by Matt Johnson
Nell shovelled a handful of chips between her lips and smiled as she began to chew. ‘I’m good, thanks, keeping busy like you do. I’ve got some news for you.’
It looked like this was no chance encounter. ‘From Toni, you mean?’
Half a fairly large glass of milk disappeared in one go, leaving a white circle around Nell’s mouth which she swiftly removed with the back of her sleeve. ‘Not exactly, no,’ she answered, between mouthfuls. ‘This is what you coppers might call off-the-record.’
I scowled. ‘Does Toni know you’re speaking to me?’
‘No … so don’t go mentioning it, will you?’
‘OK,’ I said, slowly. I was trying hard not to show my confusion, but from the uncertainty in my voice, it must have been quite apparent. This was by far the longest conversation we’d ever had and it seemed Nell was about to go out on a limb to tell me about something. ‘Mum’s the word, Nell.’
She half smiled, forking another chip into her mouth before checking over her shoulder as if looking to see if anyone was watching us. It was clear Nell’s table manners weren’t quite in line with the fastidious and ordered way in which she maintained her office space. Leaning towards me, she spoke quietly. ‘The bug. It’s one of yours.’
‘One of mine … What do you mean, one of mine?’
‘One of yours … the Met. It’s a police bug. It was one of a few of them that you had on trial.’
‘I already heard that, Nell.’
‘You knew it for definite?’
‘Well, I know it’s a type we trialled, yes.’
‘I can tell you for definite. I checked the serial number. It was sent to the Met for evaluation and never returned to the manufacturer.’
‘Really? That’s great, thanks. But what I really need to know is who planted it in Kevin’s home.’
‘You did,’ she answered.
‘Sorry?’
Another chip, another slurp of milk. ‘The Met did. It was your own people that put it there.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Nell. Can’t you be a bit more specific? There are a hell of a lot of people in this building alone, without including all the others out on division.’
‘Ah … OK. I get you. You wanna know who authorised it being placed in the house?’
‘If that’s not too much trouble, yes.’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Can’t. Give me more time and I might.’
‘So, we’re no closer to knowing?’ I asked.
‘You’d need to break into the police stores to find out any more.’
I sighed.
‘Not the end of the world though,’ Nell continued.
‘Why’s that?’
‘It was broken. Internal circuits were fried, so I guess whoever was listening didn’t learn very much.’
‘Unless there was more than one bug?’ I suggested.
‘True. Didn’t think of that. Not many surveillance ops use just one device. Probably a fisherman.’
‘A fisherman?’
‘Yep. A single bug that someone installs cos they are fishing … you know, looking for something concrete before they go for an official placement authorised by a Commander.’
‘So, if that was the case, there wouldn’t be a record.’
Nell belched slightly, and then smiled in apparent embarrassment before answering my question. ‘Unlikely,’ she said. ‘Best you have a think about who might be fishing for something on your friend.’
I went to stand up. ‘Thanks, Nell…’
‘Haven’t finished,’ she added.
‘I’m sorry?’ I said, returning to my seat.
‘Haven’t finished. Something else I need to tell you.’
‘Like what?’ I leaned forwards again, anxious not to miss what Nell was saying.
But she remained silent. I thought she had perhaps changed her mind about continuing when, just as I was about to prompt her, a uniform WPC walked past us, close enough to have overheard what was being said. Only when the officer had moved out of earshot, did Nell speak.
‘Al Anfal,’ she said quietly, lowering her face close to mine as she said the words.
‘What about it, Nell?’ I asked.
‘Not it … them.’
‘Them? I’m not following you. And how do you know about it anyway?’
‘Toni had me research it. Most of what she knows is down to me. She was interested … until someone warned her off.’
‘Warned her off?’
‘Yep. One minute she’s dead keen on learning everything about Al Anfal. Next minute, drop everything. We’re told never to mention it again.’
‘Someone put pressure on her?’
‘Sure as eggs are eggs.’ Nell laughed and then used the last chip on her plate to mop up the remaining tomato sauce. ‘Eggs are eggs, good one that. Being as everyone knows eggs are eggs, I mean they can’t exactly be jumbo jets can they?’
We were wandering off track. ‘So what did you have to tell me about it … or them?’
‘She said not to tell you – he said I should.’
‘Who’s she … and who is he for that matter?’ I’d heard Nell could be difficult to work with, at the moment she was being exasperating.
‘Toni, of course. She gives the orders … always orders. But Stuart said I should tell you.’
Stuart Anderson. Toni’s assistant. ‘I see. Tell me what, exactly?’
Nell took a deep breath, a huffy breath, as if I wasn’t getting something she considered blindingly obvious. ‘Tell you about Al Anfal.’
‘The document?’
‘Not a document. An organisation. Secret … very secret. People died; your people. That’s why Stuart says I should tell you.’
‘That it’s an organisation?’
‘Yes. And everyone who knows about it ends up dead. All except you, Jones, and McNeil and Grady. All dead. All murdered. Which is why we thought it best to warn you. Best heed Toni’s advice. Maybe time to tell Kevin Jones?’
‘Did Toni send you?’ I asked.
