by Matt Johnson
Chapter 7
Grahamslaw’s letter had the effect he clearly wanted: I thought about little else for the rest of the day. Jenny seemed aware I was distracted and, by and large, she left me to mull things over in my own sweet way. I guessed she trusted me to work something out. In the end, I telephoned the Commander’s office and made an appointment to see him the following day.
London tube journeys had changed since the terror attacks in New York. Many of the larger, better-known rail stations now had armed police on point duty outside and there were often police patrols on the trains themselves. At St James’s Park, where I left the train, there was a small team of officers with a sniffer dog checking every passenger who came through the barriers.
At New Scotland Yard I made my way through the security checks, took the lift to the fourteenth floor and soon found myself wandering along the hallowed corridors of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. I turned in several directions, trying to get my bearings as I studied the nameplates on the huge number of doors – some closed, some open, but none the correct room. Most of the offices were occupied and on several occasions, unsympathetic faces lifted to glance in my direction before returning to a computer screen or conversation.
Eventually I found an open-plan room with a plate bearing the name ‘SO13’ on the open door. Inside there were, perhaps, thirty detectives, all working industriously at their desks. To one side a small meeting seemed to be taking place, with a PowerPoint presentation holding the attention of everyone present.
For a moment, nobody saw or spoke to me. Then, two young male detectives dressed in matching white shirts, suit trousers and departmental ties stepped quickly away from their desks and ushered me back out into the corridor.
‘Who are you, mate?’ the first one asked.
I explained, adding I was there to see their Commander.
The mention of Grahamslaw’s name caused an exchange of glances. Much of the Anti-Terrorist Squad’s work is highly confidential – internal eyes only and often very secret. The two detectives were clearly concerned I may have seen or heard something I shouldn’t have. They instructed me to wait while one of them left to check out my claim.
Within a minute he returned, with Grahamslaw just behind him.
‘Follow me, Inspector,’ said the Commander. The greeting was formal, austere. No handshake, no warmth. I did as I was told.
We crossed the large room to an internal office on the far side. The smaller office had glass walls, no doubt so the Chief could keep an eye on his Indians.
‘Shut the door, Finlay,’ Grahamslaw said, his tone no more mellow, and sat opposite me, behind the desk.
Again, I did as I was told, without question, and stood for a moment, wondering what was about to unfold.
The Commander seemed to relax. ‘OK, Finlay, sit down and take it easy. I won’t be smiling – for reasons which will become clear; but you can relax, we can’t be heard in this office. I’m glad you could make it.’
‘I got your note,’ I said.
‘Took you longer than I expected. You’ll forgive me if we don’t discuss the other bits and pieces that were sitting there waiting for you?’
‘Certainly. But rest assured, that has been taken care of.’
Grahamslaw ignored this, and for a moment studied my face, which clearly bore a puzzled expression.
‘I won’t beat about the bush, Finlay; here’s why you’re here: there are many in my department who feel Kevin Jones and you should have been arrested. There are even several people who think you’ve been spared due to political interference; that you led the department a merry song and dance, and, if not totally hung out to dry, you still should not be allowed to get away with it. That said, I will tell you, the majority understand the predicament the two of you faced. However, I do have to respect the … shall we call it “spectrum of views” … and I can’t be seen to be too sympathetic towards you.’
Grahamslaw doodled on a small pad as he spoke, his eyes moving between me and the windows that separated us from the larger room. ‘Fact is Finlay, your options are limited. The rumour mill on division means coppers are either scared of you or scared of working with you. Royalty won’t have you back with this kind of history and you are not the kind of bloke to settle in a desk job.’
‘I haven’t thought about much else the last two days,’ I answered. ‘I wondered … well, surveillance maybe?’
Grahamslaw laughed, slapping his knee hard as he rocked his chair. ‘I don’t think so. Remember how easily your wife sneaked up on you and Kevin at Harlow Common and how he got that black eye? Somehow I think you’re a little too old for that game now.’
I smiled. He was right. When Kevin and I had met to talk over how we were going to react to the attacks on our old friends, Jenny had crept up on us before either of us had seen her.
‘Any ideas?’ I asked.
‘I’ve talked your situation over with MI5—’
‘Not a chance,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t have the brains for them and as to field work…’
Before I could finish, Grahamslaw held up his hand to stop me in mid-sentence. ‘No, not a job. Just to ask them whether the personal threat to you and your mates is at an end. They tell me that, barring any unexpected developments, they’re confident it died with Monaghan and Webb.’
‘That’s what they’ve told me and Jenny. I hope they’re right.’
‘I think they are. No, what I have in mind for you is a job working for me. The Commissioner has seen fit to widen the Specialist Ops portfolio to include the links between organised crime and people trafficking. Alternatively, we’ve been given funds for a small team to travel to Kenya to look into the death of a British girl thirteen years ago.’
‘Thirteen years?’
‘Yes; you might have seen it in the newspapers. At the time it was thought the victim had been killed by lions. We’ve brought in two of our best to look into it and they could use someone with your particular skills to go with them.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘Likely to take long?’
