phone rang, startling him. He answered the call. Only one guy had the number. ‘Scooby? Shouldn’t you be asleep?’
His friend ignored that. ‘Where are you?’
A heartfelt groan came from the bed. ‘At a friend’s place. Keeping a low profile.’
‘Okay. All good?’
‘Peachy.’
He watched as Charlie Keech surfaced into the land of the living and then wished she hadn’t. He smiled at her. He got a grimace in return.
‘I’ve got that address. I’ll text it.’
‘Thanks, Scooby. That’s brilliant news.’ Now he could move forward and at least start eliminating some of the possibilities regarding who would put a bomb under his car. First up, a certain George O’Donnell. A man who might be able to join the dots from Nottingham to the piece of wire he lost in the conflagration.
‘It’ll be on your itemised bill. All well with Izzy and Ruby. No dramas. Lisa and Jackie are in the room next door. They’ll make themselves known this morning and escort them to your folks’.’
Grandfolks’, he mentally corrected, but just said: ‘Great, thanks.’
‘And I might have something on the drone. I’m just looking through the footage from Nottingham, to see if I can see the one there. Then I’ll fill you in.’
‘Good. Send the address. I’ll get that over with first.’
‘You sure you know—’
‘Catch you later, Scoob.’ He rang off. ‘Mornin’,’ he said to the figure struggling to sit up in bed.
‘Fuck.’ She squinted at him, trying to focus. ‘Can you pull the curtains closed? Too much light.’
He did so, went to the kitchen area, filled a glass with water and took it to her. ‘I think you’re going to need this.’
Charlie took the glass in both hands and gulped down the contents, spilling a good proportion of it on the sheet she had pulled up to her neck. When she had finished, she looked at him with suspicion and fear.
‘Did you put something in my drink?’
‘Whoa. No. Absolutely not.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Nothing happened. You passed out. I slept in the chair.’ And spent a couple of hours at the window, making sure he wasn’t being dicked.
‘Christ.’ He could see the full morning-after effect in her face: guilt, patchy memory, head like a jackhammer.
‘I know. It could have been a lot worse. Luckily I’m not a psychopath.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘But I am wanted by the police.’
‘What?’ He hadn’t thought she could go any paler, but he was wrong.
‘The Military Police. It’s a long story. I’m going to have a shower. And then I need you to do me a favour.’
She shook her head and regretted it. ‘Fuck. I’m never drinking again.’
* * *
The Saturday-night meeting had been declared for senior management and case officers only, so Muraski could safely skip it. She made sure she was in good and early for the 10am one, though, which would be for officers of her pay grade and below. Not that there were many levels below her.
As she entered the building, she saw Oakham hovering at the front desk, speaking to Cobb, the Director of Counter Terrorism. She instinctively smoothed down her skirt and checked the collar of her blouse, aware that her hasty packing and unpacking had left her looking less than crisp.
As she passed through the security pods, Cobb slipped away. Oakham gave one of his hard-to-read smiles. ‘Kate. Can I have a word? In my office.’
Fuck, what now?
They rode the lift in silence and as they walked the corridor to his office, he politely asked how the search for a new place was going. She kept the answer short, as he clearly didn’t give a shit. There was a tension in the building, she could feel it, a hum like a giant tuning fork. As if the very bricks were vibrating with some negative energy from the attack on the Islamic Centre, which suggested a possible outbreak of tit-for-tat outrages. She wondered what had happened at the meetings the previous night and the inevitable conference calls with senior government figures, including, in all likelihood, the PM. Whatever transpired, it had probably left the top floor peevish, which of course cascaded down the levels of more junior staff, the sour mood amplifying at each stage.
Or perhaps Oakham had discovered that she had asked Jimmy Fu and his Doggs to put surveillance in place on the Clifford-Browns, without clearing it with him first. That was worth a bollocking.
Once Oakham was behind his desk, he gestured for her to sit down. When she had done so, he leaned forward intently. There was no smile on his lips or in his eyes. ‘Kate. Jamal Malik.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was about the TAP. You need Home Office clearance to go tapping/tracing phones and demanding call records from the mobile companies, unless you had a Cat One exemption on grounds of expediency or time. Had Jamal made sure he cited Cat One? No, hold on. There had already been a TAP in place. Jamal would have retreated as quickly as possible.
‘Works at Bomb Data. I know him from uni.’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ She could see him struggling to find the right words and braced herself. ‘He was attacked and killed last night.’
When she spoke, her voice was croaky, as if she had smoked too many cigarettes. ‘What? No. Last night? No, that can’t be right. Killed?’
‘Murdered,’ he corrected.
‘Fucksake. That can’t be right. How? Who?’
‘He was stabbed. By a gang of youths. Or one of them. He died in hospital. The blade had pierced his heart. There was nothing they could do.’
