The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘I’m compromised. Two of your staff have just done a number on me.’

  ‘Really? Am I to presume that one of them was Ms Fellowes?’

  Listening to the second voice, Toni was at first uncertain as to Nell’s earlier assertion it was Director ‘T’ Howard had called. But as she heard the way he pronounced ‘Ms Fellowes’, those doubts disappeared. It was him.

  ‘The bitch tried a fucking honey trap on me. I thought I saw it a mile off but they were clever; set me up with a tart and then filmed it.’

  ‘A compromat? Fellowes has the makings of a spy, after all.’

  ‘Yes, a fucking compromat. Made it look bad for me and then threatened to send the recording to my wife.’

  ‘That could have been awkward, Howard. I presume this threat didn’t actually happen.’

  ‘No. I called their bluff.’

  ‘Their bluff? Who was with her?’

  ‘Her Section Head, David Batey.’

  Another pause. Toni glanced across. Batey stared intently at the PC screen, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  ‘So … that rather explains why he has been a little slow in coming up with a report on the misuse of Fellowes’ security pass. Am I to conclude they worked out it was you responsible for copying it?’

  ‘Correct. And that the termination of McGlinty was undertaken by Six.’

  ‘Do they know why?’

  ‘They know about Al Anfal. Fellowes thought it was an artefact, some form of treasure, but she had worked out it was the connection between the dead soldiers.’

  ‘They know about Al Anfal? Interesting … and I issued her with specific instructions to keep me informed of any unusual developments in her enquiry. It is most regrettable that she chose to ignore my order.’

  ‘They asked about the searches at the Skinner and Bridges homes as well.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing … but they’re not fools. They know it was us.’

  Batey leaned across in front of Toni and placed a firm hand on Nell’s shoulder. ‘Pause it a minute, Nell,’ he said, firmly.

  Nell tapped a key.

  ‘Nell, I’m going to need to ask you to join Stuart in the tea room while Toni and I talk.’

  The researcher squared her shoulders and stood, silently. Without uttering a word, she slid back her chair and walked to join her colleague.

  Toni flinched as the tea room door slammed shut. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said to Batey. ‘Nell has her own particular way of expressing herself.’

  ‘I have two daughters, Toni. Trust me when I say I’m quite familiar with door slamming. Now, first things first: are we absolutely sure Howard Green isn’t aware his phone conversations are tapped?’

  ‘He isn’t. Nell was well aware he uses a secure service device and when she tells me she can hack into it without him knowing, I trust her completely.’

  ‘OK … it’s just that it occurred to me that this might be a conversation he knows we are listening to.’

  ‘If he did, would he have let himself get caught shagging a tart on a rooftop in King’s Cross?’ said Toni.

  ‘I suppose he could have allowed himself to fall into our trap without actually doing that, but what about after he left us? He could have decided to stage this to misdirect us?’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘No … I’m just trying to cover all possibilities.’

  ‘So, are you suggesting he wanted us to catch him?’ It was a development she hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘No … I’m just being cautious. That is our Director he is talking to, without doubt.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So, I also think we need to be prepared for what this recording may reveal. It’s already certain the Director knew far more about McGlinty’s death than he let on at the post-incident briefing.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ said Toni. ‘He had me in his office afterwards and asked me to keep him updated on my investigation. Even gave me his private email. He wanted to know what I discovered before anyone else did.’

  ‘And you definitely haven’t mentioned Al Anfal to him?’

  ‘No … I was only planning to do so once I was sure what it was.’

  ‘He was using you to test the water, to see if the existence remains a secret or not. And it’s my guess Howard is about to tell him we know all about it.’

  ‘Dob me in, you mean?’

  ‘Us in. This isn’t a school prank we’re talking about here, Toni. Men like Howard deal in much higher stakes.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You realise we may be about to listen to a life-changing conversation.’

  ‘For us, you mean.’

  ‘I do, yes. What Nell already knows – and what we are about to listen to – is a conversation between a Secret Service Director and an MI6 officer who has orchestrated the deaths of an MI6 team of soldiers. The motive for that operation appears to be to prevent them selling top secret information. And that is information we are now party to.’

  ‘You’re certain they’re behind it, then?’

  ‘Do you need any more convincing, Toni?’

  ‘No … I guess not. Nell also heard it, of course.’

  ‘Correct … and, if they say what we’re expecting, we have to be prepared to deal with the consequences.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘I’m not sure … I just wanted you to be prepared, that’s all.’

  Toni spun around in her chair to face the tea room. ‘I’ll get Nell.’

  With Stuart still making the most delayed brew in service history, Toni, Nell and Batey huddled around the PC and continued to listen.

  ‘Indeed … as you say, they are not fools. So, what did you decide to tell them about Al Anfal, Howard?’

  ‘Enough to put them in no doubt they could take it no further.’

  ‘You made it perfectly clear this is a matter of national security?’

  ‘And that anyone who compromises the matter will be dealt with.’

  ‘Hmm … very well. So, Fellowes’ report will blame Monaghan.’

  ‘I’m certain it will.’

