by Matt Johnson
This time, the alcohol didn’t soothe my busy mind though, and as I lay down, my head was still spinning with confused thoughts. A listening device in Kevin’s house? Were MI5 secretly monitoring him? Were they also listening to me? And if so, why?
Too many questions.
Chapter 6
‘Can I come, Daddy?’
I hesitated. Believing my family to still be asleep, I had crept downstairs quietly, donned my walking boots and was just opening the back door when Becky’s voice startled me.
I looked around into the kitchen to see my little girl, still in her pyjamas. There was no way I could resist her.
‘Shall we get you dressed then?’ I whispered as I picked her up and cradled her tiny frame in my arms.
Ten minutes later, following much secretive giggling and exaggerated shushing of lips, I scribbled a quick note to Jenny on the back of an envelope and then quietly carried my daughter downstairs. ‘Do you want to walk or ride on my back?’ I asked.
Our daughter had become quite precocious, showing many of her mother’s personality traits, and her vocabulary was growing almost as fast as her little frame. So, I wasn’t at all surprised when, after having her dad slip her red Postman Pat wellingtons onto her feet, she strode off down the garden path, hands on hips, tossing her hair backwards with a flick of her head and calling back to me, ‘I’ll walk, thank you.’
I quickly followed. The early-morning sun was already quite warm. We headed to the stile at the end of the garden and climbed over into the neighbouring field. From here, a footpath headed off across the meadows in the direction of the local pub. Underfoot, the short grass was still damp.
We kept close to a hawthorn hedge, following the well-trodden track several dog walkers and ramblers had made. Becky kept several steps in front of me, pathfinder fashion.
‘Where are we going, Daddy?’
‘Just a walk, darling,’ I answered. ‘If you like we can have a go on the swing.’
‘Oh, yesss…’ Becky started to run, her tiny legs soon putting quite a distance between us. I watched her childish athleticism with a combination of pride and fascination.
She stopped and turned to face me. ‘Will Charl … will?’
I laughed. ‘Charlotte … it’s Charlotte. But like your mummy told you, we can call her Charlie if that’s easier?’
Becky was struggling with her sister’s name. ‘Yes, OK … will she be alright on her own with Mummy?’
‘Yes, of course she will. Mummy did OK bringing you up, didn’t she? And besides, she’ll probably still be asleep when we get back.’
‘I don’t really remember being a baby. I’m nearly four now.’
I laughed and then made to rush past, pretending to race. Becky quickly took the bait and pushed in front of me. Soon we reached a huge oak that cast a shadow over the far end of the field. From one of the tree’s mighty boughs, an old car tyre hung suspended by a rope. Both were covered in a thick layer of moss and lichen and looked to have been there for decades.
Becky dived onto the swing, oblivious to the dirt that immediately covered her trousers. Wrapping her tiny hands around the rope, she signalled for me to start pushing. I was happy to oblige. I was gentle, not too much swing and definitely not over the adjacent ditch. The ancient rope creaked, Becky giggled playfully and I soon started to forget the real reason I had headed out of the house to walk on my own.
I had been intending to formulate some ideas. Plans for who I was going to ask about the listening device Kevin had found and what we might do if we found out who had planted it. Plans that soon slipped to the back of my mind as I watched my daughter on the swing.
Ten minutes later we were heading back to the house.
As we approached I could see movement in the kitchen. It looked like Jenny was up. She was making tea for us and a feed for Charlotte.
Becky ran in through the open door. ‘Mummy, we done swings,’ she exclaimed.
Jenny winked at me. ‘You two were up early.’
‘I needed a little “me” time, make some plans now I know I’m not going to make Chief.’
Leaning forwards to kiss my cheek, Jenny was reassuring. ‘To be honest, I don’t think you had much more than an outside chance. When Kevin called to suggest the get-together, I knew it would be a good way of stopping you from stewing about how you were going to break the news. I just hope I didn’t embarrass you.’
She hadn’t, and I said so.
I was just about to sup at my tea when the telephone rang.
‘That’s early,’ I said, my instincts already triggered. A call at such an hour wasn’t going to be good news.
Chapter 7
Although the staff on the Negotiator course had warned me I would be available for call-out immediately, I hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.
The caller was Chief Superintendent John Southern from Kentish Town Police Station in Camden. I didn’t recognise the name but John was certain he remembered me. As we spoke, a vague memory came back of an articulate and thoughtful detective who had been on the first National Hostage Negotiator course I’d attended back in 1980. I’d then been the token military attendee, a volunteer from the army, there to escape the drudgery of administration work as I recovered from an injury.
John explained there had been an incident in the communications room at the police station. Some underoccupied night-shift officers had taken it upon themselves to subject a new PC to an initiation ceremony. It was the kind of thing that went on in one form or another in all kinds of units, both military and police, and normally it was just harmless fun. But this time, things had gone badly wrong.
The PC chosen to be initiated had been jumped on by several of his colleagues as he walked in through the comms room door. Their plan had been to ‘station-stamp’ him, a potentially embarrassing but normally harmless procedure that involved pulling down the unfortunate victim’s trousers and then using an official rubber stamp to place an ink mark on one exposed buttock.
