Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  They went upstairs to the sixteenth floor and the conference room. Most of the team were gathered already. Swann looked at the chart on the wall: he had some additions to make to it. Colson went over what they had established so far and Webb imparted the information regarding the circuit board and the Barcelona incident.

  After he had finished, Swann related the events of the morning, the banking facilities of Medicourt Communications and the blond-haired men, O’Brien and McIlroy.

  When he had finished, nobody spoke for a few minutes, then Colson moved off the edge of the desk where he squatted. ‘It’s getting interesting,’ he said. ‘Lots of Irish bits and pieces, but no PIRA.’

  Swann placed his hands on the top of his head. ‘I think we ought to get somebody to check the bank account over the water, sir.’

  Christine stood up. ‘I’ll give someone a call for you, Jack.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Swann looked at Clements then. ‘I haven’t checked the passport yet, but I will. Something’s not right about Morton.’

  5

  SWANN LEFT THE YARD early that evening. He drove first to Muswell Hill to see his children, not wanting to miss them again, having done so the day before. He rang the bell, saw Joanna’s small face at the upstairs window transform into an expression of glee, then, even from outside, he could hear her feet thumping down the stairs. The next thing he knew she was in his arms. ‘Hey, darling. How you doing?’ He carried her inside and kicked the door closed with his heel. Rachael was upstairs and he could hear the sound of Charlotte, his youngest, moaning about Joanna getting all the cuddles. He climbed the stairs, still with Jo in his arms, telling him all about what she had been doing at school. She loved school, the only person alive, he thought, who couldn’t wait for Sunday to become Monday.

  He took her into the bathroom and set her down. Charlotte stood up and hugged him, plastering his jacket with soapy water. Rachael had a wry smile on her face as he extricated himself from his daughter and dabbed at his suit with a towel. Swann ignored her.

  ‘And how’re you, little short person?’ he said, crouching on to one knee as Charlotte sat down in the water again.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine.’

  Jo was hanging round his neck, her face under his chin, pushing his head right back. ‘Mummy says we might come and stay with you for a bit, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Because she’s got to go to work,’ Charley added.

  ‘Will I have to change my school?’ Joanna looked up at Swann. ‘I don’t want to, Daddy. I’ll miss all my friends.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I don’t like my school.’ Charlotte splashed a pink arm up and down in the water. Swann got to his feet and stepped back to avoid the waves.

  ‘You live in Waterloo, don’t you, Daddy,’ Jo said. ‘It’s not as nice as here.’

  ‘I like Daddy’s house.’ Charlotte grinned at him. ‘I like Mummy’s too, though. I like them both the same.’

  Swann looked at them and smiled. So different. Jo, the elder, very prim and proper, long blonde hair tied at the neck in a ponytail. Dark eyes like his and a thoughtful expression on her face most of the time. Charley, on the other hand, had the same blue eyes as her mother, and shorter, darker, more curling hair than her sister, though most of the curls had dropped out now. He stepped out of the bathroom. ‘You guys coming to stay with me this weekend?’ He looked at Rachael then. ‘That’s what we planned, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. What about it then, girls? We’ll go over and see Caroline’s horses.’ Caroline had two horses, one for Webb to ride, though he never did. Swann kissed both his daughters and left them to their baths.

  He went downstairs, Rachael following him. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ he told her. ‘It’ll take some sorting. What about Jo’s school?’

  ‘I know. The last thing I want to do is disturb her.’

  ‘Why don’t you just get the Aussie to move in here then?’

  She placed one hand on her hip and shook her head at him. ‘I’ve told you, Jack. It’s too far from his workshop. And he has got a name.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He sighed and flapped a hand at her. ‘We’ll sort something out. Don’t worry.’

  It was eight-thirty by the time he got to Pia’s in Shepherd’s Bush. She lived in a one-bedroomed ground-floor flat in Lime Grove. Swann pressed the doorbell and she answered it dressed in a bathrobe. He kissed her, laid the food on the work surface in the tiny kitchen at the back, then turned to her again. He pulled her very close; lips on her lips, then neck and down between her breasts. ‘Missed you, darling.’

  She held him, fingernails in his shoulder blades. ‘I missed you too.’

  He kissed her again, then they broke and she rested the flat of her palms against his chest.

  ‘I was just getting into a bath.’

  ‘This’ll keep. We can nuke it,’ he said, nodding towards the food parcels. He followed her through to the bathroom with the sunken bath and the huge mirror on the back of the door. He watched as she slipped off the robe and lowered herself into the foaming water. Her hair was cut short up the back of her neck, almost shaved it was so close, heavier on top but still cropped, spiky at the front accentuating the jet black of her eyes.

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he muttered.

  She smiled at him, the water reaching up her thighs to the dark mound of pubic hair. Her skin, though pale at this time of year, still had the rich depth of her Mediterranean birth. She lay back and gently smoothed the soap over her breasts, then down her belly and eased it between her legs. She touched the tip of her nose with her tongue and Swann tugged loose his tie.