Nell looked confused, and I quickly dismissed the idea. If Toni had wanted to repeat her warning to me, she could have done it herself. ‘Do we know any more about McNeil now?’ I asked.
‘Private military contractor, McNeil.’ Nell was now speaking much faster, as if she was rushing, either to get things over with or, possibly, excited at what she was illicitly revealing.
‘What do you know about him, Nell?’ I reached out, touched her hand. I needed to know what she knew.
‘He’s the missing link, the only survivor of the team that found the Al Anfal document. Don’t mention I told you, will you? But he’s the only survivor other than Grady. And that man is a ghost.’
‘I don’t follow; you mean Chris Grady?’
‘Yes, him … dead maybe. Not sure … maybe disappeared. Very odd … couldn’t find him. No records, no pension, no nothing. Just gone … like that Maggie Price.’
Chapter 17
The conversation with Nell had left me with more questions than answers. I was already aware that possessing any knowledge of Al Anfal was a risk. Nearly a year had now passed since Toni had explained the fate of the men from the Afghan Increment patrol who’d first discovered the Al Anfal document. But I was more than a little curious as to why Nell had seen fit to tell me herself, and why now? Was it simply because she and Stuart had decided I ought to know? Did they really think it was time to warn Kevin off now that McNeil was out there somewhere?
A phone was ringing as I walked back into the office. There was still no sign of Nina and, with Matt engaged on another call, I picked up the receiver.
‘Finlay? Thought it was you I saw in the foyer. How did the promotion board go?’
I recognised the voice immediately. There weren’t many men I knew who spoke with such depth and power as Rupert Reid. I hadn’t spoken to the barrel-chested bomb disposal officer in several months.
‘How did y
ou know I was up for it?’ I asked.
‘Word gets around, you know. So, how did it go? Are we going to see your imminent promotion in notices soon?’
‘Afraid not. Boss gave me the bad news a few days ago. Not that I’m complaining, but I guess I’m stuck with these two miscreants for the time being.’ I smiled at Matt as he finished his call.
‘That’s a pity. The job needs a few people with your type of character to shake it up a bit.’
‘My kind of character?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure you know what I mean, Finlay. The senior ranks are attracting far too many politically correct butterflies who flit from one job to another as they climb up the ladder.’
‘Without any real experience anywhere, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘A bit like me with less than a year in a detective role and now I’m a DI?’
Rupert coughed. ‘Er … yes. Anyway, that’s not really why I called. Do you have a minute to pop over to my office? Something I need to discuss.’
‘Right now you mean?’
‘If you can, yes.’
I agreed and put down the phone.
‘Have you done that Misper report for the boss?’ Matt asked, as I headed to the door. ‘He was asking for it earlier.’
‘On it,’ I said, although that wasn’t actually true. I’d been neglecting the day job, I knew that. But my head was elsewhere, and at that moment, talking to Rupert sounded like a priority.
Conversations with my old friend tended to quickly focus on the old days in Northern Ireland, how things had been then and how the Met had changed – in his opinion not for the better.
Rupert was waiting for me. As I walked in through the door to his office, he was already pouring coffee from a percolator. ‘Black, if I remember correctly, and no sugar?’ he said as he handed me a mug.
The office was empty, something that surprised me. ‘Nobody else at work today?’ I asked.
‘A few are down at Chattenden on a training day, the rest are in the canteen. Having the office to myself gave me an ideal opportunity to speak to you about something that’s been troubling me.’
‘You’re still using Chattenden then?’
‘For the time being. Word is that the MOD wants to sell off both Lodge Hill and Chattenden training areas for housing developments. Bloody disgrace if you ask me. The only thing that seems to be holding them up has nothing to do with military expedience – it’s a population of nightingales living in the woodland.’
‘You’re still a twitcher?’
‘When I can, yes. I’ve spent many a happy hour at Lodge Hill, I can tell you. Do you know that small wood is home to one percent of the entire UK population of nightingales?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Bloody heathen you are, Finlay. I bet you wouldn’t even recognise a nightingale song if you heard it.’
‘Possibly not,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t come here to talk birds. You said something’s been troubling you?’
Rupert indicated I should take a seat at a set of four adjacent desks near the coffee machine. Each of them bore the hallmarks of recent occupation – stacked files, glossy photographs and mugs filled with chewed pens. Polystyrene coffee cups, most of which looked pretty ancient, in which grew a variety of multi-coloured mould colonies.
‘I’ve had your friend Jones on the phone,’ Rupert said, as I made myself comfortable.
‘What did he want?’ I asked.
‘Remember when you came to see me at the end of last year with that Arabic document?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. Immediately, I felt my heart rate accelerate in response to yet another mention of the Al Anfal text. If Kevin was still asking questions about it, that could cause problems.
‘Well, it seems your friend has it.’
‘It was destroyed,’ I said, a little too quickly. Again, alarm bells were sounding as I recalled Nell’s warning and her mention of Brian McNeil. And I wondered for a moment if Julian Armstrong, the translator, had gone back on his word to burn the document.
‘Was it?’ said Rupert. ‘Well, I guess your friend has another copy. He asked the same questions as you did – about its meaning and the content. As I knew I couldn’t help him, I referred him on, as I did for you.’
