The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Seamus heaved the last of the bags onto his back. As Dominic pulled down the rear shutter of the lorry, Costello looked into the cab.

  ‘Did you bring the scanner?’ he asked.

  ‘On the front seat,’ said Dominic. ‘We left it on but turned the volume down so we didn’t disturb anyone.’

  ‘Ok, I’ll come with you on this trip. You drive. Give Seamus a wee rest after moving the bags. I’ll take the scanner.’

  Costello leaned into the driver’s cab and found the small communication receiver where Dominic had left it. It was a new model, unlike anything he had previously encountered. Older versions had been bulky, limited in the number of frequencies they could monitor and requiring manual tuning to find the transmissions of the local law-enforcement agencies. The new type did it all automatically, scanning both the emergency channels used by New Scotland Yard and the local, personal radios employed by patrolling police officers.

  With the garage re-secured, Costello listened in.

  ‘All quiet?’ asked Seamus in a low voice.

  ‘For now. I’ll make the call to get them occupied and then we’ll move off.’

  Costello pulled a mobile telephone from his jacket pocket and dialled 999. It was answered almost immediately.

  Less than a minute after Costello ended the call, the three men listened in as the scanner picked up the transmission from the Scotland Yard emergency dispatcher.

  ‘Golf Four from MP.’

  There was a short delay before the crew in the response car, ‘Golf Four’, acknowledged the call.

  ‘Golf Four and any other unit to assist, the Marquis of Hackney public house, Kingsland High Street, East Eight, shots fired, believed a serious disturbance, to Golf Four, MP over.’

  Costello gave a thumbs-up. It was a serious enough call to commit all the local manpower. Even if one of them spotted the lorry, they would be fully occupied for the next few minutes until the all-clear was given and the call declared a hoax.

  Dominic started the engine.

  They waited for a few minutes, but there were no passing market lorries.

  Costello frowned, impatient. ‘We can’t wait forever,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long before they realise that call was a hoax. We’ll have to go. Just keep it slow and careful.’

  Dominic pulled the lorry out onto the main road. He drove cautiously, stuck to the speed limit and obeyed all the traffic lights.

  But despite their care, just a few minutes later, Dominic looked into the rear-view mirror, then over at Costello. He was biting his lip. ‘Peeler car just passed, and now it’s done a U-turn.’

  ‘Damn,’ murmured Costello and turned up the volume on the scanner while he checked the nearside mirror.

  ‘He’s matching speed with us, Declan,’ said Seamus, hurriedly, as he craned his neck to get a view of the police car in the left door mirror.

  ‘Just relax … he’s probably heading in for some tea,’ said Dominic.

  In the mirror, Costello could see the police car. It was about fifty yards back, making no attempt to catch up or overtake.

  ‘Next lights, take a left,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if he does the same.’

  The police car followed them.

  Costello triggered the communication receiver to scan the local radio frequencies. A few seconds later, a male voice could be heard requesting a ‘PNC’ check. An officer was asking for available information on a vehicle that was stored on the Police National Computer. The operator then asked for the registration number.

  Dominic swore. ‘They’ve switched on their blue lights, Dec.’

  Costello was listening intently to the scanner. ‘OK … stay calm. They’ve just done a check on the lorry,’ he answered. ‘Now, remember the story. Keep to it, no variations. Do as I say and we’ll be away from here in no time.’ Costello kept his voice steady and calm. The last thing he needed now was for one of the brothers to panic.

  As the police car overtook and pulled in front, Dominic slowed the lorry to a stop and switched off the engine.

  Costello switched the scanner off and then tucked it behind the passenger seat. Glancing across at Seamus, he saw his eyes were wide as he looked nervously towards his elder brother.

  ‘Relax, Seamus. Just try and let me do the talking.’

  From his belt, Costello pulled a Glock pistol that he shoved down the front of his trousers. In the reflection from the windscreen he saw Dominic give his brother a reassuring wink. Seamus half-smiled in response.

