Unknown to her, I’d given her career a boost because, through a circuitous route, I’d anonymously provided her with confidential details concerning insider trading by James Blatchford, about-to-be-elected Tory Mayor of London. It became a story of national interest as the Standard published it two days before the election, and it was picked up and reported by several of the more serious broadsheet newspapers, plus it was covered on national TV news. Even though the allegations caused only temporary embarrassment to Blatchford – they’d been easily brushed aside by his team, and he’d still won the election – the story had succeeded in raising her profile on the paper, to the extent that she was no longer being given fluff pieces about celebrities, and was getting far more substantive topics to investigate and write about. Recently, she’d even interviewed the newly appointed female Home Secretary, a London MP, which had been given a two-page splash across the Standard.
Through an act of sweet serendipity, as I’d been on the Blatchford case from the start, Smitherman had asked me to investigate how Taylor had managed to acquire such confidential information. I arranged meetings with City Hall and went through the motions of talking to several of Blatchford’s team, and I then interviewed Taylor informally over a late morning coffee. She’d refused to say where the information had come from. It was more a cosy chat than an interview and, as I already knew where it’d come from, I wasn’t going to press her. And after the interview she’d asked me out.
Thus, after a cursory investigation, my report concluded it was probably a disaffected member of Blatchford’s team. This had been accepted and was now the official view.
Sally Taylor’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Why? She has everything, that’s why. She’s the complete package. She’s an alpha female, highly intelligent (first-class honours degree in English Lit from Queen Mary’s), she’s funny, loving, vivacious, cool, well read, has a great sense of humour and is so easy to talk to and be with, and she has eyes I could happily dive into and drown in. Have I mentioned she also has great hair (I love her mop of hair, it was the first thing I ever noticed about her), she’s drop-dead gorgeous and very sexy? I’d had more fun pushing a trolley round a crowded Battersea supermarket on a Friday evening with her selecting breakfast cereals, or even loading a dishwasher, than I’d had in entire relationships with other women. I even enjoyed watching Great British Bake Off with her, a programme I’d ordinarily sooner eat my own arm than watch.
That first Sunday morning, we both knew the previous evening hadn’t been just a one-night stand. Lying in bed, there’d been no sense whatever of feeling uncomfortable with the situation, not the smallest hint of embarrassment or awkwardness, neither of us looking at the other and thinking, Oh, God, did I really just do that with . . .? We’d both been completely at ease with what had occurred.
We’d been facing each other, faces about ten inches apart, when we’d awoken, and I’d then experienced magic for the first time in my life. She’d smiled at me, leaned across, touched my cheek and given me the gentlest kiss, but one which told me everything, then she had nestled her head onto my shoulder and wrapped herself around me.
She’d insisted on cooking breakfast for us, and we’d spent Sunday together. We’d spent the morning reading the Sunday Times and the Observer over some quite delightful Italian coffee and Belgian chocolate biscuits, had a lunchtime drink and then taken a slow stroll along the banks of the Thames on a breezy but sunny late spring afternoon, neither of us talking, just wandering along holding hands, staring and smiling at each other like lovesick schoolkids on a first date. We were both on a high as we knew something extraordinary had happened this weekend.
All I’d had to worry about as I left Battersea, apart from wondering how the hell I was going to concentrate on work after the last two nights, was someone asking why I was coming on duty Sunday evening still wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing when I’d gone off duty Saturday afternoon. I was hoping nobody noticed.
She’d wanted me to stay over again, but I’d had to leave at 5.30 because I was on duty from six till sometime past midnight for the next two evenings. I was off duty from mid-Tuesday afternoon till Thursday, though, so she’d given me her spare keys and said, “Come round when you’ve finished. I get home around 6.30; I’ll cook dinner for us.” It wasn’t an invite if I wanted it; it was a statement of what was going to happen. And it did.
Wednesday morning, after what can only be described as an epic night with Taylor, a night when she’d engraved her name on my soul, I woke up feeling exactly as I’d done on Sunday morning, because I finally knew what it was about her which had so intrigued me.
She was my future. This was it. Sally Taylor had become my world.
We knew something was happening, so we’d taken things slowly. We hadn’t made the mistake of living in each other’s pockets too soon, and we spent time apart. We both worked erratic hours in jobs where unexpected demands on our time were not unknown, but I also needed to return to my flat to get some clean clothes.
I’d not seen her since Wednesday last, so I was really looking forward to this evening. I hurriedly texted back saying, Oops, on my way.
She was waiting in the pub when I arrived. She lived close to Battersea Park, in a third-floor maisonette flat she shared with a female BBC journalist who occasionally appeared on the Breakfast Show commenting on Eastern European issues, and we frequented a pub near to the park entrance. She was wearing tight black and grey faded jeans, a denim jacket over a loose-fitting, dark blue knitted sweater and a multicoloured silk scarf wrapped round her neck. With her thick, straw-coloured wavy hair dancing around her shoulders and tumbling over her glasses, she looked fantastic.
