Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Take more than that to hurt Cregan,’ Swann said. ‘If he fell off El Cap, he’d bounce on his head and get up.’ The climbing reference made them all look briefly at him. ‘It’s all right,’ he added. ‘I can still make jokes.’ Cregan was a climber too, never got involved with snow and ice, but a great rock man. He had climbed El Capitan in Yosemite in only three days.

  ‘What else’ve you got, Webby?’ Clements asked him.

  Webb pointed to a large piece of tarpaulin. ‘Found the engine halfway up Greek Street,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone from the funny car squad to take a look at it. It’s bent but pretty much intact, except of course for the usual.’

  Swann looked at him then. ‘Engine number’s missing.’

  The dark-skinned man ate lunch while the photographs he had taken were developing. Upstairs in his darkroom afterwards, he closed the door and dipped the remaining negatives. Large black and whites, he watched as one in particular came into focus. He had taken it from waist height, guessing at the angle of the subject. He had guessed right. Slowly but surely the face of the fat detective materialized under his yellow hard hat. The dark-skinned man took the picture from the tray and hung it up on the line. When he was finished, he had a roll of twenty-four developed, selective shots of the damage. The camera imprinted the date on the bottom corner of each picture.

  In the betting shop on Croydon High Street, Tommy Cairns squatted on a stool with a rolled up copy of the Sporting Life in his hand. He tapped it lightly on the counter as his third winner of the day romped home at 5-1. He laughed to himself, showing the punter next to him his broken front tooth, which had got punched out in a scrap with some Asians while he was on remand three years ago. Not the whole tooth, just the inside section, which effectively gave him an arch above his bottom teeth when he didn’t put the crown in. He pushed long, blond hair out of his eyes and thought about his winnings. He had got up late today, no work on the site. He didn’t need to work as hard as the others. The job was more of a cover than anything else and he liked easy days like this when he could get up at midday, shag the girlfriend and spend the afternoon in the bookie’s. He went up to the counter and collected his winnings. As he took the money, his mobile phone rang. He moved away from the counter and put it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘What d’you want, Charlie?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

  ‘I’ve only just got up. Scratched my arse and headed straight for the bookie’s.’

  ‘Listen, Tom. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as possible. I can’t believe what’s happened.’

  Cairns frowned then, his mouth twisting down at the corners. ‘You been nicked or something?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  Cairns sat down on a stool and looked at his watch. ‘Meet me in the pub. I’m going there now.’

  He got there well before Oxley: one of the team, a foot soldier and not a bad one. He could mix it up with the best of them, notwithstanding his lack of stature. He was five foot six tops, and his build was nothing to write home about. But what he lacked in physique, he made up for in bottle. He had more guts than a lot of so-called hardmen twice his size. If he ever needed a reliable back-up man, it would be Charlie Oxley. He sat at the bar, drank a pint of lager and watched a fat man playing on the fruit machine. Charlie was not fazed easily—something must have happened.

  He waited the half-hour, and then another fifteen minutes, and drank a second pint. Oxley came in five minutes later, white dust in his cropped hair, wearing faded Levis, desert boots and a green nylon bomber jacket. His face was chipped red from the wind, blue eyes smarting. Cairns ordered beer and they moved to a quiet corner.

  ‘So what’s up?’ Cairns said, elbows resting on the table.

  Oxley sipped his pint and gave a quick glance about the bar. ‘They blew the fucking car up.’

  Cairns sat very still. ‘You what?’

  ‘The fucking Cortina. The ringer you got for them. The black geezer drove it to Old Compton Street and I picked him up. It went bang a couple of hours later. It’s all over the news.’

  Cairns picked up his drink and sipped at it, staring over the top of the glass. The woman, Joanne Taylor, or whatever her name was, had phoned him and said Ingram had put her on to him. They wanted a car, any car so long as it couldn’t be traced. No problem with his contacts: car, driving licence, sawn-off, whatever the hell you wanted. The car had been stuck together in a hurry and then delivered. Hire car to pick them up in. He had said they’d nick one, but she had insisted and given them a false driving licence to use. They had also bought four sheets of armoured glass and stored it. She’d paid for the car and the glass and another five thousand pounds as a fee. Easier than betting on horses.