  ‘That’s good. Perhaps this hadn’t turned out as badly as it might have. And, to be frank, when Monaghan went off track we always knew this might happen. What about the two remaining policemen, Jones and Finlay?’

  ‘According to Fellowes, they are out of the loop, no knowledge of Al Anfal and no reason to think that the deaths of their mates weren’t Monaghan pursuing his own agenda.’

  ‘Good. We really didn’t need any more loss of life.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure about Batey, though. He wasn’t at all happy that I had used one of his team as a scapegoat.’

  ‘I hope you made it clear that was her own fault. If she’d heeded the warning to steer clear of Collins, it wouldn’t have been necessary.’

  ‘My words exactly. I’m just a little wary of Batey’s reputation.’

  The recording went quiet.

  Toni glanced once more at her line manager. He was steely-faced. If he was disturbed at listening to the discussion, it didn’t show. For her, though, there was no doubt. Howard Green had intended to end her career in the Service, and the Director had known about it. Batey had been right when he’d warned they needed to be prepared for what the recording would reveal.

  It was the Director who spoke next.

  ‘Leave it with me; we’ll talk in a day or two. Batey is a good man … due to retire soon and I had thought it likely that Fellowes would replace him. I need to give it some thought.’

  ‘In the meantime, do you still want me to deal with Collins?’

  ‘Yes, have your man on standby.’

  ‘I thought that the TV exposé effectively destroyed him?’

  ‘It did, but his connection with Cristea Publishing worries me. And he knows about Al Anfal, his book makes that clear. The fact that he seems to think it’s an artefact doesn’t diminish the effect of revealing the name.
The whole operation might have been ruined.’

  ‘The damage is done, you mean?’

  ‘Possibly. Eliminating Collins would, to some extent, be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

  ‘What if he does a second book to cash in on the first?’

  ‘It would all depend on what he wrote. But he’s a risk I’m not comfortable with.’

  ‘A problem best sorted, perhaps? It might be tidier if I had Grady terminate his contract.’

  ‘Very well … do what you’re good at, Howard. Like you say, it would be tidier. And, I’ll let you know as soon as I have Fellowes’ report on my desk.’

  The call ended. Nell paused the play-back before speaking. ‘The next call is to a mobile. He tells someone called Grady to pack his bags for another job. The call ends without a response from the recipient.’

  Toni blew out her cheeks. ‘Well … that confirms what happened to Chris Grady and why Howard wouldn’t talk about him. He is an MI6 asset.’

  ‘A hit man,’ said Batey. ‘No doubt one of the pair that took out McGlinty.’

  ‘So, where does this leave us?’

  ‘The way I see it we are in exactly the same situation we were, except we now know our Director is also part of the operation.’

  ‘You mean we say nothing … do nothing.’

  ‘I think we do exactly what they expect. You finish the Hastings report and blame Monaghan; I’ll deal with the issue of your security pass and ensure you are fully exonerated. In normal circumstances the Director might have considered you a security risk, but we now know that’s not the case.’

  ‘As he knows full well who was behind the killing?’

  ‘Correct. And, like he says, I’m due to retire soon, so, who knows, he may even decide to promote you.’

  Toni half smiled, her fingers digging deep into her neck as she attempted to ease the tension she was now feeling.

  ‘Best you call Robert Finlay,’ Nell interjected. ‘Put his mind at rest.’

  Toni caught the confused look on Batey’s face. It was another error she would need to explain. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow, Nell, thanks.’

  Chapter 79

  After the girl had been shot, the guards unceremoniously bundled Lynn back to the cell. She counted her way past six similar doors, all locked, all seemingly leading into lock-ups like hers.

  A few minutes later, she heard heavy doors being opened and slammed shut. The others were also being returned. After that, she waited, listening in vain at the door for any further sign of voices or movement.

  About an hour later, they came for her again.

  Any notion to try and spring an ambush was quickly destroyed as soon as the cell door was opened. From behind the torchlight came a narrow torrent of water. She felt its icy blast before she saw it coming. A high pressure hose had been turned on her, the jet knocking her clean off her feet and blasting her body. Torch beams were played on her soaking, struggling form as the hose operator focussed the jet on her head, body and legs. Rolling across the floor, she scrambled to her knees, desperately trying to evade the torrent. But the power of the water was too much. This wasn’t a fight she could win. Curled into a ball, shivering and whimpering, she surrendered, begging silently for it to stop.

  No sooner had the water been turned off than the order was given for her to remove all her clothing. She ignored the instruction. Don’t make this too easy … show them you aren’t beaten, girl, she told herself. It was a pointless gesture. Multiple hands grabbed her roughly from behind. Three men held her down while a fourth ripped her shirt and trousers away. Socks and underwear offered little resistance to the strength of her attackers. Within a minute, the order to strip had been enforced. Then there was silence.

  Prostrate on the wet floor and shaking uncontrollably, an awful realisation came to her. Lynn knew her will was already weakened and, with no shoes or clothing, she had been rendered vulnerable. Hunger and isolation had now been followed up by humiliation. Escape was already seeming a forlorn hope.

  As the men returned, lifting her bodily from the floor, she experienced an odd sense of relief that, at least, the uncertainty was about to end. A hood was pulled over her head. As it was already dark, she wondered why. Thoughts of a barbaric execution returned.