  Costello took a deep breath as he wound down the passenger window.

  In the door mirror he could see the police car door opening and a figure appearing.

  ‘OK, boys,’ he said. ‘Time to smile for the lads in blue.’

  Chapter 13

  Costello ran.

  Behind him there were shouts, the sound of a police car screeching to a halt and the sounds of a siren bouncing off the nearby houses. Blue light filled the night air. The cops were close.

  Seamus had been a fool.

  It had been clear from the word go that the two cops were suspicious. They had made all three of them get out of the lorry, separated them to ask questions and had then compared notes out of ear shot. When the younger cop had gone to the police car radio, Costello knew it was time to act.

  Both of the brothers knew the drill: Costello had run through it several times. If compromised by a police patrol car, they were to disable the officers and destroy their means of communication. Only then would they have any hope of escaping with the lorry and its contents.

  But Seamus had panicked. He had pulled his weapon on the older cop and then, when they all heard the sound of an approaching siren, he had fired it, straight into the cop’s chest.

  That had been the trigger to run.

  Costello glanced behind him. A cop was checking on his friend who lay prone on the road. Three others were climbing out of a second police car. Nobody was chasing them, yet.

  It was time to get off the street and put as much distance as he could between him and his pursuers. He stopped running and checked his belt for the Glock. It was there. Glancing around, he checked for any sign of Dominic or Seamus. There was none. Then he remembered the scanner. It was still in the lorry. He cursed.

  Ducking down behind a parked car, he looked back to the main road. One officer was now heading towards him carrying a small rifle, a second seemed to be talking on his radio.

  He thought quickly. In minutes the area would be alive with cops. But they would hold back, fearful of what might be waiting for them in the dark. They would surround the area, seal off the streets and then start a safe, systematic search. That would take time to organise, time that gave their quarry an advantage. In ten minutes, given a bit of luck, he could be a mile away and safe.

  Costello moved quietly away from the parked car and into the dark sanctuary of a small garden. At the side of the house, a small fence gave him access to the back gardens and a safer route away from the street. It was just what he needed. The fences between properties would slow him down but hide his movement. He’d done it before, many times. As a younger man he had led pursuing RUC and army patrols many a merry dance as they tried to chase him through the back yards of Belfast. They had never caught him, not even come close.

  After forcing his way through several gardens, he stopped for a moment to regain his breath. Crouching down in the darkness, he listened. There was more shouting, someone giving orders. Another man, responding.

  A noise came from further along the gardens. The sound of wood splintering. Someone was following him.

  Costello stood up and pulled the Glock from his waistband. In the light from the street, he could make out the silhouette of a figure labouring over the same garden fences he had just climbed.

  Raising the pistol, he aimed and fired twice.

  The silhouette disappeared.

  Silence followed the loud retort of the pistol. For hundreds of yards in all directions, every cop in range would have
heard the crack. His best hope was that they wouldn’t be able to work out where it had come from. For a few seconds, he waited. The gardens stayed quiet.

  It was time to press on. He started to run again and reached the final fence of the street. Just as he was about to climb it, the sound of an oncoming car caused him instinctively to duck. It was moving fast, the engine smooth and powerful. A police car.

  The sound grew louder and closer and then died away. A moment later he heard the sound of tyres skidding on tarmac and then … a sickening thud.

  The street fell quiet again.

  Costello peered over the fence. The police car had come to a halt at the nearby junction. In front of it, a lone figure was struggling to stand. Even in the dark, he could see that the man was bleeding badly from a long cut across his forehead. He recognised the jacket and the mop of curly dark hair. It was Seamus.

  On the road next to the boy, Costello saw Seamus’s pistol lying on the tarmac.

  A shout came from the far side of the police car, near the driver door.

  ‘Stop … armed police.’

  Seamus turned to face the cop. He was panting, desperately out of breath.

