Marius

by Laurence Todd

  The two women and their prisoner drove away. I holstered my weapon and breathed out. Phew.

  One of the first lessons I’d ever learned on becoming a detective, when I was preparing to be armed on specific occasions, and one reinforced firmly when I joined Special Branch and began carrying a weapon routinely, was that, if you ever draw your gun, you’ve got to be prepared to use it. If you’re not prepared, don’t draw it. At one of the very first induction sessions I’d attended concerning the use of firearms, the chief instructor, an ex-SAS major, had said the cardinal sin was showing you were nervous, apprehensive or, even worse, scared. I clearly remembered the words of the training officer who’d taught me how to hold and use firearms. He’d emphasised the point quite strenuously that even if you’re fucking bricking it – and there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you are, because every copper drawing a gun gets scared at some point – never hesitate in front of your opponent. You do that, you’re a live target.

  I also remembered another ex-SAS officer saying to our group, “Even hardened members of the SAS get scared.” He’d said, “They’re highly trained, highly disciplined soldiers, but they’re also still human, so they’re trained to turn that fear into a positive, to use it and to work with the fear and the nerves, rather than let it distract them.”

  Thinking about this made the fast-flowing adrenaline slow down. I could feel my heart rate returning to normal.

  I was about to put Chappy in the car and take him in when I noticed the young police officer was still present, and walking towards me. He had a curious look on his face.

  “Excuse me, sir, can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, ’course you can.” I smiled.

  “I heard you say just now your name’s McGraw; is it Rob McGraw?”

  I confirmed he had it right.

  “In that case, if you’re the right one, I believe you and my father were friends.”

  “Oh yeah? Who might that be?”

  “Brian Turley.”

  Brian Turley. I knew him. We’d served in the same CID team under DCI Thornwyn, as he then was. I was friends with Brian but, unknown to me, he was as corrupt as Thornwyn and the other one, John Paine. Had he not died after being hit by a taxi while crossing a road late one night, drunk as a skunk, he would have been interrogated by the IPCC the following Monday. The evidence against him was overwhelming and there was no doubt he would have been prosecuted for corruption, tried in the criminal courts and jailed.

  On its own, this was bad enough, but it wasn’t the worst of his sins. He’d been a participant in the burglary of a weapons shop in Battersea, with the guns taken being passed on to a radical Islamist academic, Khaled al-Ebouli. He’d also unintentionally killed a member of the team, the man who’d passed the weapons to al-Ebouli, in a fight over payment. Had all this been known, and Turley charged with corruption, manslaughter and several offences relating to terrorism, he would undoubtedly have gone down for many years.

  Turley had always been a heavy drinker, but he’d lapsed into full-blown alcoholism, drinking at least one bottle of vodka a day, as well as a few beers, and this had contributed to the lack of judgement he‘d shown in the last year of his life. But, for reasons I wasn’t quite sure of at the time, I’d covered up Turley’s role in the burglary and kept his name out of the investigation into the death of the weapons man, so all the IPCC would have had was his involvement in corrupt practices, taking bribes and distorting evidence. On their own, those charges would have been serious enough.

  Partly, I’d covered his tracks and kept his name out of events he could have served time for so his divorced wife and family would still be entitled to claim ‘death-in-service’ benefits, as it was unfair on his family for them to lose out because of his actions. Whether they’d ever received anything, though, I’d no idea.

  Smitherman had graphically described Turley as a disgrace to the uniform, so I could only hope he would never find out what I’d done.

  “Yeah, I knew Brian,” I said. “We were in CID together. You look a lot like him, actually.” That’s why he looked familiar. “Your old man was a good guy.”

  “With all respect, sir, no, he wasn’t. Pardon my language, sir, he was a bastard and nothing more than a lush.” He almost spat the words out. “He cared more for the bottle than he ever did for my mum, my brother, my sister and me. Did you know he came to our house the afternoon of the day he died? He was actually almost sober for once, and he poured it all out about how he wanted to get clean, dry out and come back home, wanted us all to be a family again,” he sneered. “My mum said no, it’s far too late for that now. She told him she’d moved on and it was time for him to do the same. He cried while he was there, and he went on and on and on about how lonely he was.”