  A few yards from the cell door, the men heaved her upwards and then onto a flat surface. It felt like a table.

  Galvanised by a new wave of fear, she fought as best she could. Blinded and desperate, striking out in all directions with arms and legs, even teeth. It was hopeless. Within seconds, both arms were restrained and she was stretched out. Two hands were on each arm, two on each ankle. They stretched her out, facing upwards.

  Another man joined in. Five of them, she now counted. This one rested himself across her thighs, his bodyweight pinning her down. The table was smooth, warm. Wood, she thought; remember details. One day, she hoped to be recalling them when these bastards were put away. She stopped fighting. Better not to risk injury until she might have a better chance, when the odds were more even. They were going to take her. For now … accept the inevitable.

  The men holding her arms wrenched them downwards, forcing her shoulders into an unnatural angle. It hurt, though only slightly, but she cried as if in agony. They must think her weak, think her unable to fight, then soon, perhaps very soon, she would surprise them. Then a sound reached her. A familiar sound. The ratcheting of cable ties … plastic handcuffs.

  Thin plastic was forced over both hands. Lynn heard the sound of the ties being tightened and then felt pressure, tight pressure, as her wrists were firmly clamped to the table legs. The pain increased, agonising this time, the ties were too tight. It had to be for a reason. What were they doing? Cold, wet hands grasped her neck and throat.

  ‘Do not fight this.’ A male voice, older than the others.

  Fight? she puzzled. And just how could she do that? It was obvious now what was coming. They were going to rape her. The realisation brought understanding, an appreciation of what all rape victims go though at the point where they surrender to the inevitable. As the men continued to bind her, Lynn made herself a promise. One day, they would pay.

  But they didn’t rape her.

  Someone tied a tourniquet around her left arm. It tightened. As Lynn felt a sharp pain in her left forearm, the reason for the hood and the restraints became clear. They had needed to turn lights on to work and had to ensure that she kept still while a needle was pushed into her vein. They were going to sedate her … they wanted to stop her resisting.

  Someone leaned close to her. She smelled his sweat. Then a voice in her ear – the same powerful voice from earlier.

  ‘Welcome to paradise, Lynn Wainwright.’

  And then, Lynn realised it wasn’t a sedative that was coursing through her veins. As the drug started to take effect, as she felt a sense of wellbeing flood her body, the horror of what it was hit home in her mind. She was lost … even if they found her now she was as good as dead. She prayed for the one chance she might have: the alternative reaction some users described, where their body rejected the chemicals, causing them to experience vomiting and nausea rather than pleasure. Her prayer went unanswered.

  The heroin went straight into Lynn’s bloodstream. The first sensation was like pins and needles. It started in her chest then moved to her spine. She felt herself smiling. Beneath the pleasure, her brain fought for a short time to resist the effects. The drug quickly won the battle of wills. For a moment, her back arched and then a sensation like a rush of tiny pinpricks spread throughout her whole body. Then came the lights. Bright, flashing, like lightning, then waves, and in all kinds of colours, then combinations of colours.

  Within a minute of the needle penetrating her flesh, she relaxed. There was no need to fight … no need to worry. They’d all be OK, the guys, her parents … everything would be fine. Everything would be fine.

  Chapter 80

  The remainder of Saturday was lost to red herrings in the sea
rch for Lynn Wainwright.

  Lynn’s job in SO19 and the recent tension over raised security threat levels inevitably caused the Met senior management to conclude her disappearance might be linked to some form of terror attack. Even at grass roots level, wild theories were in abundance, from an attempt to impersonate Lynn to strike at a sensitive target, through to Lynn having committed suicide or run away to escape the pressure of the shooting enquiry. The truth was, nobody knew.

  Whatever the explanation, she needed to be found, and quickly.

  I didn’t get home until early evening and, as I opened the front door, the smell of cooking reached my nostrils. Jenny had made dinner for just the two of us. It was steak, a favourite of both of us. Luckily for me, I’d remembered the wine.

  On the dinner table were candles and as I had walked along the hallway I noticed one of my favourite James Taylor numbers was on the CD player. I’d been expecting some kind of argument, a heated debate, at least. The warm reception was a relief.

  Jenny had arranged for her mother to look after Becky overnight. We settled down, enjoyed the food, chatted houses, and other normal things. Although we touched on the subject, I tried to avoid talking about work and the reports on the television concerning the missing WPC. I was slow to raise it, but at some point I knew I was going to have to broach the subject of my need to head down the M4 the following morning.

  Marica’s email came up as we started our dessert. But it had been put to bed by the time I’d cleared my plate. Jenny told me my assurances were accepted, and, besides, we had more important things to talk about.

  I was confident now there wasn’t going to be a ‘we’re separating’ speech and, as the wine flowed, I was feeling well and truly relaxed. It was a good moment for my wife to break the news to me.

  She was pregnant.

  My reaction was also a surprise. I cried. So much so that my chest heaved and my eyes streamed. I figured it was a combination of relief and joy. I never let on that I had been half anticipating a ‘Dear John’ speech.