  For a split second, Costello thought about trying to rescue him but it was too great a risk: he didn’t know where the other cops were.

  Seamus raised his hands. At first, Costello thought he was surrendering and then he realised: Seamus was shaping his hands as if to shoot.

  Except the Browning still lay on the ground.

  Seamus closed his empty trigger finger just as the cop fired.

  As he fell, Costello closed his eyes and cursed. Slipping the Glock back into his belt, he climbed as silently as he could over the fence. The cop was leaning over the now prostrate figure of Seamus.

  Costello moved forward. He would get one chance and would have to be quick before other officers arrived to help their mate. He pulled the pistol from his belt.

  The cop was vomiting. Costello felt no sympathy. This was payback, an eye for an eye. Seamus was an old friend, he was Dominic’s brother.

  A shout interrupted him. It came from behind.

  He turned. Two more cops were sprinting towards him.

  There was no time.

  He ran, into the darkness and away.

  Chapter 14

  A phone was ringing.

  For several moments, Bill Grahamslaw listened to the noise. So deeply had he been sleeping that, at first, he thought it was part of his dream. But as the volume increased, he realised that the sound was coming from about three feet away, from the chest of drawers next to the bed.

  He reached out, groping in the dark for his mobile phone.

  The device finally responded to his fumbling fingers.

  ‘Mr Grahamslaw?’ The voice was female … curt and official sounding.

  Who else was it going to be? Grahamslaw thought. And at this time of night.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded deep, throaty. Whoever the caller was, it would be obvious to her that she had woken him.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, guv. SO Reserve, here. Are you free to speak?’

  Grahamslaw sat up slowly and glanced over his shoulder. In the half light from the phone he could see that Emma was still sleeping.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ he mumbled.

  Easing himself from beneath the duvet, he stepped as quietly as he could across the bedroom floor to the door. The air felt chilly, and as he stepped into the hallway he reached for the woollen bath robe that hung on the door.

  A call from Special Ops Reserve meant one thing: an incident. The officer manning the night-duty phone line wouldn’t be calling the Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad without good reason.

  Grahamslaw shivered as he stepped into the hallway, slipped on the robe and quietly pulled the bedroom door closed.

  ‘OK … I’m awake now. What is it?’

  ‘There’s been an attack … Stoke Newington Area. Local CID have informed us it’s terror related. They’ve asked SO13 to attend. I’ve sent a car. It will be with you in about ten minutes.’

  ‘They’re sure? Last time someone did this to me it was a handbag that some Doris had left on a station platform.’

  ‘Yes, it’s definite this time. A lorry filled with explosives, one officer shot and wounded, another missing.’

  Grahamslaw was fully alert now. ‘Badly hurt?’

  ‘We don’t have any more information at the moment. An ARV is on scene – they’ve reported hearing more shots from a street off Kingsland Road.’

  ‘OK, I’ll head straight up there. Get an explosives officer on his way and dig out Superintendent Parratt. Tell him to get to the hospital where the injured PC is. I’ll be ready in five.’

  Grahamslaw hung up the phone and headed for the shower. He needed to wake up properly.

  As the hot water soaked life into his brain, he started to gather his thoughts and make plans. It had been a relatively quiet year for SO13, the Met Anti-Terrorist Squad. In days gone by, a lorry full of explosives in central London would only mean one thing: an IRA campaign. Now, with so many terror groups appearing on the radar, it could mean anything.

  Having an Armed Response Vehicle on scene was useful. They could deal with any immediate threat before leaving it to the local Duty Inspector to seal off the scene of crime. The local CID would then handle anything that couldn’t wait until the Anti-Terrorist Detectives arrived.

  The shower room door opened. It was Emma. ‘I’ve made you a coffee. It’s on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Thanks, love. I’ll be right there.’

  When he emerged from the shower the hallway and bedroom lights were on. Despite his attempts to keep as quiet as possible, the call had woken up Emma. She was at the bedroom window, looking out for the pick-up car.