She felt all the heat drain from her body, apart from the warm tears that coursed down her cheeks. ‘Was it… was it racial? Or work? What? Why Jamal? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Oakham folded his hands on the desk and squeezed his fingers until they went white. ‘Police think it was a random robbery. There is CCTV footage. Some witnesses, apparently. Arrests will be made, Kate and—’
‘Shit!’ she banged the desk and a photo frame flopped face down. ‘I mean, shit. They always say that. The CCTV will be dark and grainy and the witnesses too frightened to identify anyone.’ She gulped some air and regained a little calm. ‘You’re sure? Sure it’s Jamil?’
A solemn nod. ‘There’s no doubt, Kate.’
‘I only spoke to him last night—’
‘We know,’ Oakham said. ‘It’s why we are having this conversation. You were the last person to talk to him.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Why did that make her feel complicit in his death? As if she could have done something to stop it. It was illogical. But the hurt was real enough. ‘He was running down something on a company called Halo. It was going to be in my next re
port.’ She hated herself for even thinking about covering her back, but it had to be done. ‘But we were friends, too. From uni.’
‘You said.’
Grief was scrambling her brain. ‘Oh, yeah. Do his parents know?’
‘I think there’ll have been a DN delivered by now.’ Death Notice, one of the many tasks she really didn’t envy the police. ‘And they’ll have had to formally identify him.’
‘Shit. Can I have contact details? I’ve never met them and I’d like to…’ She took a deep breath, not wanting to sob in front of him. Emotional vulnerability was not a prized trait in Five. ‘I’d like to send my condolences.’
‘Of course. I’ll get the investigating officer’s details over to you. She can give you what you need.’
‘Thank you.’
Oakham re-arranged his face into what he probably considered was a ‘caring’ mode. It was slightly scary, like he was an oncologist with bad news. ‘Kate, I think you can skip this morning’s briefing.’
‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She wasn’t sure, though, how true that was. Not yet.
Oakham unclasped his hands and righted the fallen photo frame.
‘Take some time, Kate. Deepika or one of the others will de-brief you later. This is a shock. Takes time to sink in.’
‘Sir.’
‘Go and get a coffee. Something to eat. You looked pretty rough before I told you the news. You look even worse now.’
‘Thanks for your honesty, sir.’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
‘Kate—’
‘Sorry. Not thinking straight.’
He waved her transgression away. ‘Quite. Get out of this cesspit and get some air. And when you get back, go and see Jimmy Fu, he wants to see you.’
‘What for?’
‘Your watch request on Dunston Hall.’
‘I was going to—’
‘Mention it but it slipped your mind,’ he said, with an indulgent smile. ‘I think you might as well run with it. If you feel up to it, all things considered.
‘I do. I’ll be fine.’
‘Go and get that coffee.’
‘Sir.’
She stood.
‘And Kate?’
‘Yes?’
The smile had faded. ‘Never, ever do that again. I’m cutting you some slack here, you understand? Jimmy isn’t there for your sole benefit. There are protocols for a reason.’
‘Won’t happen again.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t. Coffee. Now.’
She left, feet leaden, as if the sorrow of Jamal’s death was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders, and aware she had to shrug it off if she was to do her job properly. Oakham wasn’t in the habit of cutting anybody some slack more than once.
THIRTY
Riley sat in the house and waited for George O’Donnell to return. The man clearly felt more secure than he ought to, given his history. It had been ridiculously easy to break in through the rotten kitchen window. After picking up his stuff from the hotel, Riley had driven to the address Scooby had texted him, a two-up two-down in Bedford. O’Donnell was the man behind, among many other incidents, the Melton Mowbray bomb.
That IED never got much publicity. Why should it have? It was rightly overshadowed by the two bombs which detonated on the same day as its intended deployment – 20 July 1982. The first device was concealed in the boot of a Morris Marina parked on South Carriage Drive in Hyde Park. It consisted of eleven kilos of gelignite with a further fourteen kilos of nails wrapped around the explosive core. It was almost certainly radio-controlled – although no forensic evidence was left to confirm this – as it detonated just when a troop of the Household Cavalry was passing. The Blues & Royals are immaculate time-keepers, and the Changing of the Guard that the troop was part of ran like clockwork, but not so precise that you could pre-set a bomb to explode for the exact moment that they rode by a set point. No, thought Riley as he jemmied open the rotten window of the old kitchen extension, that one was triggered by human hand, possibly a radio signal, although it was before the days of mobile phone activation, personal handsets being some way from escaping the realms of sci-fi.
Three members of the Blues & Royals died instantly, a fourth succumbed to his injuries three days’ later. Seven horses were either killed by the blast and a steely rain of hot metal or were so severely injured they had to be put down.