  From his tone, I got the impression he’d been indifferent to how his father was feeling.

  “He said someone called Rob McGraw had been to see him earlier that day to check up on him, and he was the only friend he had left in the world, the only person still talking to him.”

  He paused. He was probably right, but I felt dismayed hearing this. I’d seen Brian in the morning on the day he died and he’d not had a drink yet. He was trying to stay sober for as long as he could as, on the following Monday, he was due to be interrogated by the IPCC. Hearing his son, he obviously hadn’t stayed sober very long.

  “He left the house saying he’d nothing left to live for any more. He went out and spent the afternoon drinking and got absolutely bloody shitfaced drunk and witnesses say he walked straight out into the path of a moving vehicle, died soon after. You know how much alcohol they found in his system?”

  I didn’t and I didn’t want to, but this confirmed my long-held suspicion his death wasn’t an accident. He’d committed suicide. I sighed sadly.

  “All I can say is,” I said with a shrug, “the man I worked with when I first knew him was a good copper. Taught me a lot, he did. I learnt a lot about being a detective from your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry, sir. I’m not,” he said, matter-of-factly. “He was never a father to his kids and he made my mother’s life a living hell. We’re much better off without his shadow in the background.”

  He paused for a moment, and his expression changed.

  “Anyway,” he said quietly, “what I wanted to say was, I heard you went to his funeral, and I’d like to thank you for doing that. I’ve no feelings for my father whatsoever, but I’m just pleased he didn’t go out alone. No one deserves that. At least someone was there with him at the end.” He paused again. “Thank you for listening to me, sir.”

  With that, he turned sharply and walked away down the road.

  My euphoria at what I thought was a major step forward in finding this sleeper cell had dissipated at learning not only that Brian Turley’s family had disowned him, his son having just spoken so venomously about him, but also that he actually had committed suicide. I remembered his funeral being very sparsely attended. His wife and kids hadn’t attended. I’d seen his elderly parents and one or two other people, but I’d been the only police officer present. From the numbers who attended, we could have held the wake in a phone box.

  I turned away and took a few deep breaths. How low does someone have to sink to reach the stage of thinking life isn’t worth living, and then doing something about it? How deep actually is rock bottom? I could feel tears welling up at the thought Turley had committed suicide, and that I probably was his only friend. In the close-knit ranks of our squad, he’d become a pariah. Even though the extent of his alcoholism was a self-inflicted choice, I was sad at how fast he’d spiralled downhill in the last year of his life, and how tragic his passing was, killing himself aged only forty-eight, but I realised now wasn’t the time for tears. Another time, perhaps, when I’d had more time to digest what I’d heard. If I cried at all, it’d be on Sally Taylor’s shoulder because I would need comforting, and who better?

  A few more deep breaths.
I loaded Chappy and the cases into the car and drove away.

  *

  I drove Chappy to Brick Lane police station, where he was led away to be questioned and charged. I deposited the three bags as evidence and asked for them to be checked for fingerprints ASAP. I also wanted to know if either of the Sigs had been used recently. I inquired about the other man just brought in, and was told he was being held in an interview room. I left him to fret whilst I requested the use of a computer.

  I still had the man’s wallet, so, before I deposited it as evidence, I looked through it. I found his driver’s licence. I was hoping to see the surname Redlands but, according to this, his name was Murray Kirkwall. The picture was of the man I’d arrested at the lock-up. I logged on to the Special Branch database and requested all known details about a Murray Kirkwall.

  He was twenty-two and his address was given as Kidbrooke, South-East London. He was described as a Financial Management student at Greenwich University. He lived with his parents, Joe and Maria, and there was nothing listed against either their names or his. We had no fingerprints for any family member. They were just a typical family living in the commuter belt. I immediately requested all known details about every member of the Kirkwall family. No criminal record and none known to the police.

