Marius

by Laurence Todd

  I heard Smitherman sigh. “And he won’t change his mind?”

  “No,” I replied.

  A five-second pause.

  “Release Kirkwall, then,” he said reluctantly, “and we’ll make sure we keep watch on him. But at least we got some pictures of this man and we have an address for him. We even picked up a few bags of weapons and explosives, which aren’t now gonna be used. Maybe bomb squad can do something with them. We’ll run some tests on what’s been found, maybe we’ll get lucky and trace where this stuff came from originally. Good work, anyway, DS McGraw.”

  Back to the interview room.

  “We’re done, you’re not being charged. You’re free to go.” I tried to sound formal and not too resentful. “Apologies for any inconvenience caused.”

  “Thanks.” He stood up and smiled. “Do I get an apology for having a gun stuck in my neck?”

  I looked up at him. “Not from me, you don’t. You want an apology, put a request in writing and send it to the Commissioner of the Met, or you can write to your MP.”

  For a few seconds, he gave me the kind of stare which had frightened Chappy. I stood up and held his glare with a neutral expression. He then smiled knowingly and we left the room. At the front desk, he signed a couple of release forms, got his wallet and keys back and off he went.

  Back in the room to collect my leather jacket, I swore loudly and kicked the small waste bin by the table across the room in frustration, which ultimately was a futile gesture as I had to pick up all the rubbish I’d scattered everywhere before leaving.

  But I had a better outlet for my frustrations that evening. I wasn’t seeing Taylor because I was training with Mickey, and tonight I was fully focused. I astounded myself by doing four sets of five bench-presses at 195 pounds and, during our fight session, I put Mickey down with a gorgeous right cross he’d not been expecting. Just before I landed the punch, for one split second, I saw Murray Kirkwall’s face.

  Mickey was grinning as I helped him up. “Who pissed on your breakfast this morning?” He laughed, rubbing his jaw.

  We’d showered and were about to leave and grab a few well-deserved beers when Smitherman contacted me. “Rob, need you back in the office.”

  My watch read five past nine.

  “Sorry, mate.” I took my leave. Mickey was ex-police. He understood.

  *

  “Those bags in the lock-up earlier? That was Semtex you found, quite a large block of it as well. You know how much damage would have been caused if the quantity you found today had been used in one go?”

  Removing Semtex from whomever was planning to use it at least meant the day hadn’t been completely wasted. Nobody exactly acquires Semtex to give to their kids to use as modelling clay. There was only one reason to have Semtex.

  “MI5’s going over all the Semtex they know about, seeing if they can isolate where this particular batch came from,” Smitherman said. “They’re looking at the guns as well. Sigs aren’t easy to come by. All the rest of the stuff found could have been bought over a counter somewhere.”

  He then gave me a serious look, indicating news I wouldn’t want to hear.

  “Police have traced the registered user of the lock-up they were found in.” He glanced at a sheet of paper. “Someone named Tyler Watts, and I believe he’s known to you,” he stated formally, looking up at me.

  I sighed. “Yeah, he is, he’s an informer of sorts. We had a few good tips from him when I was in Thornwyn’s team, and I’ve kept in touch with him.”

  “Well, he’s in custody at present, I’m sorry to tell you. Anti-terrorist police picked him up at his place of work, and he’s currently being held at Paddington Green.”

  “He’s not a bomber or a terrorist,” I stated with certainty. “He shouldn’t be there.”

  I explained how Chappy and his friend Gary White had sublet the lock-up to Kirkwall because they’d heard, through the Chackarti grapevine, he was looking for somewhere to store some things. They’d done this because it was a favour being asked by someone near the top of the Chackarti tree, and doing favours kept them in sweet with the Chackartis. But White was now dead and Chappy was refusing to make a statement, so that had left Tyler Watts holding the parcel. I protested Tyler’s innocence.