One warm hug and kiss later, she bought me a much-needed pint and we took a table. On the way to meet her I’d thought of something she could help me with, so, after a delightful hour eating, talking and just gazing at Taylor, I asked for her help.
“I’d like you to look up something which was probably reported about fifteen years back.”
I explained about the accident involving a North London family in Dorset, name of McGreely. I explained that there had been no survivors, and I asked if she could check to see what the Evening Standard had written at the time of the accident, plus any follow-up stories. I didn’t mention anything about the IRA connection, saying instead it had a bearing on a cold case we were re-examining, which was technically true, and I was curious about what might have been written about it by a London newspaper. She agreed she’d look it up.
T H R E E
Sunday
MOST OF THE NEWSPAPERS led with the story about bombs on London’s streets again, with several of the papers showing a picture of the burnt-out wreck of the car in Belvedere Road. The fact of an own goal being scored wasn’t mentioned as the news hadn’t yet been released, and the body, or those parts of it which could be found, had been removed. As nobody had come forward and admitted being responsible for both bombs, inevitably the speculation centred upon who was likely to have been responsible, with the favourite being Red Heaven, followed closely by Muearada. There was little mention of the IRA, though a couple of the more downmarket tabloids reminded their readers there were still lots of IRA sympathisers in the capital. I knew this as I’d come across several in a previous investigation, but I also knew most of them hadn’t the nerve to get involved in bombings. These people usually needed several Guinnesses even to remember the lyrics to ‘Danny Boy’.
There were calls by several of the right-wing tabloids for much more stringent security in public places, and for police in all major cities like London to be armed as a matter of routine, which was of course hysterical and overreactive nonsense. However, the more serious broadsheet papers commented that more and better intelligence was much more likely to produce results than more mostly unenforceable legislation and the routine arming of the police, with its implications for police–public relations. This I could agree with. We could use some intelligence, because c
urrently we had none at all.
I was looking at the Observer’s coverage of yesterday’s bomb blast when Smitherman approached my desk holding a buff file, which he handed to me. Even though it was Sunday, he was still formally attired in a suit, crisp white shirt and tie, looking as though he was going off to church. Fortunately I’d left some clean clothes at Taylor’s flat.
The report had been compiled last evening, and was a fuller account of both bombings. It was also marked Secret, with a message alongside stating the file was not to leave the office.
“Familiarise yourself with the contents of this, then give it back. Don’t take it away. I want you to follow this one up, DS McGraw. Put some pressure on. Drop everything else; as I said yesterday, this investigation now gets top priority.”
The report began by confirming Major Allsopp’s belief that the second bomb was almost certainly the work of a known IRA bomber. The nature of the materials used, plus the fragments of the timing mechanism and the now-established presence of traces of Semtex as well as ammonium nitrate, was clear evidence this was the work of a dissident IRA faction. The report went into how the bomb had been assembled, and it speculated as to how and why it had prematurely detonated when it did, using a few technical terms I couldn’t pronounce and didn’t understand. It was estimated about ten to twelve pounds of explosives had been used and, had it detonated in a crowded area, it could have resulted in many fatalities and some horrific injuries, plus considerable property damage.
Police had got a break, though, as the driver of the car in Belvedere Road had now been identified from his dental records; he’d been too badly burnt to make any other kind of identification possible. I could see several gruesome pictures, taken from different angles, of what looked like a burnt tree trunk, but was in fact the car bomber, minus several body parts. He’d been identified as Seamus Drew, twenty-two, from North London, known to the Branch and listed as an IRA sympathiser, alongside several of his known associates, one of whom was Drake Mahoney. This further confirmed Allsopp’s suspicion about an IRA bomb.
The picture on Drew’s file had been taken two years ago and showed a smiling, bright-eyed, fresh-faced, curly-ginger-haired young man with his whole life stretching out before him, and who looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind your younger sister bringing home to introduce to you as her prospective husband. Yet this same man had just died a quite appalling death, being caught on top of a car bomb and, quite literally, blown to pieces.
His family had yet to be informed of the actuality of his death, and I thought I saw Smitherman smile slightly when he informed me this was now my job. I was to go and talk to the family about their son, find out everything I could about him, his associates and his recent activities. My Sunday was getting better already.
Drew’s address was Stoke Newington, a flat on the second floor of a council tower block just off the Stoke Newington high street, where he’d lived with his parents and younger sister, Theresa. The family was third-generation Irish descent but, other than Seamus, there was no record of any involvement in political activity. His father worked as a bus driver for London Transport and the mother worked in a local supermarket. The sister was a college student. There was nothing on file about any of them, though Seamus had received one spell of probation for shoplifting when he was sixteen.
After noting some names, I returned the file to Smitherman and then drove to Stoke Newington, parked nearby and approached the flat with a sense of dread. There’s no worse job than informing a family of the death of one of their number. I took a deep breath and rang the bell. The door was answered by Drew’s mother, who was smiling broadly and wished me good morning in a pleasant Irish lilt. I showed ID and asked to be admitted. At this her smile faded slightly.