‘The Kenya enquiry? Not sure, but my guess is just a few months. The trafficking team is likely to be long term, though.’
I was interested – genuinely so. Kenya was a place I had always wanted to visit but, with it being a short-term assignment, my guess was Jenny would prefer I took the more secure, long-term option.
‘Think about both, Finlay,’ Grahamslaw concluded. ‘And get back to me with a decision as soon as you can.’
I promised I would.
Chapter 8
Best-laid plans.
Toni wondered how Grahamslaw had come up with the Kenya enquiry as an alternative idea. Three phone calls later and she had things back on track. Nell had done well to spot the other gig was on offer, and before Finlay had even had the time to consider his answer, Toni had nipped the opportunity in the bud. He would be joining the slave-trafficking squad. Having him heading off to Kenya didn’t fit with her plans – or the promises she’d made to Jenny, for that matter.
It wasn’t the first time Toni had had cause to be grateful to her researcher. Nell Mahoney was very special – an unusual young woman with an interesting background. And her entry into the ranks of MI5 had been anything but straightforward.
An Oxford classics graduate, Nell had been uncertain as to her career plans so had chosen to continue her academic studies, achieving high grades in both her master’s degree and doctorate. She was still only in her mid-twenties when the security services found her, something that had come about when she was caught hacking into Government computer systems.
In fact, that wasn’t quite accurate – Nell hadn’t actually been caught by the authorities. She had been reported by a fellow student, who had noticed what her acquaintance had been looking at. And looking is all Nell had been doing.
When MI5 opened a PF – a personal file – on Nell, it was followed by an interview. The purpose at the time wasn’t recruitment, it was investigation.
Miles Grantham, the officer who called on her, had realised, from the moment they started talking, that the subject of his enquiry was rather unusual. Nell was autistic, a woman with Asperger syndrome.
Miles’ first clue came when he noticed how clumsy Nell was – spilling the tea she made for them – and how she struggled to look him in the eye as they talked. Nell was also unusually intense and had incredible recollection. Miles’ suspicions were heightened further by her focus on her interests and her inability to recognise hacking into Government computer systems as wrong.
Familiar with the syndrome, having been a teacher before joining MI5, Miles asked Nell to demonstrate how she had hacked into the protected network at the Cabinet Office. He wasn’t surprised that Nell had been pleased to show him, but he was amazed at how quickly she was able to do it, the dexterity with which she navigated past the firewalls, checks and system queries, and the confidence with which she approached what should have been virtually impossible challenges. The Government network was supposed to have been impregnable, yet here in Oxford was a young woman who made hacking into it look like child’s play.
When asked why she did it, ‘Knowledge,’ was Nell’s one word response. She simply wanted to learn.
While aware his job was to investigate and report on Nell, Miles had warmed to his suspect. He deliberately slowed the progress of his enquiry to allow himself time to build a better picture of her. He spoke to Nell’s parents. They lived near Oxford and were pretty ordinary folk – middle class, not especially gifted or intelligent, and neither were graduates. They had noticed Nell was unusual at a very early age. She was quick to learn to speak, but soon developed her own vocabulary and was intolerant of others who couldn’t follow her. She also became incredibly task-focussed. When they bought her building blocks, her parents were amazed to find her creating copies of the box cover pictures within minutes of first seeing the toy. They also recalled how an aunt had given Nell a road atlas as a present. Within a day she had memorised a list, in alphabetical order, of all the towns and villages in Oxfordshire.
Nell was different – special, was her parent’s description. At school she had been bullied and had struggled to relate to her peers. Yet she had ended up top of the class and had been the only child to win a scholarship to Oxford.
As an adult Nell had developed strategies to overcome many of the empathy challenges that had caused her to be picked on as a teenager. She referred to herself as an ‘aspie’, or ‘homo superior’ and had an incredible memory for jokes. Her delivery was appalling, but she managed to make people laugh, which seemed to give her immense pleasure.
Eventually, and with her parents’ agreement, Miles formulated a plan. Instead of prosecuting Nell, MI5 recruited her.
After completion of her initial course, Nell was assigned to ‘G’ department and posted to GCHQ in Cheltenham. Her job, not surprisingly, was to root out hackers. She was the classic poacher turned gamekeeper.
Away from the supportive home environment, however, Nell had struggled to adjust to life on her own in Cheltenham. Within a few short months, she had asked for a move closer to home. In March 2001, her file had appeared in Toni’s in-tray. The application was approved; Nell had moved back in with her parents and Toni acquired a new assistant. The service still kept an eye on Nell, though. Given her predisposition to curiosity, a watching brief was maintained by GCHQ on her internet activity, particularly with regard to her personal social media use and for any indication she might be returning to her old habits.
They knew, for example, that every Friday, after dinner with her parents, Nell would retire to her room and then switch on her computer. Friday was ‘Slashdot’ forum night. Nell would tap in her username – Pixie22 – and then search out some of her favourite members. The site labelled itself as ‘News for Nerds’, but Nell and a few of the regular contributors spent a lot of time talking about taking the forum and their ideas in a new direction.
