The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Just like you’d have let me go, I suppose.’

  Before Costello could reply, the cop pushed the small dagger between his ribs and into his heart. He twisted and turned, tried to speak, to beg for a final chance. A strong hand, clamped firmly over his mouth, was the last thing he felt.

  ‘Remember Bob Bridges?’ said the cop. ‘See you in hell.’

  Chapter 89

  Al-Tikrit’s room faced the front of the building.

  Two ‘prostitutes’ booked into the room across the corridor and ‘British Telecom’ started work on the telephone lines. At the same time, a surveillance camera team positioned themselves in the front bedroom of a hotel on the opposite side of the street. Four hours after locating Hassan Al-Tikrit, the hotel and all approaches were under full-time observation. Barely a rat would be able to pass without being seen.

  At nine o’clock that evening, Grahamslaw got the break he had been waiting for. The target had returned to ‘the plot’. It was Yildrim. Grahamslaw had already been at work for fourteen hours. He was now over-tired and becoming increasingly irritable, but the excitement of the pending arrest kept him sharp. It was also a useful distraction after having such a bad start to the day.

  Emma had taken the easy route and sent a text that had arrived just after lunch. It was over. There would be no last rendezvous, no dinner date and no final night in her arms. The message had been apologetic but unequivocal. He wasn’t to call her or contact her other than for issues connected with work. She hoped he would respect her decision and wished him the best for the future.

  Grahamslaw had deleted the text, and then immediately regretted his impulsiveness. When he’d shared the news with Mick Parratt, his Superintendent had been quick to change the subject. There was work to do and plans to make. In truth Grahamslaw was grateful. He’d packed his emotions away and turned to the job at hand.

  Parratt had called in SO19 to make the initial entry and arrest. Their tactical firearms advisor, an Inspector, had discussed plans with the head of the surveillance team and with Grahamslaw. There were two options: seal off the hotel and surrounding street and talk the suspect out, or a rapid internal entry.

  The first method represented the option of least risk to life. The hotel and immediate area would be evacuated, contact would be made and the Arab would be instructed to leave the room and surrender to the waiting officers. Whilst this option could turn into a siege if the Arab refused to co-operate, experience had shown that, sooner or later, he would have to comply. The main problem would be the time and freedom it allowed. Before leaving the room anything could happen, from attempts to destroy important evidence through to suicide.

  A rapid entry placed the SO19 officers at greatest risk. It was known that the Arab had access to firearms and, possibly, explosives. The approach to the premises would have to be covert and silent. Riflemen would cover the outside to minimise the risk of escape through the window, and inside the hotel, the entry team would break down the door, locate the suspect and neutralise him. Every effort would be made to avoid bloodshed, but in the heat of the moment, anything could happen.

  The final decision had fallen to Grahamslaw. Evidence and equipment that he expected to be in the Arab’s possession needed to be seized. He could not allow time for them to be destroyed. He ruled in favour of the rapid entry.

  The SO19 Inspector wasn’t keen. There had been no time to obtain a decent layout of the hotel. His men wouldn’t know what to expect inside the door. The SO19 Sergeant with him had a rather different view and was hard pressed to conceal his pleasure. It was the kind of job for which his boys were trained and loved doing most. At four the following morning, they would go in.

  With arrest teams in place in case the target decided to depart early, Grahamslaw set up a temporary control room in the CID office at the nearby Paddington Green Police Station. With everything organised, all the Anti-Terrorist Squad Detectives could do was wait, chat, read heavily thumbed newspapers or play cards. Grahamslaw kept a large cup of black coffee on the go. Every time it cooled or he finished the contents, the cup was replenished from a percolator that one of the detectives had managed to purloin from the canteen.

  It was gone midnight when the news of the attack on Kevin Jones started to filter through.