  Oxley was watching him. ‘You told me this was a driving job, Tommy.’

  ‘Well it fucking was, wasn’t it.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Cairns made a calming motion with his palm. He couldn’t think with Oxley prattling away in his ear. ‘Relax, Charlie. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Tom, I drove him away.’

  ‘So what. You think they’re going to trace you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You weren’t there, Charlie.’ Cairns looked stiffly at him. ‘You know the form. So they blew up a car. Big deal. Direct action, Charlie. It’s what we fucking do.’

  3

  SWANN LEFT THE YARD at nine o’clock that night. The clear-up operation had not yet been fully completed, although Webb’s team had recovered as much of the car as was possible and it had been packaged with sterile tarpaulin and freighted to DRA. They had identified the engine found in Greek Street as a two-litre V4 from an old Ford Corsair. So now they had the body of a Mark II Cortina with a Corsair’s engine and a number plate from a Hillman Imp.

  Swann got the tube home, a couple of stops along the District line and then one down to Waterloo. He did not bother to sit down, just stood by the doors and held the rail, watching the faces of those around him. He had been in the job almost seventeen years now, uniform for most of that time. He had taken his detective’s course five years previously and then joined the Antiterrorist Branch as a DC, on George Webb’s recommendation, before passing his sergeant’s board. Six teams in the Branch, seven if you counted bomb data, four investigation and two exhibits. It had been a strange situation in the early days; everyone knew his past and he knew his psychological condition had been scrutinized pretty closely. But he believed he was tough enough, both mentally and physically, and he knew respect for him was growing. SO13 was unlike any other department he had worked in and he knew that anything less now would be small fry. He had worked on murder squads and suchlike before, but nothing prepared him for the Branch. Access to anything, every fatality dealt with as priority one, full-time liaison at DRA, with the Expos at Cannon Row, Special Branch and—since the end of the cold war—MI5 on tap.

  The train arrived at Waterloo. It was still very busy and he made his way past the off-licence and W.H. Smith’s, then out of exit 2 on Waterloo Road. As he got to his flat in Pearman Street, he checked his car as he always did and then climbed the stairs to the top two floors. He had been lucky with this place after Rachael left him for the Australian. He had got it fairly cheaply considering, and it came with a roof garden which was great in the summer. Two bedrooms and a bathroom on the lower of the two floors, then a living room-cum-kitchen with stairs up to the roof.

  He checked his answerphone and got a message from Pia telling him that she had had to go to Paris early. It soured his mood, no chance of getting together now. Some of her clothes were on his unmade bed and her make-up and stuff littered the chest of drawers. Stupid having two places really, they all but lived together. He listened to his second message; Rachael wanted him to phone her.

  He rewound the tape and then plugged in the kettle. It was cold bu
t he still wandered up to the roof terrace as he always did. The sky was clear tonight, though the stars were dulled by the polluted light from the city. He took his coffee with him and stood on the secondary part of the roof watching the silent emptiness of the old MI5 building, rising from the corner in darkness. His breath came as steam. For a second he closed his eyes and saw again white walls of ice and the darkness of rock where the crusting was weakest. He opened his eyes, sipped coffee, then went back downstairs.

  He picked up the telephone and dialled Rachael in Muswell Hill. ‘Hi,’ he said, when she answered. ‘You wanted me.’

  ‘Where’ve you been, Jack? I’ve been trying to get you for ages.’

  ‘Bomb went off in Soho this morning. Didn’t you hear about it?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that. You’re not the only one who works, you know.’

  ‘No.’ He sat down on the arm of the chair. ‘Anyway, what’s up?’

  He heard her sigh and knew he was in for a long phone call. He scraped a cigarette out of the packet on the table and fiddled in his pocket for his lighter.

  ‘It’s the children, Jack.’