The living room was small, neat and very compact. There was a picture of the Virgin Mary on a wall, next to a large crucifix. I could smell bacon had recently been cooked in the kitchen but, given what I was here for, I had no appetite, especially having seen the pictures of what was left of Seamus Drew. Looking at his mother, I just hoped to God she never saw those pictures.
Mrs Drew was joined by her husband, Patrick. They invited me to sit. I did, sitting down at the table. They took the seats across from me. Over Mr Drew’s shoulder I could see a picture of Seamus, smiling broadly. I swallowed hard looking at it.
“Now, why would you be wanting to talk to us just before ten this fine Sunday morning?” Mrs Drew began. She sounded nervous.
It must have been the expression on my face because, as I was about to speak, Mrs Drew suddenly anticipated why I was present. She put both hands to her mouth, her eyes registering horror, and she started breathing faster. Her husband moved up closer, putting his arm around her shoulders. He looked very worried.
“Oh, dear God, no, don’t tell me . . .” Her voice had risen in intensity and become one of nervous apprehension, knowing bad news was about to be imparted. Her eyes began to well up with tears. “It’s Seamus, there’s been an accident, hasn’t there?”
I took a deep breath and psychologically steadied myself.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid your son Seamus is dead.” I tried to sound empathic, but there was no easy way to do this.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she wailed. “Oh dear God, no, no, no.” Each no went up in intensity, with the last one sounding like she was screaming.
She threw her arms around her husband’s neck and cried loudly. These were tears being wrenched from her very soul. Only a mother losing a child could hurt so much and cry like this. You think you’ve heard real crying and screams of pain before? Not until you’ve heard a mother crying after the death of a child, you haven’t. During my initial police training I’d had to accompany several more experienced officers when they’d had to break news of fatalities to relatives, and I’d been told I had to be dispassionate and maintain an emotional distance if I was to cope when the dams of emotions burst for the recipients of such appalling news. It wasn’t easy then and, despite my now having more experience, it hasn’t got any easier.
Police have to walk a fine line between being overly empathic when breaking bad news and remaining objective. But my feelings here were somewhat ambivalent. Seamus Drew had suffered the fate he’d been intending for others. I couldn’t help thinking about what Major Allsopp had said about the bomb yesterday, and even though there was nothing listed against anyone else in the family, I couldn’t help wondering whether the family knew about Sean’s activities, though his mother’s bitter tears were clouding my judgement.
For the next few minutes her heartfelt sobs were the only sound in the room. I sat quietly, useless in the face of family tragedy, wishing a female officer could be here with me. She then stopped and dried her eyes.
“How did he die?” Mr Drew asked. He sounded choked and trying to hold his emotions in check, but I could see tears on his cheeks. I took a deep breath.
“He died in an explosion on the South Bank early yesterday morning,” I said formally.
“What, the one on the news last night?” He looked concerned.
“Yes,” I replied. “Seamus was driving the car when it exploded.”
Mr Drew gasped audibly. “He was driving it?”
I nodded. “Yes, he was.”
“Oh, my Christ.” He bowed his head and crossed himself.
Mrs Drew began to cry loudly again. At the same moment a smiling young woman came through the front door and into the living room. It was the daughter, Theresa. She looked like a female version of her brother, albeit with longer hair. Her smile quickly disappeared when she heard the crying, and she immediately dropped to her knees in front of her mother.
“Ma, what is it? What’s happened?” She then saw me and a look of horror came over her face. She knew instantly I was not the bearer of glad tidings of comfort and joy.
“Your brother Seamus’s dead,” her father said.
She bowed her head and began to cry, thoug
h not as forcefully as her mother had done.
“What happened?” she sniffed.
“He died in that bomb blast on the South Bank yesterday,” her father said.
Despite her tears, her face changed to one of anger.
“I told him, I sodding well told him,” she cried loudly.
“Told him what?” I wondered.
“I told him those feckin’ friends of his would get him into trouble.” She swore loudly as she got up and slouched off into the kitchen.
Instantly my focus switched. The situation changed from my informing a family about the death of a loved one into a formal investigation. As upsetting as this was for the family, if Theresa Drew knew something, anything at all, I wanted to know what it was. I left the parents to their grief for the moment.
She was crying hard into a tea towel as I entered the kitchen. The lingering aftersmell of cooked bacon and eggs was delicious, but I still had no appetite. I pulled the door to and identified myself as a Special Branch Detective.
“Which friends are you referring to?” I asked.
She initially didn’t answer. She removed the tea towel but was sobbing quietly to herself, and I could see tears running down her cheeks. I stood closer to her.
“Theresa, I know this is a bad moment for you,” I said quietly but firmly, “but your brother died yesterday driving a car packed with explosives which could have killed God only knows how many people.”
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