Of those involved in the attempt at planting a bomb near the Albert Hall, David Kader and Dennis Reagan were now dead, and Simon Addley was serving twelve years in Belmarsh. Colin Addley, it transpired, had been Smitherman’s informant and he’d not stood trial. When I’d last seen him earlier this year, he’d been in the company of his spiritual guidance counsellor, who was attempting to help him to re-establish himself and reassert his own autonomy over his life chances, whatever that meant.
The other participant had been acting in an official undercover role. Christine Simmons had infiltrated their little cell by becoming Simon Addley’s girlfriend. It’d been her who’d shot and killed David Kader whilst they were waiting for Reagan to arrive. Reagan, by this time, however, unbeknownst to the others, was already dead. His killer was never found, though I was absolutely certain I knew who it was.
Simmons had, at one time, been my fantasy woman. I’d really thought I was in love with her, but I’d simply fallen victim to an illogical and irrational infatuation, and my chances of being elected president of the world twice in a row had been slightly better than those of being the man in her life. Anyway, the position of woman of my dreams had now been taken.
I looked at the file relating to Red Heaven and recognised a few names, but I was almost certain most on the list were not bombers. To put together a bomb, and then to plant one, takes nerves of steel and an adherence to a cause transcending any consideration of the lives lost in the promoting of that cause. Hardly anyone on this list possessed these. But what if I was wrong?
If not Red Heaven, then who? Radical Islamist terrorists like those adhering to Muearada were certainly capable of bombings, and all available evidence suggested they had no qualms about the indiscriminate taking of life, but car bombs of this nature were not their style. They relied more on suicide bombers in crowded places, or crazed fanatics armed with knives driving cars into a crowd and running amok, timed to cause maximum damage and impact, and they seemed to have an almost inexhaustible supply of people ready to depart from this world in such spectacular fashion, taking as many western infidels with them as they could whilst on their way to heaven to meet the virgins who awaited them. They wouldn’t plant a bomb and set it off in the small hours because there’d be no major impact in terms of loss of life.
I printed off the list of Red Heaven suspects and made a couple of phone calls.
*
Five twenty-five. I was sitting in a bleak, soulless room at Belmarsh prison, South-East London. I’d made a call to Smitherman, who’d called whoever it was, and permission had been granted for me to talk to a Category A prisoner inside a high-security prison. I’d inched my way along the Woolwich Road towards Thamesmead amongst the homeward bound commuter traffic, and was now waiting for Simon Addley.
Every time I approach Belmarsh I’ve always wondered what it must feel like to be a prisoner travelling along this road, seeing the prison looming in the distance, knowing the next several years of your life are going to be spent there, in many cases in solitary confinement and always under conditions of maximum security, with constant personal intrusion by prison staff and being under observation twenty-four-seven. What would Thornwyn have been thinking as a convicted police officer?
I was taken to the same room we’d spoken in the last time I’d come to see Addley. It was still austere and about as cheerful as an undertaker’s waiting room, with just one heavily scratched Formica-topped table bolted to the floor. There were metal chairs either side, also bolted down and about as comfortable as a bed of nails. The room was windowless and lit by a pair of strip lights three feet apart and about twelve feet above the table. When I’d visited Belmarsh to talk to Commander Neville Thornwyn, we’d spoken in a smart, cosy office with a view of the outside world, comfy chairs, pictures on the walls and floor carpets. I’d also been served good-quality refreshments. The British class system in action.
Addley was escorted into the room by two prison officers, both built like front row forwards, one in front and one behind. He wasn’t handcuffed, and he looked like he’d come from the gym, wearing a black T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers. He was looking remarkably relaxed. His hair had grown longer and it looked as though he was making an unsuccessful attempt to grow a beard. His face lit up when he saw who was in the room. He took a seat opposite me, sat back and folded his arms.
One prison officer left the room whilst the other closed the door and went to stand against it, but I shook my head and told him to wait outside. He asked if I was sure, reminding me Addley was a top-security prisoner. I said I was.
“I’ll shoot him if he gets out of line.” I grinned at him. He reluctantly left.
When I’d last spoken to Addley, he’d said he was now following the spiritual path and had left his old self behind. He no longer believed in the cause and was now actively pursuing spiritual redemption and meditating regularly. He’d certainly sounded different, radiating love and harmony with the universe, and I was curious to see if he was still that person.
“Hello,” he said softly, smiling benignly. “This is a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Hi, Simon.” I nodded. “Need to pick your brains.”
“I’m not part of that world any more, Rob. I did tell you that last time you were here.”
Rob? I’d obviously missed the part where we’d become friends. I ignored the informality for the moment.
“Yeah, that’s true, you did. But what I’d like you to do for me,” I said as I produced my list from my inside jacket pocket and unfolded it, “is look at this list and tell me who you think could be capable of handling and planting explosives.” I placed the list on the table in front of him. He looked down at it.
“Is this to do with the car bomb earlier today?”