  “You may well be right, Rob, but we both know what the law says about this situation, don’t we?” Smitherman said. “So, unless this Chappy changes his mind . . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

  The 2006 Terrorism Act clearly states, if any premises under your control are used for anything which aids and abets terrorism, you are liable. Culpability is absolute, meaning the prosecution doesn’t need to prove knowledge or intent. If it’s there, you’re liable.

  Chappy had left his dad holding a bucket of shit by refusing to make a statement. I was angry that Tyler had been taken into custody. Like Jimmy McGlinchey, he was a little dodgy around the edges, bit of a tea leaf, truth be told, a ducker and diver, and he had a record for minor offences, but he wasn’t a terrorist. He didn’t deserve to be looking at several years in a high-security prison like Belmarsh because of his son’s transgressions.

  “So,” Smitherman concluded, “you want your informant Tyler Watts out from under this, you know what’s got to happen, don’t you? It’s really that simple.”

  I did know, and I set off to make it happen.

  Smitherman had only called me in because he knew the situation. He agreed Tyler Watts didn’t deserve to be where he was, but we both knew what the law said. So he’d primed me, anticipating that, despite now being off-duty, I’d go and attempt to rectify the situation. I didn’t need to be asked. The message between the lines was crystal clear to me.

  *

  Chappy lived with Tyler in a terraced house in Bethnal Green, not too far from where their lock-up was. Rather than go straight off duty and see him first thing tomorrow, I drove to their house in record time, helped by a siren. I parked at the end of the road.

  I could see a dim light on in their front room window and I rang the doorbell. Mrs Watts answered a few moments later. With what had happened to her son last night, and now with her husband in police custody, no wonder she looked sourly at me as I showed ID and asked for Chappy. She nodded to her left and I entered the small, cramped front room.

  As soon as Chappy saw me he shook his head, sighed and slumped down in his seat. The room stank of cigarette fumes, and there was a haze floating in the still air. When was a window last opened in here? There was a large half-eaten tub of popcorn on the coffee table, alongside a pizza box full of crusts, a mostly full ashtray and several empty cans of a cheap, unbranded lager.

  He had a friend with him, someone with an uncanny facial resemblance to Plug from the Bash Street Kids who, as I entered the room, was hastily zipping up his trousers, and I saw why he’d had to do that. They were watching a lesbian porno flick involving three women and several sex toys of varying design, one of which looked like something the Spanish Inquisition might have found a use for. I watched the women gyrating to the sound of some very cheesy music and tried not to laugh at the assumed moans of ecstasy.

  “University Challenge finished, has it?”

  Both men looked at me vaguely. They’d probably never even heard of the show.

  “God, I thought you had to be made of elastic to do that.” I grinned at the TV.

  Neither man said anything. I produced ID and flashed it in the friend’s face.

  “Oh wow, are you the Sweeney?” His face lit up and he looked impressed.

  “Special Branch, pal, beat it.” I nodded towards the door. “I need to talk to him.”

  He looked at Chappy, who’d sunk back into the chair, looking morose and dejected. I’d ruined a perfectly good lads’ night in. Chappy nodded. The friend got up and left, looking very resentful. I heard the front door shut.

  I watched the film for twelve more seconds. It was quite sad in a way. All three women had forced expressions on
their faces and were licking their lips, trying hard to look erotic, but failing miserably. Even though I had to admit the dark-haired woman had great tits and a superb body, Sally Taylor had more class and sex appeal when she brushed her hair fully clothed than these three naked women had put together.

  I took the remote, switched off the television and focused on Chappy. I was about to ruin more of his night.

  “Where’s your dad, Chappy?” I asked lightly, looking around.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t know where, but he knew what was happening to him.

  “You wanna know where your dad is? At this moment,” – I looked at my watch – “he’s being grilled by detectives from the anti-terrorist squad at Paddington Green. Did you know that? He can protest his innocence all he wants, but it’ll do him no good whatsoever. He’s been stitched up, and by his son.” I nodded. “You okay with that?”

  Chappy sat looking in my direction but past me. He was somewhere else. He didn’t reply.

