by Matt Johnson
As we pulled up, the boy they had stopped was waving his arms at the two PCs as if trying to brush them away. He wore a green anorak, just as had been described on the radio. There was no bag to be seen.
‘Ain’t you pigs got nuttin’ better to do than stop me?’
The kid’s voice and body language were angry, threatening. He glared at the PCs. From what he was wearing it was my guess that the crew had the right man, it was just a question of what he had actually been up to.
I watched as the young PC patiently asked the youth what he had been doing and where he had come from. The PC glanced at me several times while this was going on. I wondered if he was wondering whether I was here to back him up or assess him. The truth was neither. I was learning.
The anorak kid grew more and more impatient and tried to push past the young policemen. One of them took hold of his arm at which point he corkscrewed around and went to sprint past me. I stuck out my right foot and he tripped and crashed to the pavement. Not fancy, but effective.
The two PCs were on his back in a second. They handcuffed him quickly as he squirmed and swore at all of us.
Holbrook appeared with a black plastic bin-liner containing a video recorder. ‘Behind a wall over here, guv, probably dumped it when he saw the police car.’
‘Guess he’s not a stalker?’
‘No … just a burglar.’
‘Why the attitude?’ I was curious at the boy’s aggression.
‘Common enough trick round here, guv. They try and frighten young coppers by playing up and threatening to complain. Until the blokes learn the score it often works and they let them go without a proper search. He kicks off, makes a scene and puts the PC off. This time he was the unlucky one.’
‘So they try and frighten their way out of a search?’
‘That’s about the strength of it, there’s a lot of it round ’ere. Just about every drugs arrest results in an allegation of planting. Some of the blokes get pissed off with the constant complaints and don’t bother searching dealers anymore.’
‘But then the dealers win.’
‘Don’t worry, guv. There are a lot of others who won’t be intimidated and who just get on with their job. The wheel will turn one day, the courts will recognise the complaints for what they are. Now we’d better be quick before the woodwork turn out.’
‘The what?’
‘The woodwork. That’s what we call it. These kids let rip when they get nicked and all the locals turn out to see what the hollering is. Soon, our lads get surrounded and it’s been known for us to get a hiding.’
The conversation was interrupted as our personal radios again burst into life. ‘Golf November One, can you attend 19 Rectory Road, a sudden death, 179 is on scene and requires advice.’ We were off again.
A few minutes later, I stood quite still as I surveyed the horrific scene. The PC who had asked for the advice opened the windows to try and get rid of the smell. It was a second-floor flat in a tower block and almost devoid of decoration and furniture. In the living room a makeshift miniature hut had been built up from broken cupboards and an upturned settee.
Inside the hut, on an old armchair, the body of a man sat facing an electric fire. His lower torso was naked and only three or four feet from the fire. He appeared to have been dead for some time and the heat had caused his legs to blacken and swell. The worst impact had been on his scrotum, which had swollen like a balloon so the skin had become translucent.
It was difficult to tell if the man was black or white and any guess as to his age was impossible. The stench was indescribable. I had no desire to get too close. Fortunately I was spared as I was called back in by the station Custody Sergeant to deal with a prisoner’s complaint.
We arrived back to a busy charge room.
‘Man in cell A5 guv,’ said the Sergeant Custody Officer as soon as I walked through the door. ‘Alleges he was beaten up at the time of his arrest. I’ve called a doctor to examine him. When you’ve finished that, the night-duty CID wants to see you about a couple of authorities to search some premises.’
The Sergeant was rushed, he had a drink driver on the go and two prostitutes waiting to have their rights explained and be booked in. He thrust a custody record into my hand and disappeared into the charge room. Still a bit stunned from the scene in the flat, I examined the record. It was for the anorak kid I had seen not half an hour earlier.
As I opened the cell door the youth I had seen earlier looked up from the wooden bench. He stood up, sneered and jabbed a finger towards my chest.
‘You the Inspector here?’ It was a snarl more than a question.
I nodded. The lad obviously didn’t recognise me. ‘I’m told you want to make a complaint.’
‘You’re damn right, man.’ The young burglar started to hold his ribs and click his tongue on his teeth. ‘Them police who arrest me, they beat me up, they punch me, they kick me, I going to have their jobs, they got no right to do that, I know I done wrong stealin’ and that, but them got no right to do that to me.’
I pressed the kid. ‘What exactly happened?’
‘Well it like dis. I’m walking down the street when this cop car pull up and these two cops jump on me. One o’ them slap me around ma face and call me a thief. Then two more pull up. I ran ’cos I knew what going to happen and I right. One of them others, he kick me to the ground and then they all jump on me, kicking me an’ punching me. One of them stamp on my head, all the time them chanting thief, thief, thief.’
I was getting a quick education. When I’d heard I was going to Stoke Newington, I’d been aware of its reputation for having a high number of complaints. I’d figured that there was no smoke without fire. But here I was listening to a young man, who I may well have believed if I hadn’t been there myself and seen what actually happened.
As I left the cell area, a young PC from the communications room came up to me. ‘Sir, we’ve got a child abduction; common-law husband separated from the mother for over a year has turned up unexpectedly, beaten mum up and snatched the son.’