“Yeah, it is. Nobody’s come forward and claimed responsibility, so we’re trying to get a handle on anyone associated with groups like Red Heaven who could be linked to this.”
He picked up the list. As he did so, the door opened and a prison officer entered the room, carrying a tray with a mug, a small cafetière of coffee and a plate of biscuits. This hadn’t happened last time I’d spoken to Addley. The bewilderment registered on my face.
“We don’t usually do this, but this is a present from Pete.” He put the tray down in front of me and poured a coffee. “He said you deserve it.”
“Pete?” I was curious.
“You made his day one time, so this is his way of saying thanks.” He left the room. I was still bemused. Addley, though, knew what the situation was.
“There’s a corrupt cop in here and the word on the grapevine is, a few months back, another cop came in here and slugged him one, laid him out. Because of this,” – he nodded at the cafetière – “my guess is it was you smacked him.”
“Me? Assault a superior officer? Nah, they got the wrong man,” I said insincerely, “but I don’t mind a coffee.”
Addley grinned and evidently didn’t believe me, but he went back to looking at the list whilst I sipped some coffee. He took his time, nodding occasionally as he scanned the page. There were fourteen names on the list, each with very brief biographical details, and he considered them all carefully.
“You got a pen?”
I passed him a pen from my jacket pocket. He made a couple of comments on the paper and marked a few names.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it’d possibly be one of those three.” He pointed to the names he’d put ticks next to and handed the paper back, along with my pen.
I asked why those three.
“They were all present when Kader talked about how to prime explosives, and especially how to do it without blowing yourself to hell. He showed us how to make small but effective IEDs, ones likely to cause a lot of damage, and these three all took quite an interest in what he said, practically hung on his every word. This one” – he pointed to the third name he’d ticked – “was particularly keen to be involved. Most of the others on this li
st wouldn’t want to be involved in anything to do with bombings.”
It occurred to me to ask, if that was the case, why they were part of Red Heaven, but I decided I didn’t have the time just now. “You’re sure about these names?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he replied slowly. “If anyone in our little circle was gonna be involved in bombings, it’d probably be one of these three. At least, that was the situation a while back. But I’ve not seen any of these people for well over a year now, so who knows? Things could be different, but I doubt they are.”
I looked at the names ticked. At least it’d given me a place to start. He gave me back my pen.
“Okay, thanks for this.” I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. I drained my coffee and was about to get up when Addley leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the table. The look in his eyes was hard to read.
“I’m still a Category A prisoner, did you know that?”
I did. That’s why I’d needed Smitherman to obtain permission for me to be here.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Likely to be one for some considerable time as well.”
“I’m still kept apart from other prisoners. I’m not allowed free association with the general population, but I’ve made a few friends in here. I have access to books and I can use the library. It’s not so bad. I can still meditate whenever I need to, and in here” – he touched the sides of his head with both index fingers – “I’m a free man. My spirit’s free to go wherever it wishes. There are no bars where I spend my time.”
“Good for you, Simon.”
I didn’t particularly like Simon Addley, and, had the bombing he’d been planning with others occurred, the casualty list would have quite likely been very high, including several women and children, given what the target was. But he was an intelligent guy, and if spirituality took him away from wanting to participate in terrorism, then c’est la vie.
“No, it’s really true.” He had a gleam in his eyes. “Some nights in here I can hear people screaming in the dark because they can’t hack it any longer, they can’t handle the solitude, and they end up either cracking up or zoning themselves out by taking whatever drugs they can get hold of. But that doesn’t affect me. I’m comfortable with who I am now. I wasn’t always, and I didn’t know why. Now I do.”
He sat back. I believed him. He radiated an aura of calmness with his surroundings I’d seen few prisoners possess. In my time as a detective I’d spoken to several other prisoners in jail, and mostly they’d been full of pent-up anger and rage about their incarceration, and other emotions they could neither rationalise nor explain. Addley was different, though. To listen to him, he could have been describing a long weekend at a transcendental meditation centre rather than a top-security prison like Belmarsh. But he had eleven more years left to serve. I hoped his spiritual tranquillity could last that long.
I stood up. “Thanks for your help, Simon.”
“Do you think I could see my brother?” He had an imploring look in his eyes.
“I can see if it’s possible, but that decision’s not up to me, so no promises, okay?”
“Okay.”
I called for the guard outside the door. As he and the other guard entered the room, Addley stood up and automatically raised his arms ninety degrees to his body. One of the guards patted him down to ensure he’d not been slipped anything he shouldn’t have. He nodded towards the door.
Addley turned to me as he left. “Take care, Rob.”
I nodded.
“Rob? Our Simon’s got a new best friend, it seems,” one guard said to the other in such a way as to make me think he wasn’t being entirely flippant.
