by Matt Johnson
Reflection over, I grabbed my bags, slipped my warrant card over my breast pocket to display the ID and walked into the rear station yard.
At the back door I was let in by a young WPC who directed me up the stairs to the Chief Superintendent’s clerk’s office. I found it easily. At the desk was an old PC scribbling away on some paper. I waited for him to look up.
I had seen the type before. Behind his horn-rimmed half-moon spectacles, he had an air of extreme busyness, intolerance and self-importance. People like this PC thought they ran their divisions. He continued scribbling, hardly seeming to acknowledge my existence. I forced a quiet cough, just enough get his attention.
‘I won’t keep you a moment,’ came the terse reply.
He waited several moments before looking up.
‘Right, what can I do for you?’ he, finally asked.
‘Inspector Finlay. I have an appointment to see your chief super at ten. I’ve come a little early to give me a chance to stash my kit.’
The clerk PC stood quickly, his spectacles falling onto the desk. ‘I’m sorry, sir, didn’t realise who you were, you being in plain clothes an’ all. You must be the Inspector from Royalty?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I found it hard to contain my pleasure at his embarrassment. I had no doubt that my treatment would have been quite different had I been a fellow PC.
‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you where your office and locker are. Mr Sinclair is in his office. He’s got Special Branch and the anti-terrorist mob with him, discussing last week’s shooting. Bad business, that.’
He picked up my bags and we headed down the corridor.
‘I read about it – the PC that was wounded, how is he?’ I asked.
‘Looks like he’s gonna be OK. One of those amazing stories: the bullet hit his whistle. If it hadn’t, it would have gone through his heart.’
‘And what about the PC who was killed, was he married?’
‘No, thank God. His parents took it bad, mind. Poor bugger.’
I followed the clerk into a small office on the second floor. There were stains on the walls where notice-boards had once hung. The solitary steel locker hung open, a desk and chair stood pushed into the corner. It was pretty seedy.
The clerk obviously sensed my reaction.
‘I left it as it is – I thought you’d like to arrange things to your taste.’ He rubbed the back of his neck.
‘It’ll do.’ I shrugged off my blazer and hung it on the locker door. ‘Will Mr Sinclair still be available to see me at ten?’
‘I should think so, he’s arranged for the early-turn Inspector to show you around.’
‘Any idea what he’s got lined up for me?’
‘It’s more than my job’s worth to say. If you could be in my office for about five to, I’ll tell him you’re here.’
I shut the door behind the clerk and turned to survey my new workplace. It wasn’t too bad an office, in fact. The walls were bare, but a white board here, a plant there, the desk and chair moved, the locker in the corner, and it would be fine. Not a bad start; after all, there weren’t many stations in the Met that had the space to allow inspectors their own office.
I unpacked my bags and put on my uniform. I hadn’t worn it for several years but, thankfully, it still fitted perfectly. At my age, I was getting used to the fact that some of my clothing, particularly trousers, seemed to shrink in the wardrobe.
I was back in the clerk’s office with five minutes to spare.
He gave an approving nod on seeing my freshly ironed tunic. ‘That’s better, sir. Now there’s no mistaking who you are.’ He managed a half-smile. ‘Mr Sinclair said to take you straight in as soon as you arrived.’
I followed the clerk into the Chief Superintendent’s office where I was greeted by a giant of a man who stood fully six foot six. I felt dwarfed as he stepped from behind an oak desk.
‘Ian Sinclair. You must be Bob Finlay.’ He extended an open hand to greet me. It felt like David meeting Goliath.
We chatted for over an hour. I warmed to the Chief Super immediately. He was a down-to-earth Scot, straight-talking and sincere. Both his ears were notched and scarred as if his head had been regularly crushed in a rugby scrum. Far from making him ugly, the look only served to complement his warm and benevolent nature.
I learned that I was to take charge of the shift that had lost the PC the previous week. They were early turn that day. Their current Inspector, David Heathcote, was part of an accelerated promotion course and would be taking over as Personnel Inspector to widen his experience.
I detected a note of bitterness in Sinclair’s voice when he mentioned Heathcote’s name, but it was no more than that. Sinclair didn’t seem the type to make his personal feelings known to others.
Our conversation wandered on to other subjects: local problems; the history of the building; mutual acquaintances; but finally Sinclair steered the conversation on to the army. He was curious about my military career and why it had come so quickly to an end.
I gave him the pat story, describing how I had been unfortunate enough to be hit by a sniper’s bullet while on patrol with the Royal Artillery in Northern Ireland. I’d told it so many times it may as well have been true. Sinclair accepted it without question. Not only was it plausible, a check on my police record would confirm it: the file contained no mention of the SAS.
I returned to my office and had just finished unpacking my bags when there was a knock at the door. A fresh-faced young Inspector stood before me.
‘Bob Finlay, I presume.’ The young lad held out his hand.
‘Yes, but you have me at a disadvantage.’
I immediately regretted my choice of words. Did I sound too formal? Perhaps the Royalty posting had made me slightly pompous. I’d have to watch that.