  They ate dinner on the floor of the lounge, with candles dripping wax over the Victorian fireplace which housed the mock coal fire. It was lit, but low, and apart from the candles it threw out the only light. They ate and talked and drank wine. ‘I’ve got the kids tomorrow,’ Swann said. ‘They’re coming for the weekend.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Great. Rachael wants them to come and live with me, though.’

  Pia looked up, a little startled. ‘Permanently?’

  ‘For a while at least.’ He explained the week’s conversations.

  She sipped her wine and shrugged. ‘It’s fair enough, I suppose. She should be allowed to work.’

  Swann nodded. ‘I’ll have to get a nanny or something.’

  ‘Can you afford it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Caroline thought I could get one of those student au pairs, the ones who want board and lodging only.’

  Pia looked up then and her brow furrowed darkly. ‘And how will you manage that? You’ve only got two bedrooms.’

  ‘The sofa upstairs is a bed, remember? I can kip down on that.’

  ‘What—give her your room?’

  ‘Don’t see as I’ve got any choice.’

  She waggled her wine glass at him. ‘Just as long as there’s no tiptoeing in the night, Jack Swann. I know what they call you, remember.’

  He laughed then and tweaked her chin with his fingers. ‘That’s because of the suits, darling. Not the dirty raincoat.’ He sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘I thought we’d go over to Amersham on Saturday, if you fancied it. The kids love Caroline’s horses. We could stay over till Sunday?’

  ‘Why not. I might persuade the fat detective to cook.’

  Pia stared into the gas flames, eyes hooded and thoughtful. For a moment Swann studied her face, then rested a hand on her thigh. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘You look preoccupied.’

  Pia stretched, her robe falling open, revealing the curve of her breasts. She hunched forward, rubbing the stem of the wine glass between her palms. ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Paris was a pain.’ She glanced up at him then. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of all the bullshit, that’s all.’

  ‘Bullshit?’

  ‘You know, Jack. Rich people’s bullshit.’ She was silent again for a moment. ‘I
gnore me. I think I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  They made love again, on the floor of the lounge, with the fire hissing quietly and the candles twisting into darkness. He roamed her body with his, stiff and hard and desperate. Later, in bed, with the curtains thrown back and cold air blowing into the room through the open window, they lay side by side while the sex dried on their skin. At six in the morning he got up, showered, and went back to the Yard.

  He got coffee and went to his desk. He had the details from James Morton’s driving licence, which listed Fleet in Hampshire as his previous address. He had checked the electoral register with the council and found that Morton was listed. He clearly had lived in Fleet and paid his council tax. It added up. On the face of it genuine, but there was that nagging doubt at the back of his mind. At nine o’clock, he rang the Passport Office and gave them the number he had taken from Morton’s passport. After a short delay, the operator came back on the line.

  ‘You say the passport was renewed?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Not according to our records.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘When we issued it last year—it was for the first time.’

  Swann sat very still. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Can you send me a copy of the application form?’

  ‘Only on microfiche, the original would’ve been shredded ages ago.’

  ‘Soon as you can then, please.’ Swann gave her the fax number.

  When he put the phone down he went to the exhibits office and found George Webb.

  ‘James Morton lied to me,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Told me his passport was a renewal. It’s not. First application.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’

  Swann nodded. ‘I’m waiting for the microfiche copy of the form.’

  Webb looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Stupid mistake to make,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  They took the application details to the Family Records Centre in Islington. ‘Why lie to me, Webby?’ Swann said, as they parked. ‘He must know we’d check.’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Inside, the building was not as yet heaving with people researching family trees. Every time they went into the place these days, the world and his wife seemed to be there. Morbid fascination with the past, Swann called it. They went to the births section and pulled out the relevant indexes. Then it was a matter of going through them one by one. According to his passport Morton was born in 1961, so they got the four books for that year, which listed all the births in England and Wales in alphabetical order. It took them a while, but they located James Morton. Swann took the reference to the clerk at the desk and showed him his warrant card. ‘I need to know if anyone made a copy of his birth certificate—about six months ago,’ he said.

  The clerk took the reference from him and checked the records. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Somebody did. Almost exactly six months ago.’

  Swann traced the line of his lips with his tongue and looked sideways at Webb.

  ‘More and more interesting,’ Webb said as they left the desk again.

  ‘But now the hard part.’

  Webb pushed air from his cheeks. ‘You’re telling me.’ He looked at the rows and rows of books. ‘Every single death since 1961.’

  Swann pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while, Webby, but we’ve got a lot of bodies back at the Yard. He lied to me, didn’t he. I want to know why.’

  Over the next two weeks Swann and several colleagues devoted two hours a day to going through the death registers at the Islington records centre. A general election was beckoning and PIRA were determined to create as much havoc as possible. A number of railway stations had to be closed down when a whole raft of coded warnings came into the central command complex on the same day. The London Underground system came to a stop as more warnings were received by radio stations and newspapers. The capital ground to a halt. Traffic backed up and George Webb discovered he could drive on the pavement.