  Misunderstanding and inexperience both contributed to the delay. Neighbours close to Jones’s home reported a road-traffic accident and an overturned car. The first officers on scene found a man dead and, assuming he was a victim of the collision, they called in a specialist traffic officer to investigate. It was only when the Accident and Emergency consultant at Rush Green hospital reported that Jones had a police warrant card in his pocket and that his injuries were caused by being shot that the local CID had been contacted. Even then, in spite of the expert medical opinion of the doctor, the local night-duty CID from Leyton had been slow to respond. It wasn’t until they had attended the scene of the crash and found two abandoned Browning pistols that anyone thought to contact the Anti-Terrorist Squad.

  Parratt told Grahamslaw as soon as he heard about the call.

  ‘Sometimes, I wonder what these lads do for brains, Mick,’ said Grahamslaw.

  ‘To be fair to them, boss, they didn’t know about the guns until they went to the scene of the crash.’

  ‘Don’t make bloody excuses for them. With what’s been going on in London the last couple of weeks, they should have been on the phone as soon as they got the news that a PC had been admitted to hospital with a gunshot wound. Is there any news on how Jones is?’

  ‘None. Do you want me to send someone over to Leyton?’

  Grahamslaw thought for a moment. ‘No, that’ll only make it look like we don’t trust the local lads, even if we don’t. Tell them to get onto SO19, get a lock-down on the hospital and tell them that if there are any more developments they call us first, understood?’

  ‘What about Finlay? Shall I get him informed?’

  ‘You’re assuming that the dead man isn’t Finlay?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Parratt. ‘That’s the first thing I checked. Surveillance has him tucked up safely at home with his wife.’

  ‘That’s good. No, don’t send anyone round to him yet. Let’s get tonight over with before we head down that road. Is there anything on the dead man?’

  ‘Nothing. Only that he seemed be fighting with Jones. The neighbours thought they were both drunk and had fallen out … but then they didn’t see the guns.’

  ‘My money’s on Costello.’

  ‘Mine, too. So, as soon as we have the Arab in custody, that should be the last of them.’

  At 0300 hours, with Kevin Jones still undergoing surgery, Grahamslaw and Parratt climbed into the rear of one of the squad cars. Ten minutes later, they were parked within two hundred yards of Al-Tikrit’s hotel.

  At 0352 hours, a transmission came in from the tactical advisor. SO19 confirmed that the entry team were ready and awaiting command.

  At 0400 hours, Grahamslaw gave the word.

  Less than a minute later, the SO19 battering ram hit the bedroom door.

  Both Grahamslaw and Parratt sat in silence as they waited for news.

  After a few moments, a transmission came over the radio from the SO19 Sergeant. ‘X-ray secured, repeat … x-ray secured.’

  Grahamslaw punched the air.

  It was over.

  Grahamslaw and Parratt entered the room at ten past four. The Arab was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the door, his wrists clamped firmly behind his back with plastic handcuffs. His head slouched forward onto his chest. He wore white underpants, nothing more, and was shaking uncontrollably. As the two detectives surveyed the scene in front of them, the Special Branch search team leader approached. In a rubber-gloved hand he held a piece of white A4 paper. On the paper was written a list of names and addresses. He held it up for Grahamslaw to read.

  ‘I thought you should see this straight away, guv.’

  Grahamslaw could see w
hy. There were ticks against the top two names, Bridges and Skinner. The next name on the list was Finlay. Finlay’s name had been circled and underlined, which was odd when compared to the marks against the other names. There was one more name, Kevin Jones. It also had a tick against it.

  Grahamslaw walked over to the Arab. As he stood over him, the man raised his head.

  Grahamslaw felt an immediate sensation of panic as he looked down. This man was an Arab, but not the Arab. This was not Yildrim or Anwar or whatever name the Arab was now using. It was not the man in the photographs, the man that had been meeting with Costello.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he exclaimed.

  Parratt turned, a puzzled look on his face.

  Grahamslaw felt himself shake with anger as he pointed at the cowering Arab. ‘It’s not him, it’s a fuckin’ decoy.’