  “As I think I told you earlier, the fact explosives were found on premises under his control means he’s liable, which means, in their eyes, he’s guilty. He’ll quite likely be charged under the 2006 Terrorism Act in the next day or so, and he’ll be remanded to Belmarsh till he goes up on trial.” I stated this calmly and objectively. “Did you see BBC six o’clock news earlier? They mentioned a man being taken into custody after police found weapons and explosives, including Semtex, believed to be connected to the recent bombings in London, at an undisclosed East London location. There’s been no names released to the media yet, but, when they charge him, they’ll release his name and his picture, which’ll then be all over the news. What do you think that’s gonna do to the customer base at your tea stall, eh?”

  Chappy still didn’t reply. He sat slumped against the back of the chair. I moved closer.

  “You wanna know what they’ll be asking your dad about now? They’ll be asking him things like where’d he get the explosives from, why’d he leave them in his lock-up, why choose those particular targets, who’re his contacts, when’s the next bombing planned for, how did he get hold of two Sig Sauers, why did the second bomb go off prematurely and who was the guy killed in the car, how did he know him, what was his intended target, all kinds of good stuff like that. They’ll also throw the names of some known IRA sympathisers at him to see if he knows them or has had any contact with them. They’ll be particularly concerned about where he got the Semtex from, because, in case you didn’t realise it, there’s only one reason why anyone ever acquires Semtex, and it isn’t for model making either.”

  I stopped for a moment to let my words sink in. I’d been calm though forceful in my delivery. Chappy was now looking very upset. I continued.

  “You and I both know your dad’s got no answers for any of those questions. And if he gets the wrong police officers, he might even get slapped around a bit. It happens. It’s not supposed to, but occasionally . . .” I shrugged, letting the implications hang in the air. “He gets an officer who’s lost a friend or relative to terrorism, or he’s ex-army and he’s seen explosions close up, you know what I’m saying, your dad could end up looking like you.”

  Chappy looked up, alarmed.

  “The only thing he’s got in his favour at present is there’re no fingerprints on anything found, but that won’t excuse him fully. They’ll just say he was careful, which they could even claim is a factor in his guilt. They’ll find his fingerprints in the lock-up, though, won’t they, and they’ll put two and two together. Guess what number they’ll make?”

  I couldn’t tell if Chappy was crying. His head was bowed and he was making some peculiar sounds. He blew his nose a couple of times. I stood even closer to him.

  “Chappy, look at me, you little shit,” I snapped. I wasn’t sparing his feelings.

  He did.

  “You’ve gotta step up and do the right thing. You’ve gotta make a statement admitting you sublet the lock-up to that guy Murray. That’ll take the heat off your old man and we can bring this other joker in. We’ve got his address.”

  Chappy put both hands to his face and sighed loudly. He removed his hands, and it was only at this point I realised he had a couple more fresh bruises around his eyes and mouth. He saw me studying his face.

  “Had a visit from a couple of blokes earlier, didn’t I, different pair from last night.” He was talking fast and tripping over his words. He was plainly terrified. “They were waiting for me, told me, if I said one word to anyone about this whole situation, they’ll kill me.” His voice sounded pathetic and he was almost crying now. “You did this to me, making me phone the club and getting that bloke to come down there. Those blokes told me Sugar knew I’d set this bloke up, that’s why they did these.” He pointed at the bruises on his face.

  “No, pal,” I said calmly, shaking my head. “You did this to yourself when you got mixed up with people like the Chackartis and stealing cars for the IRA. Grow up, Chappy, for Christ’s sake. You really think the Chackartis are a Boy Scouts troop? They’re probably one of the largest and best-organised criminal enterprises in the country, and they’ve got more than their share of sadistic thugs in their ranks. Look in the mirror if you don’t believe me. Who d’you think did that to you: Mother Teresa?”