  I took the file and went to the interview room, the same depressing room where I’d recently spoken to the newly deceased Gary White. I requested two teas from the uniform watching him. He went off to get them.

  Kirkwall, if that was his name, was sitting calmly, taking in his surroundings. He seemed unconcerned about where he was or what I was going to question him about. I identified myself again for the record and explained why he’d been arrested. He nodded and sat back in his chair. He’d already been fingerprinted. I told him he was entitled to counsel and, if he wanted a lawyer present, it could be arranged. He said he didn’t want one. I asked him to confirm this, as the interview was being taped, and he confirmed he was waiving the right to counsel.

  “Okay, Murray, let me tell you why you’re here,” I began. “The person whose family are the lawful registered users of the lock-up? That person found a suitcase and two holdalls in there recently, and each one was packed with weapons and the necessary resources to make explosives, and they definitely weren’t theirs. They also told us they’ve let the lock-up out to you, which makes them all yours.”

  “Who was this?”

  “You know full well who,” I told him.

  “Well, whatever you found there, it isn’t mine.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  The verbal sparring went on like this for about fifty minutes, with me outlining the situation: bags filled with weapons and resources to make bombs in a lock-up he rented, enough to put him in Belmarsh for many years. He denied renting the lock-up, saying he was simply looking for one, and the only reason he’d been at the premises where I’d found him was because he was interested in renting the place. He denied knowing anyone named Gary White, or renting the lock-up from him. He also denied knowing anyone named Chapman Watts. He was only there because he’d heard on the grapevine there was a lock-up available to rent, and he’d gone along simply to have a look at the place. He didn’t know the name of the person he’d heard it from, just a friend of a friend. Yes, he admitted being in Las Vargas, but simply to have a beer. No, he didn’t keep anything in the lock-up. How could he? He wasn’t renting it.

  I told him the person whose family had let the lock-up to him had managed to get him to come back to it by phoning a particular number and saying the place was empty, which’d brought him running. He said a phone call may well have been made, but he’d only been there because he’d heard it was available for rent and he’d come to look it over. He maintained anything found in the lock-up had to belong to whoever was the lawful user.

  I was losing our game of cat and mouse. Losing badly. I had plenty of circumstantial evidence but nothing I could nail him for.

  I was then called out the room by the desk sergeant.

  “We’ve dusted the bags, no fingerprints. Bags have been wiped clean. The Sigs’ve also been checked, don’t appear to have been fired recently. No prints on the guns either. Both guns clean.”

  “None at all anywhere?” I was dismayed at this.

  “Sorry, skipper.”

  I left Kirkwall to his own devices for a moment and went to see Chappy. I had him brought along to an empty interview room. He was looking very worried, fidgeting the whole time and tapping his fingers. His eyes betrayed his anxiety. I began by explaining to him that my only chance of being able to hold Kirkwall in custody was if Chappy made a statement identifying this man as the person he and Gary White had let the lock-up to. I leapt straight in.

  “So, you prepared to make a sworn statement pointing out this guy as the person you and White let the lock-up to, and also give evidence in court about it? You do that, I can arrest this bastard.”

  “No, I’m not,” he replied almost as soon as I’d finished speaking.

  “You what?” The firmness of his reply had rattled me.

  “I’m not making any statements,” he reaffirmed, “and I’m gonna deny knowing him. I’m not getting involved with this.”

  “Have a look at your face in the mirror, Chappy,” I said through gritted teeth. “You’re already involved. Those bruises didn’t grow organically, did they? A couple of guys used you as a punchbag last night because you’re already involved. You can’t back out now. I’ve already got you for car theft. I can make things so much worse for you.”

  “How?” he sneered at me. “How you gonna do that, eh? Gary’s dead, so’s Matey, and they’re the only people who knew what we’d done. How you gonna prove I was involved in stealing cars if I deny it?”

  I had to admit the bastard had me at this point.