‘David Heathcote,’ said the young Inspector. ‘I’ve come to show you around, introduce you to the key people, that type of thing.’
Introductions over, I followed Heathcote through the door and along the corridor. I struggled to keep up with him. He was a small man with a bustling walk. He obviously knew the inside of the police station like the back of his hand and in no time at all I had lost my bearings. I recalled that there were three floors and a basement, the CID office and the canteen, all of them, as well as the stairways and corridors between, filled with people. This was a busier division than I had ever worked on before, and by the time we reached the PCs’ writing room I was totally confused. Next to my enthusiastic, newly promoted peer, I felt very middle aged.
Tour concluded, we adjourned to the canteen. I bought the teas and sat down opposite my guide.
‘Nice building; everything new?’ I asked.
‘Started April 1988 and finished May 1990, just four weeks behind schedule,’ Heathcote answered precisely.
‘The people that work here like it?’
‘There have been a few problems. They’ll get used to it soon enough, though.’
The hint of arrogance in Heathcote’s confident explanations gave me a clue to the bitter tone I had heard earlier in Sinclair’s voice. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Heathcote was very intolerant of people whose ideas were at odds with his own.
‘You’re ex-Royalty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I replied. Many people seemed to find the role of a protection officer fascinating. I knew what was coming and I was right. I wondered if my fake smile gave away my real thoughts.
‘What’s it like being that close to Royalty?’
I resisted the temptation to be facetious. ‘You get used to it. They realise you have a job to do so they carry on with their lives as if you weren’t there. They’re normally very easy to get along with and if they have a wobbly you just keep out of their way.’
‘There must be a lot of perks.’
‘Not thinking of putting in for it are you?’
‘No, just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Well, I won’t miss it.’ I emp
tied my cup and stood. ‘Nice to meet you, David, perhaps you could introduce me to your relief before they go off?’
‘Sure. They’ll gather outside the station office at about two. I’ll see you then.’
At five to two, Heathcote introduced me as the relief’s new Inspector. There were only eight or ten officers going off shift. The rest had prisoners and paperwork.
I noted the way some of the younger ones looked at me and the glances that they exchanged. I guessed what they were thinking. Bit old for this isn’t he?
I wondered if they were right.
Chapter 19
Alma House Flats, Nightingale Estate, Stoke Newington.
No more than ten minutes’ drive from Stoke Newington Police Station, Costello watched closely as Dominic McGlinty put the finishing touches to his latest creation.
A small plywood cigar box lay on the kitchen table in front of Dominic. He wore latex gloves to protect his skin from the toxic effects of the Semtex and to avoid leaving fingerprints. He worked slowly and methodically. The cigar box now had the battery in place and the wiring connected. Next to be fitted was the memo park timer, the gadget motorists use to tell them how long they have left on a parking meter. This would give the volunteer who was to place the bomb time to get away before the device became live.
Micro-switch and resistor in place and he was nearly there. Finally the piéce-de-résistance: the radio receiver that would receive a transmitted signal, complete the circuit and activate the bomb. McGlinty connected the wire to a six-volt lamp and moved to the opposite side of the kitchen.
‘Ready to give it a try?’ said Dominic.
‘Go ahead … make my day,’ Costello laughed.
Dominic switched on the walkie-talkie and pressed the transmit button. The six-volt bulb attached to the time-and-power unit lit up brightly.
Costello grinned. ‘Perfect, just perfect. That’ll give the bastards something to think about. Is the transmitter frequency secure?’
‘As far as I can make it. The runner will be well clear before it goes live and the chances of someone in the area transmitting on the same frequency at that time of the morning are pretty slim.’
‘I hope you’re right, Dominic, we don’t want any more mistakes. This has to kill one man in particular.’
‘I know, I know.’ McGlinty’s fists clenched. ‘For sure, this one’ll be for Seamus.’
Costello headed to the main bedroom. It had been a difficult week. Dominic had taken the death of his brother badly.
When Costello had arrived back at the block of flats after the shootout, Dominic had been hiding in the bushes outside. They had waited for nearly an hour before heading up the stairs to the top floor. All that time, Costello had been mulling over how best to break the news.
In the end, as he had handed a whiskey to Dominic, the look on his face had said it all.
The morning television reports confirmed it. Seamus hadn’t survived.
And neither had the PC who had been following him across the garden fences.
Lucky for me, not so lucky for him, Costello thought.
Chapter 20
My new shift was posted: night duty on the Tuesday.
Starting work at ten o’clock when I would normally be heading off to bed wasn’t a new experience. All officers do shifts for several years, after which most specialise in jobs that work more civilised hours. As a younger man, I hadn’t minded it and had easily handled the effect it had on my sleep patterns. As I drove down the A1 into London, however, I was beginning to question the sanity of a middle-aged Inspector like me going back to this kind of work.
I had spent the day in a leisurely fashion. After a lie-in, I got up at nine, showered and joined Jenny for breakfast. I spent the day watching television and doing some of the little household jobs that I’d been putting off for weeks. The front door had needed some deadbolts, the shower tray had been leaking and the shed door stuck when the weather was damp.