The intended victim had reacted in a way none of his tormentors had expected. As they had attempted to hold him down, he’d flipped. What started as a game quickly turned into a violent struggle and then an all-out fight. A CS gas spray had been discharged and, in the melee, the unfortunate PC had grabbed hold of a bread knife that one of the others had been using to slice a birthday cake just a few minutes previously.
Two officers had been cut, not badly, but enough to require hospital treatment, and a third was now being held hostage in the men’s toilets on the ground floor of the station.
Something very unusual had happened though, which was the reason I had been called. The victim, now hostage taker, had asked to speak to me personally. John didn’t know why, but what he did know was that I was wanted there as soon as possible. He’d told me the PC’s name – Doug Powell – but again it wasn’t one I recognised. I figured that all would be revealed once I had the chance to speak to him.
I went upstairs to get changed, making sure to move quietly around our bedroom so as not to wake Charlotte. She was lying on her back fast asleep. I leaned into the cot, kissed my new-born daughter on the forehead and then headed downstairs.
It was as I was pulling on my jacket that I slipped my hand inside a pocket and found the tiny listening device Kevin had handed to me the previous evening. I decided to leave it where it was. If I was lucky, I might just bump into someone who could identify it.
Jenny and Becky were waiting for me in the hallway. I picked up my briefcase, gave them both a peck on the cheek and, just five minutes after picking up the telephone receiver to the call from London, I was in the car and on my way back into work.
But not in a direction I had ever driven before. On this morning I took an alternate route, via the local traffic police depot. They had a car waiting for me. It was blues-and-twos the whole way and in less than half an hour, I was being dropped off in the tiny yard at the rear of Kentish Town police station.
From the windows of
the canteen overlooking the car park, I saw faces turn to stare. All eyes seemed to be on me, as if they had been awaiting my arrival. A young uniformed Inspector appeared as if from nowhere and opened the rear door of the police car. I stepped out.
‘Mr Finlay?’ he asked, hurriedly.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’ve been asked to take you straight up to the Divisional Commander’s office. Mr Southern is waiting for you with some people from the Hostage Negotiation team.’
‘I had the impression that Mr Southern is the lead negotiator?’
‘No … he’s our local Chief Superintendent. Now, if you’d follow me, sir?’
‘It’s not sir, I’m the same rank as you.’
He didn’t respond but, as we strode across the yard to where a PC was holding a door open for us, he did reveal that two senior officers from CIB, the Met’s Complaint Investigation Branch, were also waiting to see me. In the canteen a specialist firearms team and a dog handler were on stand-by in case they were needed. Every contingency seemed to have been covered.
John Southern was the first face I saw as his office door was opened for me. He was sat behind a large desk and, although it had been more than twenty years, he was familiar. With somewhat boyish looks, he had aged well, even if, on this particular morning, I could see he looked tired, his face drawn and grey.
I was taken aback by the number of people crowded into the small office. Most of those present were standing and the majority were in suits – detectives by the look; amongst them I guessed would be the head-hunters from CIB. There was an air of tension in the room, and the smell of nervous sweat – the kind men exude when under pressure. In the far corner I noticed an Inspector in black kit and body armour – SO19 firearms – and an older, scruffily dressed man I recognised as one of the Met techies. I made a mental note to get his name; he would be a good contact once this was all over, to ask about the bug Kevin had found.
‘Come in, Inspector.’ Southern said.
One of the suits, who had been sat with his back to me opposite the Chief Superintendent’s desk, stood up. Southern indicated for me to take his place.
‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll start with the introductions.’
I was impressed to learn how Southern knew every name. With the exception of three – the techie, Peter Hesp, and the Chief Negotiator, Mike Rogers – I hadn’t met any of them before.
I’d been right about the CIB presence. A Superintendent and a Sergeant. The Superintendent’s name was familiar: Jim Mellor. His reputation was well known amongst ordinary coppers. Mellor had been investigating complaints for many years and had made that many enemies, rumour had it that it proved impossible to end his period of tenure and transfer him back to a divisional posting. Nobody would have him, so CIB were compelled to keep him in post. Most believed that suited Jim Mellor quite nicely.
My eyes rested on his face for slightly longer than the others present. He looked a hard man – rugged face, strong jaw and deep-set eyes. The suit he wore looked expensive, a departmental tie neatly knotted over a crisp, white shirt. As John Southern introduced him he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
Formalities over, the situation and the reason for my presence was quickly explained to me. The hostage-taker, PC Doug Powell, had demanded to speak to me as a condition for the release of the single hostage he was holding. Her name was Carole, and she had been the officer intent on ‘station-stamping’ Doug Powell’s exposed buttocks when things had kicked off.
‘Why did Powell ask for me?’ I asked.
‘We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that yourself, Mr Finlay.’ The comment, or question, if that’s what it was, came from behind me. I didn’t have to guess whose gruff voice it was.