  ‘What about them—they’re not ill or anything, are they?’

  ‘No. They’re fine. It’s me.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I just don’t see how I can get this teaching thing off the ground and look after them properly. Not only that, there’s Peter.’

  Swann grimaced. ‘I tell you what, Rach,’ he said. ‘This sounds like something we need to talk about face to face. I’ve been at the Yard for the last eighteen hours and I can’t think about it now.’

  ‘All right. Can you come over?’

  ‘I’ll try tomorrow for an hour or so. I’m going to be busy, though.’

  ‘Make it when the children get home from school, if you can.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Tomorrow then. See you.’ Swann put down the phone.

  He lay awake long into the night. They had been married for twelve years if you counted the period of separation before the actual divorce. To be fair to her she had not gone off with the Australian in the affair sense of the word. She’d said, and he believed her, that they had not slept together until she told him about it. He respected her for that, and considering the early days of hating and fighting, they got on pretty reasonably now. She still didn’t live with the Australian and, as far as he could see, she had merely swapped one workaholic for another. He rolled over and looked at the clock by the bedside. Three a.m. He might as well get up and go back to the Yard. He showered, dressed and made fresh coffee, then he drove into Victoria and parked.

  There was no one in the squad room, so he walked the length of the corridor to Webb’s office. Tania Briggs was there, first call-out if anything went bang. She was a dark-haired woman in her thirties, an exhibits officer like Webb. ‘All quiet?’ he said.

  Tania nodded. ‘You heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘PIRA have denied responsibility.’

  Swann furrowed his brow. ‘It was a Mk 15 TPU.’

  ‘I know. That’s what makes it interesting.’

  Webb came in at seven and brought Swann some coffee. ‘Got in early for a parking space did you, Flash?’ he said as he placed the plastic cup beside him.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, Webby. Rachael phoned me about the kids.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’m going to nip over for an hour later today to see what the problem is.’

  ‘You seen Pia?’

  Swann shook his head. ‘Tried to. Didn’t work out. She’s gone to Paris on business. Coming back at the weekend.’

  Webb sat down on the edge of the desk and sipped coffee. He smoothed fingers over his moustache and looked out of the window. ‘Hear about the statement?’

  ‘Tania told me.’

  Webb nodded. ‘If it was a PIRA cell—we don’t know which one. All our surveillance is intact. Box 500 have had no losses, neither have SB.’

  ‘Sleeper, maybe. Someone we don’t know about.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Webb shifted off the desk. ‘I found something else yesterday, though, Jack. Nobody knows yet.’

  Swann looked quizzically at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Part of the other timing and power unit.’

  ‘Another Mk 15?’

  Webb shook his head. ‘No. I recovered a piece of printed circuit board. Zone five of all places. Come and have a look.’

  They walked down to the ‘sharp end’, so called because that was where the things that went bang were dealt with. Webb went through to his evidence cage and pulled out a transparent nylon bag. He laid it on his desk. ‘Printed circuit,’ he said. ‘Veroboard. You can’t tell very much from it.’

  Swann turned it over in his hands. ‘Has Phil Cregan looked at it?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s due at the briefing this morning. I’ll show it to him then.’

  ‘Is he bringing the video with him? Be nice to get a look at the car.’

  Webb nodded, then looked again at the veroboard. ‘This isn’t PIRA, Jack. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t think it’s PIRA.’

  The woman sat in a car parked across the road from the converted flats in Crouch End. Black leather gloves and dark glasses, long blonde hair over high-boned features and an Indian headscarf pulled tightly round her face. In the rear-view mirror she saw the postman gradually making his way up the street in his red van; stopping, running up steps to communal entrances and running down again. Ten minutes and he would be there. She started the engine and pulled away from the kerb, then drove up towards Alexandra Park where she stopped again and watched people walking their dogs. Fifteen minutes later, she turned the car round and headed back. The postman had got to the next street. She could see the van as she drove towards the address. She drove beyond it, well beyond it, and parked around the corner in somebody else’s permit zone. Then she walked back to the flats. For a moment, she paused on the top step while she sought her keys. Number 43—flats A to E. She opened the door and stepped inside. The mail was in a heap on the floor; the occupants would sort through it and take what was addressed to them. There was only one for her, a large bulky envelope sealed with clear tape, Flat 43F scrawled on the front of it.

