The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “John, how you doing, mate?” I exclaimed jovially, patting him on the back. “Fancy meeting you in Boston. Small world, eh? How’s your dad’s nose?”

  I took a good look at him. There was absolutely no doubt this was John McGreely, the same man I’d sat opposite in Brick Lane police station after arresting him over explosives.

  He breathed out and slumped back in the chair. A few seconds later, O’Dell pointed out where he wanted me to stand. I did.

  “Right, let’s do this.” O’Dell pressed the button to activate the recording device on the desk. He identified himself as the lead investigating officer and then looked directly at me. “Would you please raise your right hand and identify yourself for the record?”

  I did, stating my name and rank inside Special Branch.

  “Detective McGraw, are you able to confirm the identity of the man sitting across from me for Homeland Security records?”

  “Yes. His name is John McGreely,” I stated formally. “He’s the son of Cormac McGreely and he’s wanted in the United Kingdom on several charges relating to the planning, preparation and commission of acts of terrorism, contrary to the Terrorism Act 2006.” I then gave a brief summation of what those charges were based upon.

  “And is this the truth as you know it to be?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you so attest to this?”

  “I do so attest.”

  “Thank you, Detective McGraw.” He switched off the tape. “Put your hand down. We’ll take things from here. Mr McGreely will now be taken into custody and no doubt someone’ll wanna talk to you again tomorrow, so please ensure you can be reached.”

  I gave him my contact details and glanced at McGreely before I left. He looked almost amused at the proceedings.

  *

  It was twenty-five past eleven when a Homeland Security car dropped me back at the Marriott. Taylor was lying in bed reading. I recounted the salient events of the past couple of hours, though omitting several key points, saying I’d have more details for her tomorrow when the situation unfolded further. She said she’d booked a call to her editor in London for tomorrow morning to tell him what she knew had happened in Boston.

  Today hadn’t been the day I’d expected, but I was pleased with how it’d ended.

  F O U R

  Friday

  Our last full day on honeymoon didn’t start as we’d planned either, because a car was dispatched to take me to Homeland Security’s offices in Downtown Boston, right by the North station and the ice hockey arena, at nine. I left Taylor typing notes on her laptop and preparing to put in a preliminary call to her editor in London.

  After passing through a more intense security screening than most airports impose, I was taken to an interview room at the back of the building by one of the three officers who’d been at the Four Seasons last night. The room was functional and furnished appropriately, certainly several steps up in class from the interview rooms in Brick Lane. There were two people already in the room. I recognised O’Dell but not the other person, a forty-something woman with a freckled face and short-cropped ginger hair. She was immaculately groomed in a grey trouser suit and white blouse, with an attaché case on the table in front of her. I didn’t know what, but something about her told me she was a horsey woman.

  O’Dell stood up. “Thank you for coming, Detective McGraw.” He gestured to the woman next to him. “This is Georgina Howlett, from the British Consulate.”

  “MI6?” I said light-heartedly as I shook her hand.

  “The British Consulate,” she replied neutrally as she rose to her feet. “I’m here in an advisory capacity as a UK national has been arrested and is about to be deported back to London, possibly to face terrorism-related charges. My brief ’s to ensure the correct legal formalities are being followed and to be satisfied the suspect has a case to answer before he’s formally returned to the United Kingdom.” She sounded like a lawyer.

  She sat down. I took a seat adjacent to hers and she asked me to walk her through the events leading up to why we were in this room.

  I did, starting from the Warren Tavern. She listened intently, nodding occasionally. I then listed the events in London a while ago, outlining the bombings and the Branch’s investigations, right up to Harry Ferguson being apprehended in his flat but escaping. I also pointed out that, in the course of our investigation, a police officer had been murdered. As I was speaking, she nodded while occasionally referring to the file she had in front of her, which I assumed was the MI6 file on the McGreelys.

  “Okay.” She seemed satisfied with my story.

  After O’Dell made a quick call, John McGreely was escorted into the room by two uniformed Homeland Security personnel, dressed as he’d been the previous evening. He sat the opposite side of the table to us, looking calm and relaxed, seemingly unconcerned about where he was or why he was there. I nodded at him, but he blanked me like I wasn’t even there.

  O’Dell read a statement out to McGreely, detailing exactly why he was in the custody of Homeland Security. After the British government had been informed and an emergency request for extradition had been heard and agreed to by the appropriate US authorities, he explained, McGreely was to be returned to the UK to be formally arrested in London and face trial. McGreely nodded and said nothing.

  Again, for the record, this time in the presence of a British Consulate official, I was asked to raise my right hand, identify myself and state whether I was satisfied the person opposite was indeed John McGreely. I reiterated my statement of the previous evening, again attesting to its veracity. I was then informed there’d be no further questioning at this time, as the US authorities were satisfied with the bona fides of the situation, but also because I didn’t have the necessary security clearance to be present from here onwards. McGreely was to be flown back to the UK sometime in the next few days in the company of British security officials. He was led away by the same officers who’d brought him in and, after Howlett and O’Dell had thanked me for what I’d done, I was told my presence would no longer be required.