  Parratt walked around the room so that he could clearly see the man on the floor. His look said it all. The man looked similar to Yildrim, enough that he could pass for him if only seen from a distance. Up close, it was clear. They’d been sold a dummy.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Parratt shouted to a group of detectives who had appeared at the door.

  Two of the men lifted the Arab bodily to his feet and dragged him out of the room.

  ‘What now?’ said Parratt, looking as angry and frustrated as Grahamslaw felt.

  ‘Get him back to Paddington and get talking to him. We’ve been led a dance to buy Yildrim some time. Get onto the hospital and see if Jones is conscious. If he is, I want to find out if he knows anything. And get someone to the morgue to find out whose body was found next to Jones’s car. It has to be Costello or Yildrim. I want to know which one.’

  ‘Who the hell is Richard Webb?’ Parratt asked, holding out a birth certificate to Grahamslaw, as they sifted through the personal items that the search team had brought to Paddington Green.

  With their suspect lost, the SO13 search team had spent several hours sifting through the hotel room for any clue as to his whereabouts. It wasn’t until six a.m. that they found the Arab’s passports behind the bath facia. There were four passports and one birth certificate. The passports all bore the same face but different names: there was Anwar, Yildrim, Al-Tikrit and Hussein. But it was the birth certificate that generated the most interest.

  ‘Blowed if I know. What’s the date of birth?’ said Grahamslaw.

  ‘April 1965, Belfast.’

  ‘Maybe an alias used by Costello?’

  ‘Why would the Arab have this then?’ Parratt held the certificate to the light, as if trying to decide if it was genuine. ‘I’ll run the name through our database, see what it throws up.’

  Chapter 90

  We had just climbed into bed when the hospital rang. It was bad news. Kevin had been shot, he was badly injured and on his way into the operating theatre. A nurse had found my telephone number on a ‘please contact’ slip that he kept with his police warrant card.

  Jenny dressed even faster than me. Becky was still with her mum and, although I tried to suggest she allow me to go on my own, she was having no debate. She was coming with me, no arguments.

  By the time we arrived at Rush Green Hospital, Kevin had been in surgery for an hour. The young nurse on reception told us as much as she knew. There’d been a shooting, one dead, one wounded. Our friend was the wounded one, she said. The police hadn’t identified the other man.

  Jenny sat down in the waiting area. There was no telling how long we were going to have to wait. I was trying to persuade the coffee machine to provide us with a hot drink when the local CID cornered me.

  Considering both Kevin and I were in the same job, the two young detectives proved to be less than helpful. They wouldn’t tell me anything about my friend’s condition or what had happened. All they wanted to know was what our connection was to PC Jones: was he authorised to carry a gun; did we know the dead man? In a few short minutes they really managed to put my back up and tempers started to become frayed. It even reached the point where they threatened to arrest me for obstructing their enquiries. I called their bluff, I’d had enough of these two trying to be Starsky and Hutch. I told them to call Grahamslaw and returned to join Jenny in the waiting room.

  And there we waited, for hours. By the time the surgeon came to see us, it was well into the early hours of the morning. Fortunately, he was a lot more forthcoming than the detectives. Despite our clear distress, he sat us down and talked through what had happened. Kevin was alive. But he’d been very lucky. The surgeon explained that an ambulance had been called to a report of a serious traffic accident. By the time the crew arrived, Kevin had lost consciousness. In the ambulance he had gone into hypovolemic shock, a condition where loss of blood results in a failure to deliver sufficient oxygen to vital organs. Fortunately, the paramedic was alert to the symptoms, inserted an IV drip and put Kevin on oxygen. It was only once the reception team at the hospital stripped their casualty off that the bullet entry wound had been discovered. They’d called the surgeon, who, as luck would have it, was a ballistic-trauma specialist who had seen service on a hospital ship during the Falklands conflict.

  Kevin had been shot in the back. According to the surgeon, a 9mm bullet looked to have passed through the seat in which he had been sitting, slowing it down and causing it to tumble.