Out of curiosity, I checked my watch.
It was eleven p.m. I had been on duty just one hour.
Chapter 22
Costello watched patiently as Dominic pulled two small blocks of Semtex from the hideaway beneath the kitchen sink and taped them securely to separate power units.
The practised skill with which his friend worked bore testament to the number of times he had done the job previously.
Detonators in place, Dominic carefully put the two devices into small cardboard boxes, leaving the tops open to make it easier to set the timers.
‘Have you got the bike ready?’ Costello asked.
‘Yep, the top box on the back of the bike has press stickers all over it. I’ll set the timer for three minutes – it’ll be enough for us to get clear.’
‘Good. I’ve got the scanner tuned in on the local police radio frequency.’
‘Where are we picking up Hewitson?’
‘Kentish Town. You follow me on the bike. I’ll put Hewitson in the driving seat, set the timer and then join you. I won’t be telling him that the bomb will go live while he’s still in the car. He’d shit a brick.’
Both men laughed out loud before Costello continued, ‘After he drives off, we’ll follow a few minutes behind him and put the call in.’
‘Got it,’ said Dominic. ‘We’re certain the target is at work tonight?’
Costello smiled again. ‘He’s on all right. Duty Inspector at Marylebone.’
Dominic put the first completed bomb into a Harrods carrier bag and followed as Costello led the way to their car.
As he watched, Dominic placed the bag carefully into the passenger well of the bomb car, an old 205 Peugeot. Both men were old hands but it was good to see that the death of his brother hadn’t had too bad an effect. Costello was pleased with his friend’s work. Many men would have quit. Dominic wasn’t like that.
Products of the Falls Road council estates, the McGli
nty brothers had suffered badly during the period of internment, as had Costello himself. Both their fathers had been seized in the middle of the night and they had all witnessed the effect it had on their mothers. As young men, they had naively believed their fathers to be innocent, planting the seed of anger and resentment that had eventually grown into their full membership of the IRA.
Dominic had learned his bomb-making skills in Libya at a training camp where he had been teamed up with members of Black September, the Red Army Faction and even ETA, the Basque separatists. Costello’s experience was very similar. In the training camps he had seen not only specialist skills teachers but also administrators, support workers, interpreters and all manner of other roles. He learned then the degree to which terrorism had become an international industry.
Costello checked his watch. It was a quarter to ten. Time to leave. The local police shifts changed over at ten p.m. At ten minutes before the hour the officers would be heading off duty. The drive to Kentish Town would take twenty minutes, time enough to get the car parked up and handed over to Hewitson before the new shift started to arrive on the street.
The incident with the lorry had made them both nervous. Dominic in particular was very fidgety as he mounted the bike. Costello nodded at him, serious-faced, and got into the Peugeot.
Twenty minutes later, Costello parked the car outside the Prince of Wales pub, just off Kentish Town Road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Dominic had pulled up about fifty yards down the street. He kept his helmet on and the visor down. Across his arm, he carried a spare, full-face crash helmet.
Hewitson had never met Dominic – not even seen him. And all Dominic knew about the man who was to deliver the device was that he was a sympathiser who had been living in London for some twenty years. The less they knew about each other, the less they could reveal if captured.
Costello, however, knew that Hewitson was more than just a sympathiser. He was a sleeper. The time had come for him to do a little job for ‘the cause’.
When approached, Hewitson had been enthusiastic. Even when Costello explained the job was a bomb delivery, he hadn’t baulked. In fact, he seemed to be grateful that, at last, the organisation had found a job for him. This was to be his moment of glory, he’d said.
Costello felt no guilt at conning Hewitson and he suspected that, even if he had known the job wasn’t ‘official’ IRA business, he would have still been up for it. Such cooperation wasn’t always the case. Quite often, sleepers who had been set up in jobs with homes and a nice life would get too cosy and, when the time came, they weren’t too keen on helping. Sometimes they had to be persuaded, on occasions they were given an unpleasant reminder of the debt they owed.
In Costello’s experience, it was having a family that made sleepers go soft. With Hewitson, there was no such problem. He was single, a bit of a loner and seemed to spend most of his time playing computer games in the bedroom of his terraced house.
It wasn’t a difficult job, but after what had happened with the lorry, Costello had decided not to risk getting himself arrested. All Hewitson had to do was avoid getting caught, park the Peugeot where he was told, leave it locked and make his way home.
As Costello waited, Hewitson emerged from the front drive of his house and walked up to the car.
The Irishman swung the door open. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes.’ Hewitson’s voice quivered as he climbed into the passenger
‘Not nervous are you?’ Costello demanded.
‘No.’
He was lying. Costello knew it. He could see Hewitson’s hands trembling. But it didn’t matter.
‘You should be. That bag under your feet contains enough Semtex to blow both of us to kingdom come.’
Costello waited for the information to sink in. ‘Right,’ he continued, ‘we’ll swap seats and I’ll tell you where to leave the car.’
After changing position, Costello described the exact place where Hewitson was to park the car bomb.