  Chappy was quiet for several seconds. Then he cried, really cried hard. Earlier today, in the car, he’d sobbed a few tears of remorse at the death of his friend, but this time it was for someone much closer to home: his own father. These were full-on tears and he wasn’t holding back. The room echoed to his crying. Whereas Taylor had just shed a few light tears and was smiling, Chappy’s tears were being pulled from a soul writhing in anguish. He was looking around for a tissue, but there wasn’t any, so he was wiping his eyes and his runny nose on his shirt sleeve.

  I was still waterproof but, in a way, I felt for Chappy. He was young, not particularly bright, and he’d done a stupid thing. He’d quite likely thought he was simply doing someone a favour, and almost certainly hadn’t known Kirkwall was going to be leaving cases of weapons and explosives in the lock-up. But the reality was that he had, and Chappy’s father’s name was the one on the rental agreement with the local council. This made his dad culpable under the Terrorism Act as it stood.

  Chappy’s dilemma was, though, the man concerned was connected to the Chackartis in some way, and anything Chappy said would lead back to them. He’d already taken a beating plus a few extra punches, and, if he involved them again, his life would be forfeit, an asset with no use any longer. Against that, however, if he said nothing, his father was staring at Belmarsh prison, and not just for a long weekend. Ten to fifteen years would be the minimum he could expect. For Chappy, this was Scylla and Charybdis: faced with a decision between two wholly unsatisfactory options and having to pick one, hoping for the best. His very survival could well depend on making the right choice.

  I waited almost thirty-five seconds. He dried his eyes on his shirt sleeve again.

  “I love my dad, I don’t want him to go to prison,” he moaned in a sorrowful voice.

  “Well, you know what you gotta do, then, don’t you?” I said firmly. It was important to keep him focused. I wasn’t letting him off the hook. “You prepared to do that?” I tensed up, waiting for his reply.

  “Yeah.” He sniffed loudly. “Yeah, I’ll do it. What you want me to say?”

  *

  Brick Lane police station again. Chappy pulled himself together and made a sworn statement claiming he’d sublet the lock-up to a man he now knew to be Murray Kirkwall. He maintained that at no time did his father have any idea of the subletting agreement and, as far as his father knew, he’d sublet to someone named Gary White. He also denied the bags found belonged to him or his father.

  Chappy had finally stood up, grown a pair and acted like a man. This was what I needed. But I’d had to release Chappy from custody as, without Gary White’s or Barry Mates’ evidence, I couldn’t recommend charging him with car theft to the
duty sergeant; all I had was hearsay evidence, which is inadmissible in a court of law. I escorted him from the station and advised him to keep his head down and be very careful from now on.

  Smitherman had left to go home, but the duty officer in charge, Superintendent Lilley, had been apprised of the case, and he gave me the green light to go pick up Murray Kirkwall. I asked for a couple of uniforms to meet me at his address in Kidbrooke. At breakneck speed, again aided by a siren, I made it to Kidbrooke in twelve minutes.

  The two uniforms met me at the end of Kidbrooke Park Road. I explained why we were there and who we were after. They nodded their agreement. I approached the house cautiously. There were no lights on in the house, no car in the driveway and I couldn’t see any sign of life. It was eleven twenty-five at night. In bed already? I withdrew my weapon and approached the front door.

  I rang the doorbell. No answer. I rang it again for longer; still no answer. At which point the woman next door came outside, wondering why there were three people in next door’s garden. Her face, lit by the light from her hallway, registered surprise when she saw two uniforms and realised we were police. She looked around seventy and was wearing a pink towelling dressing gown. Her husband appeared behind her. I quickly put my gun behind my back, identified myself as a detective by holding out my ID and asked if she knew where the Kirkwalls were.

  “The Kirkwalls?”

  “Yeah, the family living here.” I nodded at the house.

  “The family living there aren’t called Kirkwall, they’re called Francis.”

  “Francis?” I was bewildered.

  “Yes, that’s their name,” she replied formally.

  I looked at the number on the door. It was the same number Murray Kirkwall had shown on his driving licence, and this was the correct street.

  “You sure it’s Francis? We have a Joe and Maria Kirkwall down as living here, along with their son Murray.”