I remained facing forwards and addressed my response direct to Southern. ‘At the moment, I have no idea. I don’t know the name Doug Powell. Have you checked to see if I’ve ever worked with him?’
‘We’ve been talking about little else for the last hour. Let me bring you up to speed.’
I listened as the Chief Superintendent read from some notes, seemingly for the benefit of all present. Powell had only been in the Met for three years. He’d completed a two-year probationary period at Ruislip, a quiet division in west London. As soon as permitted, he had requested a move to a busier station. He’d arrived at Kentish Town about a month before and had settled in quickly. His shift Inspector reported that he was hard working, fit and popular with the lads. He was also ex-army.
Mellor spoke up again. ‘It’s apparent that he either knows you or knows of you. You’re confident you’ve never worked with him, Inspector? Maybe you know him socially, perhaps?’
I shook my head, again without turning. ‘Do we have a photograph?’
Southern’s expression was pensive as he opened a buff folder and turned it around so I could see the picture clipped to the top. The face wasn’t familiar.
‘No … I don’t know him,’ I said.
‘We wondered if he might know you from the army?’ the Chief Superintendent asked.
‘What regiment was he?’
‘Royal Scots. Served from 1986 until three years ago.’
‘I was already in this job in ’86,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps the best thing is for me to ask him?’
‘I agree. Go with Mike Rogers, he’s today’s Negotiation Coordinator. He’ll get you briefed on the layout of the room and the strategy we’re adopting. You’ll be assigned to the negotiator who’s talking to him at the moment. Take your lead from her.’
I heard the door behind me open.
‘We’ll be able to hear everything, Finlay. Just make sure this ends with nobody badly hurt, please.’
I nodded, stood up and then followed the same Inspector who had met me in the yard. I could feel all eleven sets of eyes in the room boring into the back of my skull as I headed into the corridor. I wondered what they must be thinking. Who is this man? What is his connection to the hostage taker? And exactly what had made a relatively harmless prank escalate into such a dangerous scenario? Within a few minutes, I hoped to have some answers for them.
But there was one major issue troubling me, something none of us had prepared for and certainly hadn’t been covered during the training course I’d only recently attended. This time the hostage-taker was a fellow cop.
Chapter 8
‘So, what do you remember from your course?’ Mike Rogers smiled reassuringly as he tucked the aerial from the earpiece behind my ear.
My mouth felt dry. ‘My name’s Dave and I’m here to help?’ I answered, raising my eyebrows. ‘It’s over twenty years since I first did the training and I’ve still never been involved in a live one.’
‘Except for the Iranian Embassy, of course?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Yes. Don’t forget John Southern was also on that first course you did. He remembers you.’
‘I wasn’t part of the negotiating team though, just an observer.’
‘No matter. Sue Corfield is lead today, she’s talking to the PC right now and she knows you’re coming.’
Mike walked across to the opposite side of the room and stood adjacent to a large notice board bearing handwritten, dry-wipe pen entries. Notes, comments, names and other data – a ‘situation board’. The volume of information it contained would grow with the negotiation: important data and other key knowledge, such as the names of members of the suspect’s family, sometimes picked up by the lead negotiator and at other times by listeners and researchers.
To the right of the situation was the ‘PPA’ board – positive police actions – reminders of ideas to use and things to say in case the hostage-taker expressed concern about what was being done to help him. On the wall, a series of flip-chart pages had been attached with masking tape. They were blank except for the headings: ‘Hostage’; ‘Suspect’; ‘Delivery Plan’; ‘Coming-Out Plan’. The last one was labelled ‘SITREP’, and would contain the latest situation repor
t to be used by anyone who wanted a quick update on developments.
Mike saw me looking at them. ‘We’re just about to update them. The Yard are having Powell’s army file faxed over and should have it with us shortly.’
‘And the hostage?’ I asked.
‘WPC, twelve years’ service, all at this nick and all on the same shift. She’s well liked it seems.’
Mike whispered into a microphone on the desk in front of the two boards. His voice came through clearly in my right ear.
‘This normal?’ I asked. ‘For a negotiator to get an earpiece?’
‘Not really, no. This is because you’re newly trained and we’re using you as an intermediary. Take your lead from Sue. We’ll be able to hear you, and with your earpiece in place we can feed anything we need to you. Sue doesn’t have one. It’s plausible deniability – if you don’t know it’s happening, you don’t have to tell lies about it and you can maintain your credibility with the hostage-taker.’
I nodded to indicate that I understood.
‘Right,’ he continued. ‘Let’s set some ground rules. Number one, Commanders command, negotiators negotiate. You don’t offer any deals, any way out, any solution without authority, clear?’
‘I remember. The golden rule.’
‘That’s it. Well at least that’s one thing we have straight. You have no control over tactics and options. You are a conduit, a source of information so that others can make decisions, OK?’
‘I get it. So, who is going to do the talking, Sue or me?’
‘To start with, it will be Sue. She will introduce you and then the two of you can take it from there. Our last sitrep had both PC and WPC inside a toilet cubicle. He seems to be sitting on the john; she is standing with her back to him, up against the door with her hands on the top of the door.’