  “Look, Chappy.” I tried to reason with him. “You know what we found in that lock-up. You saw what we found, enough explosives and Semtex to take out the O2 and most of the area around it. You want people like him” – he knew who I meant – “to go on planting bombs and killing innocent people? Is that really what you want?”

  This went on for another ten minutes, but Chappy was resolute in his determination not to make any statement. I looked him directly in the eyes and slammed his file shut.

  “Tell me why, Chappy. Just give me one good fucking reason why.” I was exasperated.

  “You saw how that bloke looked at me in the lock-up.” He sounded scared. “He knows I set him up, and Sugar’ll know that as well when they find out this bloke’s been nicked. He probably knows already; the Chackartis have police in their pocket all over London. So I’m not making any statements and I’m gonna say police made me do it, made me make the call. Maybe it’ll get me off the hook if I do that.”

  He was trying to sound calm as he spoke, but it was clear he was scared of reprisals from the Chackartis. Last night’s beating had weakened any resolve he might have had to help police, especially after Gary White being stabbed last night.

  I was stuck. No statement from Chappy meant I had little I could use to hold Kirkwall on. A statement from Chappy and I could have got Kirkwall held on remand, but without one I had no way to contradict Kirkwall’s statement, and the fact no fingerprints had been found on the bags containing the weapons and explosives, or on the guns, further weakened my ability to hold him. My optimism for a real breakthrough a couple of hours ago was now shattered.

  “You know what this does to your dad, don’t you, Chappy?” I said solemnly. “When the anti-terrorism people look around for whoever it is renting the lock-up where all this bomb-making paraphernalia was found, it’ll all come back to your dad. His’ll be the name on the rental agreement they’ll find with the local authority and, as I told you, any explosives and weapons found there make him guilty. We’ve found three bags jammed with the stuff. So congratulations, you little prick.” I spat the words out as I stood up. “You’ve dropped your old man head-first in it.
I hope you’re feeling real pleased about that.”

  “You said you weren’t gonna let anything happen to him.” It had dawned on him what I’d said. “You said nothing’d happen to him if you could help it.”

  “Yeah, but what if I can’t help it? You thought of that one?” That floored him. “When the anti-terrorist squad move in, it becomes a different ball game then, pal. When they take over, that’s me out the picture. It becomes their case then.”

  I left the room, with Chappy feeling as though a parent had just died, and me feeling intensely frustrated and angry. I wanted to punch or kick something.

  I was taken aside by the desk sergeant again.

  “Car’s registered to a Murray Kirkwall, lives in Kidbrooke, South-East London. Nothing on file about him, he’s clean. The whole family’s clean, skip, nothing on any of them.”

  “And there’s definitely no fingerprints on the cases.”

  “Not one. Whoever left them where you found them wiped them really clean. Sorry about that, skip.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I sighed. My day just kept on getting better.

  I returned to talk to Kirkwall. He was sitting back in his chair looking very calm and relaxed.

  I sat down and produced Chandler’s picture from my pocket. “Recognise anyone here?”

  He looked closely at the picture. “Could almost be me, couldn’t it?”

  “It is you. That’s a sketch based on a picture of you when you were a kid, John.”

  “John? Who’s John? Is that him in the picture? My name’s Murray, so that picture can’t be of me, can it?”

  We talked about identity for a few minutes, but the reality was I had no evidence I could hold him in custody for, and we both knew it. We couldn’t pin the cases we’d found on him, he had no record and his reason for being at the lockup was plausible. I’d no doubt Sugar would deny any conversation with Kirkwall about sending him to the lockup, and with White and Matey dead, I couldn’t even nail Chappy for car theft. Some bloody detective.

  I left the room again, contacted Smitherman and explained the situation. “Chappy reneging on the deal means, without him stating he let the lock-up to Kirkwall, with White and Mates both out of the picture, and with no fingerprints, all we have is circumstantial evidence, and it isn’t enough to hold Kirkwall.”