  Back in the car, she opened the package and carefully leafed through the pictures of the bomb scene in Soho, pausing briefly at the one of the police officer in coveralls and hard hat. An elderly man pulling a shopping trolley walked past the car, his head hunched against the wind which bent the branches of the trees like elastic. The woman stowed the pictures back in the envelope and placed it inside her briefcase.

  Phil Cregan set up his video in the conference room on the sixteenth floor. The SO13 officers who had been tasked were all gathered. DI Clements was at the front talking to Colson. Webb had just shown Cregan the piece of veroboard from the second timing and power unit. Two operatives from MI5 had been summoned and they were talking to Christine Harris and the other Special Branch officers. The beginnings of an Annacappa chart had been started on one section of the wall, which described the who/how/where/when and what of an investigation. Swann looked at it from where he sat. All they had so far. The vehicles, the time and date, the fatality and the information from the night manager at the Diner. Clements called them to sit down. ‘OK, girls and boys,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on, shall we. Apart from our colleagues from Box, you all know what happened.’ He looked at the two MI5 men. ‘Julian, David—you’re not up to speed on this?’

  Julian Moore, a specialist from the A4 surveillance team, shook his head. ‘If you’re not clear on anything after the briefing, speak up,’ Clements told him. He looked at the rest of the gathering then. ‘Phil Cregan’s going to take us through the video and anyone can ask questions as and when they want. I know Webby’s got something to share with us and, he looked over at Swann, ‘Flash has done some work on the car.’

  C
regan took them through the video from the Wheelbarrow up to the point when the screen went fuzzy as the upper hamper was ripped off, taking with it the attack camera. Swann was able to get a good look at the car for the first time and it was certainly the body of an old Mark II Cortina. Cregan finished by describing the second timing and power unit scenario. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘PIRA have done it before.’

  ‘Only this time it wasn’t PIRA.’ Swann shifted his position in his seat.

  Colson looked across the room at him. ‘We don’t know that, Jack. Not for certain, anyway. At this stage, everything is still very much conjecture.’

  Swann sat back again and dusted the leg of his suit. Webb winked at him and stood up. ‘The second TPU,’ he said. ‘Forensic examination of the scene is just about complete. We’ve interrogated the crater and done a fingertip search of zones one and two. The vehicle’s at DRA. We decided in the end to dig up the hole as well and ship it to them in its entirety. They should be able to give us a clue on explosive traces shortly. I imagine it was Semtex, but we won’t know till later. We’ve got substantial structural damage around the scene and I’d estimate about a couple of kilos.’ He paused then and looked at the chart on the wall. ‘We’ve got most of the driver’s seat. It’s vinyl and, as far as I can tell, it wasn’t covered. No melted bin liners or anything, so we might get some fibres. We know from Phil’s video there was a rug in the back of the car and we’ve recovered a little bit of it that wasn’t too badly burnt.’

  ‘Anything from the timer?’ Julian Moore asked him.

  ‘First TPU was a PIRA Mk 15. You can tell from the video before Phil did the con-ex. Christ knows, we’ve handled enough. Not only that, but we’ve got the contact nail and the spring from a standard Memopark. Only PIRA use them.’

  ‘What about a splinter—INLA, maybe?’ Christine Harris suggested.

  Clements leaned his elbows on the table. ‘It’s possible, Chrissie.’

  ‘There is one thing.’ Webb picked up an evidence bag from the box beside him. ‘What I think is a piece of the second TPU.’ He passed the bag back for everyone to have a closer look at. ‘I haven’t had time to check if we’ve seen it before or not,’ he said. ‘All I can tell you is that it certainly isn’t PIRA.’