*
I ran the three names Addley had marked through the Branch database of known or suspected terrorists and their sympathisers. In the current febrile climate concerning terrorism, it had been expanded considerably and was now of substantial size. That’s because, whilst names were continually being added, virtually no names ever came off the list. Once identified as or suspected, actually or potentially, of being involved in terrorism, or if you were a friend or an associate of such a person, or even if you knew someone but didn’t know of their involvement in terrorism, your name remained where it was. The only way off the database was to die. And even then there were no guarantees.
Of the three names, Chris Linton was now living in the highlands of North Scotland. A call to police in Inverness confirmed he lived west of the town and worked on a farm. Police knew he was there because he’d been issued with a parking ticket Wednesday. The second man, Joe Rolfe, was still in London, living with his parents in Bow and unemployed. Nothing new had been noted against either name since the Addleys’ trial, and they’d largely withdrawn from the scene, but their names remained because of once being associated with Red Heaven.
The third name was more intriguing. Martin Packer was also in London and had remained active on the extremist fringe. He was known to attend rallies where controversial speakers, like the recently deported cleric Abu Hamza and the late Khaled al-Ebouli, had spoken. He’d also been spotted at demonstrations, plus at public meetings held to raise funds to pay for the costs of lawyers representing those members of Armswatch currently awaiting trial. Several of his known associates featured on our database, including one who’d recently travelled abroad and stayed in Italy with people identified by Italian security, the AISE, as likely Red Heaven sympathisers. I saw several pictures of Packer in the company of suspected Red Heaven members, taken at rallies or demonstrations. Currently, he was working behind the bar in a Soho pub.
*
The pub was surprisingly empty for mid-Friday evening, and there were still empty tables available. I saw a woman zigzagging through the punters collecting empty glasses, and I enquired if Martin was working this evening.
“Bloke there.” She nodded at a sandy-haired man pulling a pint. Just as well I’d asked, as he looked very different from the picture on his file. He was now sporting what looked like a crew cut and designer goatee stubble, and was also wearing blue-framed glasses.
He was taking money from a punter as I approached the counter. He saw me and, for the next few minutes, whilst still serving drinks and taking money, he sent me what appeared to be a very unfriendly stare. I’d changed from my court clothing and was wearing my usual attire of black leather jacket, polo shirt, dark chinos and trainers, but his eyes told me he knew I was police. He waited for a quiet moment and approached, smiling ironically.
“I’ve not seen you before but I know the look, and I’ll bet money you’re from some part of the state security apparatus,” he said, knowingly.
“Make it a good bet, then, ’cause you’d win.”
“So, what are you, then? MI5? Special Branch?”
I showed ID. “The latter.”
“And I’ll bet you’re not here for a drink either.”
“You sure? I’m off duty. I’ll have one of them.” I nodded at the draught Peroni. He pulled a pint for me. I put a £5 note on the counter.
“Peroni’s £5.45.”
I winced and put fifty pence on top of the note.
“I’ll be over there.” I nodded to an empty table. I didn’t have to teach him how to suck an egg. He knew why I was in the pub.
I sat down and waited. Ten minutes and half a pint of very expensive cold beer later, he reluctantly wandered across and sat opposite. He was wearing a greeny-brown polo shirt, which seemed to be the bar staff uniform. He looked me up and down with the same expression he’d have if he found something unappetising floating in his soup.
“I think the last time I threw up, it was that colour.” I nodded at his shirt.
He sniffed and ignored my comment. “I’m working till two and I’ve got only a fifteen-minute break, so make it quick. What do you want with me?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” I asked as I sipped more beer.
He thought for a moment. “That bomb earlier today. You think I was involved, don’t
you?”
“Were you?”
“No. I’m through with all that stuff,” he stated firmly. “I’ve not gone near anything like that for over a year now, and I don’t want to, either.”
“You still associate with people who’re involved, though,” I reminded him.
“Mostly, they’re just friends I’ve known for some time. I’ve given up thinking bombs will change anything, but, yeah, I’m still active politically. It’s no secret I wanna see real social change in this country. I wanna see the back of this miserable capitalist system we’re forced to endure, where bankers like Fred fucking Goodwin can tank the western economy, sending it almost into meltdown, and ordinary people have to pay for it with the political choice of austerity, but I’m not gonna kill anyone to do it.”
I was debating another beer whilst he spoke, but £5.45 for a Peroni?
“One of my mates’s gone inside for twelve years because of that,” he said.
I knew who he was referring to. Simon Addley.
“I’ve a source tells me you could be a likely candidate for the bomber.” I held his glare.
“Your source’s full of shit, then.” He was adamant. “As I just said, I’m done with all that, so you’d better update your file on me. Not only that, I’ve been inside once. I didn’t like it.” He shook his head.
I knew this. He’d once been remanded in custody and had spent a couple of weeks in Brixton prison before the charges against him and three others had been withdrawn.
“So where you were yesterday?”
“Right here,” he stated firmly. “Started mid-afternoon and was here till just after two, same as I’ll be doing tonight and tomorrow. I’ve been here every day this week, you can check that one out easily enough.”
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