  ‘It’s one in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a lorry bomb … in Stoke Newington. PC shot, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, shit … I’m sorry, Bill. How bad?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. The girl from SO Reserve is trying to find out for me.’

  ‘That’ll be Mandy Sullivan. She’s nights this week. I’m scheduled for next.’

  ‘Will I see you later?’

  ‘Afraid not. Joe will be expecting me home. I should really have left an hour ago. Besides, isn’t it about time you put in appearance at your home?’

  Grahamslaw smiled as he sipped at the coffee. Emma was right. His wife would be wondering if something had happened to him.

  As far as she knew, the Beckton flat was a simple retirement investment and provided an easier commute into work for her husband. For Grahamslaw himself, it was a little haven in which to meet a lover.

  Emma had fulfilled that role for nearly ten years. When they first met, she had been a young Detective Constable and Grahamslaw had been her DI. The two of them had been working in the CID office at Vine Street. It hadn’t only been rank that separated them, the age difference was also significant. Emma was nearly twenty years his junior; she had been just twenty-one when they met.

  For two years they had worked together, she admiring his charismatic personality, he being unable to resist the occasional sly stare at her slim figure. Then, at a CID Christmas do, the drink had been flowing freely and they had ending up dancing together. The dance had led to a long personal chat about loveless marriage and their mutual attraction had been revealed. That evening, they enjoyed their first kiss.

  For two years afterwards they had used hotels, meeting as and when they could. Then, when Grahamslaw bought the flat after being promoted to Superintendent, it had provided a perfect spot to rendezvous.

  The relationship was one of the best-kept secrets in the Specialist Operations Directorate at New Scotland Yard. To Grahamslaw’s knowledge, only Mick Parratt, his deputy at SO13, knew about it. That wasn’t a risk. Parratt knew how to keep a secret and was as discreet as he was loyal.

  Even when Emma had moved in with her partner, Joe, the secret meetings had continued. For each of
them, they filled a need. Grahamslaw had a marriage to preserve but craved intimacy and female company. Emma needed what she called a ‘fuck-buddy’. Each found in the other what they lacked in their daily lives.

  In recent weeks, the relationship had turned a little rocky. Emma was now thirty-one and was feeling the need for a family. Joe had been pressuring her to come off the pill. Emma had made it clear to her ageing lover that as soon as that happened, she would only be having sex with one man. The ten-year affair would be at an end.

  Grahamslaw preferred not to think about the prospect. Emma was the woman he should have married. She was intelligent, articulate and exciting. It wasn’t that his wife wasn’t attractive; she was. It was that the good looks he had fallen for in his twenties hadn’t been enough. The couple shared no interests, didn’t socialise together and, when at home, they hardly talked. Emma was everything that his wife wasn’t.

  The thought of no longer seeing his lover frightened him.

  ‘Car’s here,’ she called, from near the window.

  They hugged and shared a brief kiss. Grahamslaw turned to leave and, as he did so, a feeling of sadness crept over him. When he next returned to the flat, the bedroom would be empty and the bedding cold. Emma would be gone, perhaps for good.

  Picking up his leather briefcase, he headed for the street. He didn’t look back, preferring not to. One day, in the not-too-distant future, he hoped they would enjoy a last meeting, a last night together that wasn’t interrupted.

  Then he would sell the flat. It held too many memories.

  Chapter 15

  Grahamslaw’s arrival at Stoke Newington proved timely. As he walked into the Control Room, the Duty Inspector was taking a call from his Chief Superintendent.

  The news was mixed.

  Grahamslaw listened in as the Inspector reported that a local response car, Golf Four, had carried out a routine stop on a lorry. PC Manning, the driver, had been shot in the chest. Fortunately for Manning, he was old school and still wore his uniform tunic with chain and whistle. The bullet that had been fired at him from point-blank range had struck the whistle and deflected up through his shoulder. He was alive and in theatre.