It felt so normal. Up until now I’d had to rush everything. Fit in the odd job here or there. Always on call, never relaxed.
I even found time to play with Becky. If you’ve never seen a grown man on his knees begging a two-year-old girl for a kiss you should have been in our house on that day.
The drive down the A1 was appreciably quieter than in the previous morning’s rush hour. The weather forecast was good. It would be a warm, still night. Rain was expected by the end of the week but not for my first night.
The thought of my first uniform shift in years didn’t excite me. I was too long in the tooth for that. But I did feel a sense of anticipation. Stoke Newington had a reputation as being the busiest police station in the Met, and I was to be in charge, expected to deal with anything that might happen.
I turned on the radio and managed to catch the nine o’clock news. The evacuation of civilians from Sierra Leone still dominated. It made me wonder what the boys from the regiment would be up to. I pushed the feelings of envy to one side almost as soon as they appeared. I’d had my time. Let someone else have his or her turn.
Most of the following news reports went in one ear and out the other. The last item, however, concerned a warning from Al Q’aeda of a new jihad against its old enemies in the West. I wondered if international terrorism would ever come to an end. I had my own ideas about the reasons terrorists continued their activities, none of which gave any credence to their many causes.
Stoke Newington was inner-city London at its worst. Officially the most deprived area in the UK, it looked it. The roads were full of potholes and the area looked tired and dirty. That said, the further into town I drove the busier the streets became. The crowds of people hanging around and the level of traffic were what you might expect at nine-thirty in the morning, not nine-thirty at night.
There were a lot of old cars about. It had been a long time since I’d seen a MKIII Ford Escort and here there were many. Young kids drove painted-up cars with blackened windows, sports packs and music systems that deafened everyone within hearing distance. Once in a while a shiny BMW with polished alloy wheels or a Mercedes cabriolet would roar up and overtake at great speed. Drug dealers, I guessed. Or was I guilty of stereotyping?
I pulled the little Citroen up outside the blue automatic gates to the rear yard of the police station. The heavy doors cranked into motion and swung wide open. I pulled slowly into the yard as one of the response cars roared past me, blue lights and siren switching on as it left the yard. The crew looked very young. I laughed at myself. What’s that they say when the policemen start to look like kids?
I managed to find my new office where I changed into uniform and checked my watch. Nine-forty. Time to check the incoming correspondence tray and see what awaited me on my first night.
A look through the envelopes gave me a good indication of what lay ahead. There was an application from one of the shift Sergeants to transfer to traffic duties and several blank annual appraisal forms with a list of officers due reports. Circulations covered various subjects, from the activities of the crime prevention officer to the concerns of the police consultative group.
One envelope was marked personal. I didn’t recognise the handwriting.
It was a good luck letter from the Chief Super and an apology for throwing me into the deep end so soon after my arrival. Nice touch, I thought. I folded the letter and placed it carefully in my locker.
Chapter 21
‘You must be Bob Finlay.’
I turned to see yet another giant-sized policeman standing in the doorway to the office. There must be something about this place, I figured; they like them big.
‘Keith Carter, welcome to Stoke Newington.’
For nearly ten minutes, I listened attentively as the old hand summarised the incidents of the day for the benefit of the new boy. There was a lot to tell.
Carter, I figured, was about the same age as me and had been at Stoke Newington for a number of years. He told me about a minor demonstration that had occurr
ed outside the police station after two Turkish men had been arrested for their involvement in a protection racket. It was thought locally that the demonstrators might reappear during the night and, as a result, the Chief Superintendent had left instructions that he was to be telephoned at home if this happened.
I laughed. That would impress the boss if I needed to ring him on my first night.
With Carter heading off home, I made my way to the parade room for the pre-shift briefing. In the corridor, I met two of the shift Sergeants. One of them, who introduced himself as Mick Holbrook, agreed to lead the briefing and then drive me around the ground so I could get to know the area.
After parade, we headed out into the station yard and climbed into the duty officer’s car. Holbrook explained that he was also quite new to Stoke Newington, having arrived on promotion to Sergeant after spending several years as a traffic cop. He was a Class One advanced driver, which pleased me no end as within minutes of leaving the yard we were backing up one of the response cars on ‘a shout’.
A PC in the control room was on the telephone to a local resident who had provided a description of a man breaking into a house. The address belonged to a TV actress who had been having well-publicised problems with a stalker. As we hurtled closer to the scene, Holbrook steered the car expertly along the narrow streets at speeds that had my foot reaching for an imaginary brake pedal.
The control room operator transmitted the suspect’s description: green anorak with the hood up, blue jeans and white trainers, last seen climbing out of the window of a house with a bag under his arm.
A male voice came over my personal radio.
‘Golf November from Golf Four, we’ve got a suspect stopped in Green Lanes.’ Golf Four was our area response car.
Holbrook took a sharp left into an even narrower street. Ahead, I could see the flashing blue lights of the stationary police car.