‘To Dr Armstrong? He agreed to look at it again?’
‘Yes, he did.’
I was a little taken aback at the news. Given what Julian Armstrong had told me about the Al Anfal text, I would have expected him to want to give it a wide berth. ‘Was this call from Kevin today?’ I asked.
‘No, no. It must have been a couple of weeks ago, probably more. It was only when I spotted you in the foyer just now that it reminded me I ought to tell you about it.’
‘The copy I had was destroyed,’ I repeated. ‘Dr Armstrong reckoned it was so sensitive we would be in deep shit explaining where it came from and how come we’d laid hands on it.’
‘Seems pragmatic if it was that sensitive,’ Rupert replied. ‘We’re assuming, of course, that it is the same document, or a copy of it?’
‘Bit of a coincidence otherwise…’ I said.
‘I suppose so. Anyway, I thought you should know, just in case it was important.’
‘Yes, thanks.’ I sipped at the coffee. It was still too hot to drink and, I had the feeling that by some unholy coincidence, Rupert may just have answered the question as to why Nell had suggested I speak to Kevin. I stood up to leave.
‘In a hurry?’ Rupert asked.
‘Sorry, yes. I need to call Kevin, find out what’s going on.’
Having thanked Rupert for his help, I headed back in the direction of my own office. I didn’t want Matt to overhear the call I was about to make, so as soon as I reached the lift stairwell, I called Kevin from my mobile. He answered after just two rings.
‘I’ve just left a meeting with Rupert Reid,’ I began.
‘Ah … I wondered how long it would take before that news reached you.’
‘What the hell are you up to?’ I demanded.
There was a pause. ‘Are you busy?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve kinda been expecting your call, boss.’
‘Do you want to explain to me what’s going on?’
‘Not on the phone. I’m meeting with Sandi this afternoon so, if you’re free, how about right away?’
I thought for a moment. If we met halfway, I could slip out and my absence would hardly be noticed. No time like the present, I figured.
Chapter 18
Howard closed his office door, his mobile telephone held tight to his ear. ‘It’s a go for today, Grady,’ he said, calmly.
‘As planned?’
Howard glanced down at the transcript of the text-message exchange before answering. ‘Yes. Get to the woman’s house for 1300 hours. She’ll be waiting for him in the bedroom; the front door will be unlocked. Make sure no one sees you.’
‘Roger that. And has Petre confirmed?’
‘Yes, he’ll be taking care of the delay. Target two won’t reach the plot until about 1315 hours. You’ll have more than enough time.’
‘OK. Just to check, you want her dead on the bed, him to look like the killer? But if things go tits up and we’re unable to arrange the scene as required, Petre will remove both bodies covertly at 1330 hours?’
‘Confirmed. You know all this – so why the questions? I’m relying on you to get this right, Grady.’
There was a pause. ‘Cathy thinks it’s too elaborate.’
‘I have my reasons and I don’t need to explain myself to her,’ Howard snapped. Grady didn’t respond. ‘1300 hours today,’ he continued. ‘Call me at 1400 with confirmation. And Grady – don’t fuck this one up. This can’t come back to bite us on the arse. It has to look like suicide.’
The line went dead.
Howard returned to his office chair, inhaling deeply as he sank into it. To be fair to Cathy, she was right. The arrangements had been rushed and
were a little complex, but, given that his original plan to ensure a clean, deniable operation had failed thanks to the selected agent not being up to the task, the new arrangement was a reasonable alternative.
Exactly what he would do about the disappointing response from the agent would have to wait, but of the need to do something, he was certain. Sometimes, people needed to be reminded just how much they owed.
Chapter 19
An hour after my brief conversation with Kevin, I was in the waiting room at Canning Town tube station, watching for the arrival of a west-bound train. It was a perfect spot to meet.
In the sealed environment of a railway waiting room, there was virtually no possibility of us being overheard. Even outside the closed doors, the background noise generated by central London at its busiest served to drown out all but the loudest of voices. Inside, we could easily speak freely. Which was just as well, considering the subject I was about to raise.
Kevin kept me waiting for a few minutes and appeared just as a train from the Docklands Light Railway was pulling into one of the platforms.
‘It looks like there’s no shadow on you,’ he said, as he sat on the plastic seat immediately next to me. He leaned forwards, talking quietly so we wouldn’t be overheard, even though there were no other passengers in the waiting room.
‘You thought there might be?’ I replied.
‘After finding that bug in the house I reckon anything’s possible.’
Through the grey-stained windows, I spotted a suited commuter walking along the platform. He glanced at me, as if checking whether the waiting room was free of undesirable types. He was genuine – no surveillance operative would risk making eye contact – and, presumably, having decided Kevin and I weren’t the kind of people he wanted to share a waiting room with, he moved on.
‘You’ve no doubt guessed what Rupert told me?’ I began. ‘You’ve been calling people trying to find a translator for a copy of that Arabic document. Do you want to tell me where you got it from?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You don’t have to, Kev,’ I said, angrily. ‘Brian McNeil is the answer.’