  I was keen to know more and said so. Ever since being shot myself, I’d had a bit of a morbid fascination with bullet injury. Jenny turned up her nose, stood up and walked out of earshot before the surgeon continued. The surgeon explained that the resulting entry wound had been into Kevin’s lower rib area and had been oblong, indicating that the bullet struck at a point where it was sideways on. That slowed it down again and by the time it struck Kevin’s rib cage, the kinetic energy of the small lead missile had reduced to a point where it was almost spent. The damage was bad, but could have been a lot worse. The bullet was found lodged against his collar bone.

  We were still waiting at seven-thirty, when Kevin regained consciousness and asked the nurse to show us in. A uniformed PC had been posted to stay at his bedside. I tried to make out that I was Special Branch and get the constable to leave the room. He was having none of it. Kevin was going to have to whisper.

  As it was, he could hardly speak. There were tubes going here and there through just about every part of his body. Up his nose, in his mouth, into his left arm. His right arm was in plaster. He looked a mess.

  ‘Listen,’ he croaked, as we stood close to the bed.

  I leaned closer to try and make out what Kevin was saying.

  ‘It was Costello,’ Kevin continued. ‘He tried to get me. Before I did the bastard I made him talk.’ Kevin’s voice came out as a sort of rasping hiss.

  I leaned closer to the bed so I didn’t miss anything. ‘What happened, mate?’

  ‘I told you. It was Costello. Bastard was waiting for me at the house.’

  ‘He found you too?’

  ‘The Arab gave him my address, that one we saw in the picture. He’s behind it. Something about settling an old score.’

  ‘For the embassy?’

  ‘Must be…’ Kevin paused to draw breath. Although the painkillers were effective, his voice was becoming weaker. It didn’t look like he was going to be conscious for very long. ‘Costello said he killed the Arab’s contact yesterday,’ he continued.

  ‘Monaghan,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. The Arab told Costello to kill him, just like he did with you and me … Finlay, he’s gonna keep killing until you stop him.’

  Kevin’s eyelids closed. But I had another question.

  ‘Did he say where I can find this Arab?’

  But it was too late, he was unconsciousness.

  I turned to Jenny. She’d clearly heard what Kevin had said. The look on her face said it all. She thought it had been all over. With Monaghan’s death, the reason for the vendetta seemed to have gone. Now there was this Arab.

  I had to have been wrong about Monaghan being behind it. Somehow, it was
all linked to the embassy. The Arab, whoever he was, had to be connected to the men we had killed. And now, he was back to avenge them.

  Chapter 91

  ‘We’re wanted upstairs,’ said Parratt as he walked into Grahamslaw’s office. ‘The Commissioner’s staff officer just called. He wants us now.’

  Grahamslaw stood up. ‘Still no news on the Arab I’m afraid,’ he said, following Parratt along the corridor. ‘What does the Commissioner want to see us about?’

  ‘Richard Webb. I ran a check on the name. He came up as a known IRA man, so I put in a call to the Northern Ireland Special Branch. They’re going to ring us back as soon as they can but what they did say is there was a ‘special interest’ marker on their computer referring all enquiries to the Commissioner, Met Police. You were busy, so I rang his staff officer to explain our interest. Next thing, I get a call for us to drop everything and go see the man.’

  ‘Did he sound OK?’

  ‘You mean are we in for a bollocking for what’s been going on with this operation?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I don’t know … but he did ask the operation name.’

  ‘It doesn’t have a name. What did you say?’ asked Grahamslaw.

  ‘I had to think on my feet. I didn’t want to sound like an idiot. I said Hastings, I called it Operation Hastings.’

  ‘Hastings it is, then. Right, let’s go and see if Hastings is in the shit.’

  The Met Commissioner occupied a suite of rooms in the other tower block of Scotland Yard from Grahamslaw’s office. The two detectives had to descend to the ground floor and then enter another lift system to take them up to where his staff officer was waiting. Within a few minutes, they were waiting to be shown into the Commissioner’s private briefing room. Grahamslaw smiled to himself as he caught Mick Parratt checking his tie in a nearby mirror.