Lots of the users were autistic to varying degrees. Many of them were also highly gifted. Toni had smiled at one particular report describing how they often joked they had been born on the wrong planet or, possibly, they were an evolutionary step in man’s development. Either way, Nell and her friends knew they were different. The new direction they were talking about was going to be a website especially designed for them. One of the more innovative and outspoken contributors had even suggested a name, ‘Wrong World’. Nell apparently thought it an excellent idea.
Every so often, Toni would receive a supplementary update from the monitoring team in Cheltenham. So far, they had reported no cause for concern. But they still watched.
Each morning since her transfer to London, Nell had travelled by train to Paddington and then used the tube to get to St James’s Park. Every evening she would make the return journey home. The same routine that bored Toni was comforting to Nell. And as a researcher, she was the best Toni had ever worked with.
Which was the reason Toni was now experiencing frustration at the slow speed at which the Monaghan enquiry was progressing. Her instincts told her there was more to the story than met the eye, but Nell had been unable to discover anything. She had worked her way through MI5 files, records and databases. She had even hacked into Ministry of Defence systems. Nothing. Monaghan’s military record was deleted. The only clue was the fact that even someone as good as Nell couldn’t find anything.
‘It’s impossible,’ Nell exclaimed, as her hands whirred across the keys of her laptop. ‘No way can they hide every trace of deletion.’
Eventually, just one avenue of enquiry seemed left. Nell offered to hack into the MI6 system. She had been confident she could do it, but Toni had to balance their need against the shit that would fly if they got caught.
She decided against it, hoping her request for official access would soon pay dividends. If not, a hack remained a possibility.
Chapter 9
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Jenny.
Toni smiled as she sipped at the coffee Finlay’s wife had just made. ‘A job at Scotland Yard should be just the ticket,’ she replied.
The two women were both stood at the bedroom window. In the garden, they could see Finlay digging near the small shed.
‘I’m serious,’ said Jenny. ‘Things have become a real struggle lately.’
‘He’s still not sleeping well?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘It’s not just that. I’m really regretting moving into the spare room. Since I did that, he’s become even more distant, and every time I try to raise the subject, he manages to steer the conversation onto something else. It’s like he just doesn’t want to talk to me.’
‘He’ll come around, I’m sure.’
‘Well, I hope so. I just despair of what to do.’
Toni leaned forward, her nose touching the cold glass. ‘What exactly is he doing out there?’
Jenny threw up her hands. ‘God knows. He says he finds it relaxing,’
Toni paused for a moment before continuing. ‘I may have an idea,’ she said, quietly. ‘You remember I said I’d speak to a specialist?’
‘Did you have any luck?’
‘I found a consultant at Barts Hospital who was very helpful. When I told him about Robert’s behaviour, he asked me about other symptoms – moodiness, irritability, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh, he’s irritable alright. Add to that the periods of silence and it’s like walking on eggshells. Half the time I wonder if he’s the same man I married.’
‘That fits with what the consultant said. Post-traumatic stress was his suggested diagnosis.’
Jenny turned away, her face screwed up. ‘Just as you guessed, then? I googled it like you suggested … came up with combat stress.’
‘It’s more common than we realised, it seems. The consultant told me anyone can get it, not just soldiers. Exposure to any kind of a traumatic event can trigger it; the kind of thing you and Robert went through could easily be a cause.’
‘So, why don�
��t I have the same problem? Why am I just fine?’
‘I think he feels responsible. It’s not just the violence of what happened. It’s because he believes it was being secretive about his history that caused it … and I also think there’s some underlying anger towards Monaghan.’
Jenny let out a deep breath. ‘So … what’s your idea then? At the moment, things are so desperate I’m up for trying anything.’
‘Not really my idea, as such, but I can do the arranging. Apparently, what Robert needs is some time alone to relax – a holiday, that kind of thing. Time to unwind and get his thoughts in order.’
‘Alone?’ Jenny retorted. ‘What, without me and Becky, you mean?’
‘Yes. To give—’
‘No. I said from the very start we’re in this together. I’m not sending him off somewhere on his own.’
‘He wouldn’t be on his own,’ Toni replied, calmly. Jenny looked confused as she continued. ‘He’d be monitored. I can make the arrangements. We have a small budget to cater for such things, and, if he showed any signs of being in difficulties, we would whisk him home, pronto.’
‘I … I’m not keen. I hated it when he was on Royalty Protection. He was always away. It was like leading separate lives.’
‘This would be different. This would be for just a week – to give him the time to get things back into perspective … and we’d set things up for you to keep in regular touch by telephone. It would soon pass and, you never know, he might come home a new man.’
‘I don’t know … do you think it might work? Could a week be enough?’
Toni returned to the window. ‘I hope so, I really do. You did say you’d do anything…’
‘Now you’re quoting me.’
‘I just meant…’