  I left the room, but I was immediately taken from the corridor to a nearby office as I’d been told there was a telephone call for me. I was puzzled; who knew I was here?

  It was Smitherman. He told me he’d been apprised of the events of the past twenty-four hours by Colonel Stimpson, and he congratulated me on what had occurred.

  “Of all the bars in all the towns, eh?” I joked.

  “You still helped capture a wanted IRA man. Good work, DS McGraw. You’re even further into Stimpson’s good books now.”

  “What’ll happen to McGreely when he gets back to the UK?”

  There was silence for several seconds.

  “You’ll be told next week. You’re still on honeymoon; go enjoy what’s left of it.”

  *

  We did just that. Taylor and I spent the rest of the day holding hands, casually strolling around Downtown Boston, taking pictures, looking at sights and just enjoying what was left of this golden time together. We ended the day back in the North End and then at a tourist trap bar next to Faneuil Hall, where the price of two drinks almost caused physical pain. I should have remembered; this was one of the bars Byfield had said we should avoid.

  We flew overnight back to London on the Saturday evening flight, touching down at Gatwick at seven on Sunday morning, and took the Gatwick Express to Victoria. We arrived back in Battersea not long after nine and dozed for a couple of hours.

  At one I put the radio on to catch the lunchtime news, but John McGreely’s apprehension in the USA wasn’t mentioned. The Sunday newspapers had mentioned nothing about it either. I looked at the BBC online news pages, but there was nothing there about McGreely’s capture.

  But, no matter, I was feeling pleased about my small contribution to events. He’d now spend however long it was being interrogated by MI5 operatives, and then there was the pleasing prospect of a lengthy prison term for him, alongside his father.

&n
bsp; F I V E

  Tuesday

  Taylor had spent much of the past two evenings typing up an account of the events which had led to the arrest of John McGreely in Boston. There were certain details I obviously couldn’t tell her, but, from what she’d gleaned from me and from another source she had inside law enforcement, she’d put together a fairly detailed account of McGreely’s capture and extradition back to the UK, omitting to mention her husband’s involvement. From Boston last Friday morning, she’d spoken to her editor in London. He’d been enthused by the idea of the story, especially the way it’d ended, and yesterday he’d given her the go-ahead to write it up, telling her the paper would probably publish it later in the week, by which time the news of McGreely’s capture would be known; the Evening Standard would have a scoop, as well as pole position in the news cycle.

  Back on duty today. First thing I noticed was the state of my desk. There were unfinished reports I should have completed before my wedding, plus other paperwork needing to be brought up to date before I did anything else, so I settled down to what wasn’t going to be an interesting few hours.

  Just after lunch Smitherman returned from wherever he’d been all morning and called me into his office. He formally welcomed me back, congratulated me again on getting married and then proceeded to fill me in with events of the past week and cases I’d been involved with, outlining progress or the lack of, plus my next duties. When he’d finished I asked what was happening regarding John McGreely.

  “He was met at Heathrow by MI5 officers yesterday morning and taken to a safe house somewhere. They’ll grill him about his role in the bombings, how he got out the country past all the people looking for him, amongst other things. They’ll want to know how he and his father acquired Semtex; that’s the real worry for them. They’ll want to know if there’s any more out there. But, most importantly, they’ll grill him about the relationship with Ferguson, how it all began, things like that. MI5’s looking through all his files to see what other damage he might have done.”

  “They know where the Semtex came from: from Ferguson.”

  Smitherman shrugged, as if to say maybe.

  “One thing’s puzzling me about all this,” I said. “There’s been nothing in the press about McGreely being arrested and returned to the UK. I was there, I know it happened, I watched it go down. Why the news blackout?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking down at his desk. “Stimpson’s hoping MI5 gets all the gen about Ferguson from him. Evidently, Ferguson was under suspicion for several aborted investigations, so I’m assuming they’re hoping McGreely has information which’ll help them fill out the whole picture.”

  He paused whilst he sipped his tea.

  I was sure Smitherman wasn’t telling me everything. There was something off about his mannerisms. The arrest abroad of a suspected IRA bomber would usually feature prominently in the news cycle, suggesting police weren’t falling behind in the struggle against bombers and others intent on disrupting society. I was unsure why McGreely’s arrest was being kept under wraps.

  “Whatever the case,” Smitherman said, looking solemn, “as a consequence, the Evening Standard’s story about the apprehension of John McGreely is being spiked.”

  “Pardon?” This caught me unawares.

  “The Standard’s story about McGreely’s capture in Boston, it’s not going to be run,” he repeated. “The proprietor’s been informed through a DSMA notice, and the editor’s been notified that the story isn’t in the national interest at this time, so the paper’s agreed not to publish it. There’s been no official statement regarding McGreely’s arrest, but a couple of the more serious newspapers have picked up rumours from their security sources, something involving the arrest of a wanted terrorist in the US, and they’re beginning to ask questions, so this is being done to ensure the case doesn’t become a media feeding frenzy of lurid speculation before more details are known.”

  A DSMA notice is an official request made by the security services to the media, asking for a particular news item not to be published on the grounds of unspecified details having a detrimental impact on national security. It’s a voluntary scheme, and the media’s well within its legal rights to refuse to comply with it, but in practice it’s almost always complied with because no newspaper, editor or media outlet wants to incur the wrath of the security services.