‘The position of the car is vital,’ he explained. ‘There can be no margin for error.’
‘I know …’ Hewitson started to reply.
‘You don’t know,’ Costello snarled. ‘You know fuck-all. Just do what I tell you and don’t assume anything. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry … I just wanted you to know you can trust me.’
‘I better had be able to. You had a look at the street next to Selfridges like I told you?’
Hewitson nodded. ‘Yesterday … and like you said, I wore a hoodie so none of the cameras would pick me out.’
‘Good man … You’re better than most operators I deal with, I’m telling you. Now, when you park the car, I want you to find a space that is about a hundred yards from Oxford Street. It doesn’t need to be exactly a hundred yards, just as close as you can get it; clear?’
‘Absolutely … I just can’t believe this is actually happening. I never thought I would ever get the call.’
Satisfied that his instructions were understood, Costello opened the top of the bag containing the bomb and set the timer.
‘It’s very small,’ said Hewitson.
‘It’s big enough,’ Costello scoffed ‘You’ve got an hour before it goes live. After that it’s set off by radio control. At this time of night, the journey should take you about thirty minutes, so you’ll be well away before there’s any danger, OK?’
‘OK,’ Hewitson answered.
‘Right, now don’t break the speed limit or do anything to get yourself noticed. If something does happen you’re on your own.’
As Costello climbed out of the car, he noticed Hewitson gripping the steering wheel tightly. He smiled to himself. The poor bastard was petrified.
A long time ago he had been in a similar position. He remembered it well, the dry mouth, the sweat, and the fear that the bomb would go off prematurely. For the first time, probably in his life, Hewitson was face to face with death. His heart would be racing. In some ways, Costello envied him. Once the job was done, the adrenaline rush would leave him with a sense of elation he had never experienced before.
Just like a drug though, the first time was always the best. After that, to professionals like Costello, it soon became all too routine.
Costello and McGlinty watched from the opposite side of Oxford Street as Hewitson walked away from the parked Peugeot. His job was done. Exactly as ordered.
Costello broke the silence. ‘Right, that’s it. Find a shop doorway to wait in. Make sure you’re not seen. I’m off to make a telephone call.’
As public telephones were becoming less easy to find in central London, Costello had picked up a second-hand mobile into which he had inserted an unregistered SIM card. It would be untraceable.
He called Marylebone Police Station on its direct line. A male voice answered.
As soon as Costello mentioned the words ‘car bomb’ and ‘the IRA’, the officer became very flustered.
It was a situation that Costello had experienced before. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew that the longer the police officer could keep him talking, the more likely it would be that the call would be recorded or traced.
‘Can you tell me if there is an official code … like a recognised word or something?’ the PC asked.
Costello took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m only going to say this once more. This is the IRA. There’s a bomb in a blue Peugeot outside Selfridges. You have one hour.’
‘The codeword … how do I know this isn’t a hoax?’
Costello was prepared for this. And he’d been present when enough bomb threats were planned to know at least some of the code-words used.
‘Thatcher,’ he said. ‘The codeword is Thatcher.’
He ended the call.
As he walked back to where Dominic was waiting with the motorbike, Costello listened intently to the scanner. It wasn’t long before the call produced the desired result: a radio transmission was made to ‘Delta Mike One’, who confirmed he would be set
ting up a forward control point at Portland Square.
Ten minutes later, as the two Irishmen watched from a discreet distance, the street containing the Peugeot was cordoned off with blue-and-white tape. In the surrounding area, PCs were posted at strategic points to keep the public away.
‘OK, Dom,’ said Costello as he put the scanner back in his jacket pocket. ‘Our man is in Portland Square. Make sure you get the bike close to him and if any of the cops ask, say you’re from the press.’
Dominic, started the motorbike, kicked it into gear and moved off.
Costello started walking. It was only a short distance to the point from which he could watch his plan unfold.
He saw Dominic reach the blue tape, stop the bike and climb off.
A PC approached, just as it appeared that Dominic was pulling the safety plug from the top box on the rear of the motorcycle. There was a brief conversation, Dominic gave the PC a thumbs-up and then waved as he walked away from the taped barrier.
It was the signal. The bomb was in place.
Costello waited for Dominic to get clear.
From his pocket, he produced a small set of binoculars. A figure in a flat cap approached the PC who had just spoken to Dominic. He pointed at the motorcycle.
Costello focussed his magnified view on the new officer. He seemed to be giving orders, acting as if he were in charge. Surely it was the target: he was the only officer wearing a hat. But in the glare of the street lights, Costello struggled to see any rank insignia.
He muttered under his breath. ‘Come on … come on.’
Then, as the man turned, he saw the confirmation he needed. The epaulettes on the officer’s jacket bore the two silver pips of an Inspector.
Costello pulled back into a doorway, flicked the metal safety catch from the transmitter in his inside pocket and pressed the ‘fire’ button.
The bike exploded.
A sound and pressure wave roared around the corner of the buildings. Costello ducked instinctively as windows along the street shattered.
A few moments later, car alarms screamed into life as debris crashed down into the street.