  The RUC Special Branch inquiry into Medicourt Communications discovered that the Allied Irish Bank account was one of a number with reasonably substantial credit balances. Medicourt was a non-trading company, owned by another which was owned by yet another. The main banking activities appeared to take place in Germany and northern Spain. Banking references were given by West Deutsche Landesbank in Frankfurt, and from there the trail ran cold, money being transferred in and out electronically from companies all over the world.

  Other priorities took over. Security on the mainland was at its zenith with the possibility of a change of government. As usual, it was a question of budgets, manpower and the relative merits of risk management. The domestic threat from PIRA would grow with every day that passed before 1 May. John Major had called the election in mid-March, a full six weeks before voting day.

  Swann found himself alone, spending more and more time poring over old tomes in Islington, as others were tasked elsewhere. In the middle of the third week, he was about to pack it in for the day when he felt a sudden burst of excitement. The death of James Morton was right there on the page before him. He checked and rechecked the details, then he sat back and rubbed his hands through his hair.

  Back at the Yard he looked for DI Clements, but he was out on a confidential inquiry. He looked for George Webb, but Webb was at the Old Bailey giving evidence. The witness box in Number 1 court, the loneliest square metre in the whole world when the Queen’s Counsel was picking holes in everything you said and did. Swann headed back to the squad room and saw the commander’s door was open. Colson was sitting across the desk from him. Swann hovered in the doorway and Colson motioned for him to come in. ‘Just give us a minute, would you, Jack,’ he said.

  Swann sat down and waited for them to finish their conversation. The commander had pictures of native American Indians hanging on his walls, high-quality oils from renowned Western artists. It had been something of a joke amongst the ranks and Garrod had been dubbed ‘Cochise’ behind his back. He pointed out to them that the modern-day terrorist learnt most of his trade from the likes of Crazy Horse and Ten Bears. Hit-and-run, the original guerrilla fighters. Geronimo, the Chiricahua Apache, was perhaps the best at evading capture. He would lie wrapped round the bole of a tree and sleep as patrols all but rode over him. On one occasion, he placed a handful of stolen blue coats on cacti and held a cavalry patrol at bay for four hours because they could not tell how many horsemen they faced.

  ‘Yes, Jack.’ Superintendent Colson was speaking to him.

  Swann started and looked up. ‘Queen’s House Mews, sir. James Morton, the man I interviewed.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He died of leukaemia when he was five.’

  Colson stared at him and then at the commander. Swann handed him the copy of the entry from the Family Records Centre. ‘Two things bother me, sir,’ he said. ‘First, he gave me the passport, and yet still managed to come up with a driving licence when I pressed him.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s odd. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred could lay their hands on their driving licence before they could their passport.’

  Colson nodded.

  ‘Secondly, he lied to me. Stupid mistake to make. Too stupid in my opinion. He told me the passport was a renewal, when he knew I’d find out it wasn’t.’

  Colson looked at him and frowned. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I’ll muster the troops. We need to consider our options.’

  Swann got up and went to the door.

  ‘Jack,’ Garrod checked him and Swann turned in the doorway. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, Guv,’ he said.

  They gathered upstairs at 2 p.m. Clements was still out, so Colson took the briefing. He spoke for a few minutes, then turned to Swann. ‘Jack, perhaps you’d like to tell everybody what you’ve discovered.’

  Swann mov
ed to the front of the room and told them about James Morton’s death.

  ‘Result, Flash,’ Webb said. ‘Bloody excellent result.’

  The others echoed his comment and Colson caught Swann’s eye. ‘Hard work,’ he said. ‘It always seems to pay off in the end.’

  Webb looked back at Swann. ‘How’re we going to play it?’

  ‘Surveillance. Joint SB and Box.’ He glanced at Christine and Julian Moore. ‘That’s if you guys can work together.’

  Julian looked witheringly at him.

  ‘We need to recce for a static observation point,’ Swann went on, ‘and we’ll need plenty of bodies on the street. You got any teams free right now?’

  ‘We’re pretty tight,’ Christine said. ‘There’s a bit going on, isn’t there. We could drag a few in from SO11.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ Julian said. ‘We’ve got all the manpower you need.’

  ‘I still want an SB presence,’ Swann said. ‘Make it easier to liaise.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Julian looked at Christine.

  ‘I’ll sort something out,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll give him a week or so, then do a covert on the bins,’ Swann went on. ‘I want to see what he’s throwing away.’ He glanced at Webb. ‘You and me?’

  ‘Dead of night.’ Webb rubbed his hands together. ‘Digital interference, just the way Caroline likes it.’

  ‘In the dark, George,’ Christine said, ‘why am I not surprised?’ MI5 and Special Branch set up a joint surveillance operation. Despite the jokes, it was a fact that since Special Branch had got used to the idea of civil servants aiding them with police work, they had won far more than they lost. The end of the cold war had spelled redundancy for informant handlers and surveillance-trained operatives. More manpower. No budget implications. Better results.

  Covertly, they set up an observation point in the building across the road from number 4. An attic flat with a good view over the street and the houses opposite. Television men arrived with a delivery of cardboard boxes and were greeted by the owner of the flat, a middle-aged lady who thought this police presence was wonderful.