At 12.55pm a second device exploded in Regent’s Park. This one was on a timer, the exact moment of detonation being less crucial, as it simply had to deploy during the lunchtime concert by the Royal Green Jackets. The bomb was secreted under the bandstand. It did not contain any nails or shrapnel. Six of the thirty bandsmen were killed outright. A seventh died of his injuries. Eight civilian spectators were injured, but there were no fatalities among bystanders. Investigators concluded the devices were probably the work of two separate bomb-makers.
Melton Mowbray was a mixture of the methods used in the two devices. It contained nails, nuts and bolts, but it was on a timer. It was another car bomb, this time a Ford Cortina Mark III. It was parked outside Remount Depot, the Royal Army Veterinary Corps’ HQ in Melton Mowbray, where animals – horses and dogs – are selected and trained. The blast radius included some of the stable block and the exercise yard, both of which were busy at the intended hour of the explosion.
The bomb was designed to go off at 12.40pm, an hour after Hyde Park, around fifteen minutes before the bandstand atrocity. Fortunately, when news came through of Hyde Park, the CO decided that his horses might also be a target. He ordered all animals and personnel away from perimeter fences and a sweep of all vehicles parked in close proximity to the barracks.
The Cortina was tagged as suspicious and an SAS bomb-disposal team was helicoptered in. The car had been fitted with some crude anti-handling traps which were quickly disposed of. The bomb was in the boot, as expected, and the detonator was destroyed using a disrupter water jet, rendering the device safe. There was one big difference to Hyde and Regent’s Parks: the explosive used was Semtex, not gelignite. One other difference: the wiring featured a very distinctive yellow and purple loom. Just like probably Nottingham had, before the blast fragmented it, leaving just stray lengths like the one Riley picked up in his boot.
Although they had an intact bomb at Melton Mowbray, forensics were simply not up to modern standards back then, and it was human intelligence that led investigators, some six months later, to George O’Donnell, who was charged with ‘intending to cause an explosion likely to endanger life’. Although he was released for lack of evidence, he continued to be under suspicion, but any hope of a future conviction was thwarted when he was sent a letter in the aftermath of the Good Friday Agreement, stating – in error – that he was not at risk of prosecution. The letter was enough to give him immunity in perpetuity from the law for Melton Mowbray and any of the many other bombs he was suspected of building or planting.
Riley pondered all this as he set up his own bomb in the gloomy living room, careful to keep the two wires that would complete the circuit well apart, even though they were heavily taped. It might seem extreme, but he was dealing with a murderer. And one with a direct link to the bomb in Nottingham and, therefore, possibly to the one that could so easily have killed his daughter. He was in no mood to fuck about.
Satisfied with his work, Riley sat in the armchair that faced the TV, the house’s Airedale dog a few feet away, eyeing him warily. Riley placed the knife he had also liberated from the kitchen at his barracks on the greasy arm next to him.
Then he leaned back and waited.
* * *
George O’Donnell didn’t look particularly alarmed when confronted with an intruder in his home. Perhaps he was a man who had grown used to the idea of strangers turning up unbidden at any time of day or night. Even after church on Sunday. As a young man he had lived with the ever-present threat of a visit from the Nutting Squad aka The Sweenies, the internal enforcement boys.
O’Donnell stood in the doorway and took in the scene, examined the homemade suicide vest, the man holding the two wires, the ends bare, one in each hand, the threat implicit. Do anything stupid and I’ll touch these together and…
‘Who the fuck are youse?’ he asked. ‘The Grim Reaper? If you are, I think I preferred the big scythe, you know.’
‘Sit down, George. I just have a few questions.’
‘Mr O’Donnell to you.’
Riley could see the old man was running his professional eye over the circuitry. ‘It’ll work all right, George. I know what I’m doing.’
O’Donnell sat, raising a cloud of dust from another grubby armchair. He also took in the fact that his dog had his collar and lead on. The lead was looped under the leg of the armchair. Which was why Astral hadn’t come to greet him at the door. ‘Do you now? You know who I am, then? What friends I have?’
Riley nodded. ‘I know your reputation. I know that was a while ago now. Look, I’d make us some tea, but… you know. One false move. Boom.’
‘You’re a cheeky fucker.’ It was the first real flash of anger since he had arrived. But Riley was aware it would be in there, boiling away, building. He had something very similar cooking inside himself.
‘As I say, answer me a few questions, George, and I’ll put the old tape back on the wires and be gone.’
‘You’d better go far away, m’lad. Because I’ll be after you.’
Riley looked at him. He was in his seventies, liver-spotted, sparse of hair, eyes rheumy. He had heard him place a stick in the holder in the hall when he arrived. He wasn’t running after anyone any time soon. But, as he said, he might have people who would do that for him. Too late to stop now. You build and strap on a suicide vest, there’s not really any turning back.
‘Melton Mowbray,’ said Riley.
‘The pies?’ O’Donnell asked, all faux innocence.