  “Why’s this?” I demanded. “It’s an accurate account of the McGreelys and how he got picked up in Boston. A police officer died when we were looking for the McGreelys, in case anyone’s forgotten.” Just before Cormac McGreely had been apprehended, DI Paul Glett had been stabbed; he’d died next day from a cardiac arrest, brought on from an infection caused by the wound.

  “I do know this, DS McGraw, I was at his memorial service, and I’d be surprised if it wasn’t factually correct, given your wife wrote the article, and I’ve no doubt you were one of her sources. But it’s just as I told you.” He made it sound as though I’d not been listening. “The official view is, publicising this matter is not in the national interest at this time. The reference to an unknown MI5 officer who’s since gone missing probably didn’t help either, so, as MI5 doesn’t want the press making any comment until they’re certain they’ve everything from McGreely they should know, the story’s being spiked.”

  The arrest of Cormac McGreely had made the headlines, but the fact he’d been assisted by an MI5 officer, who’d since disappeared, had never been reported. I’d mentioned this to Taylor, and she’d included this in her account of what the McGreelys had done prior to Cormac being arrested. This was the only way she’d have known about it.

  “I’ve seen the article,” Smitherman said. “There’s nothing in there which isn’t correct, but Stimpson was horrified when he saw reference made to Ferguson, because they don’t want anything about Ferguson made public.”

  I felt for Taylor. She’d worked hard on the story, and now all her efforts were going to be scrapped.

  “We won’t know any more about the situation until MI5 finishes interrogating McGreely, which’ll take a while because there’re details pertaining to Ferguson they’ll want now they’re aware of his perfidy.” Smitherman paused again and nodded slowly to himself. “In case you’re wondering, Stimpson’s not blaming you for your wife’s story. You just happened to be there when it occurred, which was quite fortuitous for a journalist, so it was only to be expected you’d help her out, and he knows you were circumspect in what you told her. But MI5’s view is, for the moment, the national interest won’t be served by making any details about a rogue MI5 officer public.”

  He used the tone which made me realise this was the game closer for the moment. I took in what I’d heard, and I was about to leave when Smitherman spoke again.

  “Cormac McGreely’s trial’s supposed to begin in a few weeks at the Old Bailey. You’re the arresting officer, so you’ll be giving evidence, but it’s now likely to be delayed because of his son’s arrest. Government lawyers are looking into this at the moment and are liaising with MI5, but, even if it goes ahead, it won’t even be a trial. McGreely’s still refusing to talk. They’ve tried interrogating him a number of times, but he refuses to say a word, hasn’t even acknowledged his name. At his remand hearing, he even refused to face the magistrates, stood with his back to them.” He looked exasperated. “But, whenever it happens, his trial’ll be a farce. He’ll go down, no question. McGreely’s got a defence lawyer but he won’t even talk to him. Waste of the taxpayer’s money.” He shook his head resignedly.

  He then fixed me with a look I’d never seen before. “You know, there’re regimes on this earth where the likes of the McGreelys would just be taken out into the dark woods someplace, away from any media scrutiny, and have a couple of bullets put in the back of their necks. Pity Guantanamo Bay’s closing down.”

  “Does your son-in-law know you think like this?” I laughed.

  Richard Clements was a journalist on the left-wing fortnightly ma
gazine New Focus, and he and his father-in-law differed in their political opinions, to put it mildly. They made chalk and cheese appear identical.

  “One thing you should be aware of, though, DS McGraw.” Smitherman now adopted a concerned tone. “I’ve heard McGreely’s counsel intends to play up the fact his client had a broken nose at the time of his arrest. He’s going to claim his client had already surrendered to police custody, but was then assaulted in an unprovoked manner by the arresting officer, the officer in question being you.”

  No need to ask who his counsel was. Timothy Smythe QC was well known for his, at best, antipathy towards the police, and he could be counted on to ensure we were always portrayed in the most unfavourable light. His chief forensic skill was the ability to create just enough question marks in the minds of jurors to pin them down, during his eloquent and lengthy summations before they retired to consider their verdict, with the assertion that they couldn’t possibly be certain of guilt beyond reasonable doubt, which was what the legal system required for a conviction. It was a subtle trick but perfectly permissible within the rules of legal practice and, unluckily for police, it occasionally worked.

  “Tell me again what happened.” Smitherman sat back in his chair.

  I did, outlining our struggle when anti-terrorist police had arrived outside Ferguson’s flat. During the struggle, I’d lashed out at McGreely whilst attempting to break his grip, and I’d caught his nose full on; it was sometimes better to be lucky than good. I’d later discovered it had broken under the impact of my punch.

  “So he wasn’t a vulnerable target, standing with his hands behind his back? This’s what I’ve heard Smythe’s going to claim.” Smitherman gave me the look which I knew meant you’d better not be lying to me.

  “No, he was on the floor, we both were. I’d knocked the gun from his hands and we were grappling. I was attempting to subdue him when it happened. It’s just as I wrote it up in my statement.”