by Matt Johnson
‘He’s surprised me. For an overweight, flatulent desk jockey, he’s proving to be a reluctant nut to crack.’
‘Put him on the board, that’ll make him talk.’
‘I plan to,’ said Howard. ‘We just need to pick up the necessary kit. As you know, there’s no running water at the bothy.’
‘That’s right. You’ll need quite a bit if you plan to board Jones and Finlay as well.’
‘I’m aware of that, Grady. In the meantime, can I suggest you get some drink down their throats and make sure they wake up tomorrow feeling the worse for wear. It may make the interrogation more efficient.’
‘No problem. I’ll be waiting.’
Howard ended the call, opened the front passenger door of the car and climbed in. In the rear, he could see Cathy was holding the muzzle of her pistol hard into the ribs of their now-hooded prisoner. Petre was in the driving seat.
As the Serbian started the engine, Howard leaned across to him. ‘Call Gheorghe,’ he said. ‘It looks like he may get his wish after all.’
Chapter 54
Two hours later I was on the A5 heading north towards Birmingham. Hidden beneath the rear seat of the car were the contents of the weapons hide that had lain beneath Kevin’s allotment shed, a collection I estimated would see me facing a holiday of at least twenty years, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Prison Service.
Jenny and I talked long and hard about what I was intending to do and what I might say to Kevin to get him to see sense. I thought it best not to mention the kit and the weapons to her but, as we spoke and came to an understanding we were both comfortable with, I made a decision. I was going to leave the whole lot with him. My contribution to the collection was no longer something I wished to be part of my life. Its existence may have saved my bacon when my past life came a-knocking, but the longer I retained weapons and kit that could see me sent to prison, the greater the risk. It was time to move on and really put that section of my life behind me.
I was sticking to minor roads as far as I could, avoiding motorway cameras and the regular police patrols that cruised those routes. Every so often, I would dive off into a side street, take a detour, or stop and watch the traffic. Anyone following me would have recognised what I was doing as an anti-surveillance technique, but that didn’t bother me. All that mattered was that either I wasn’t being tailed or I saw them before they stopped me. I just needed to keep ahead of the game.
As I passed through Birmingham, I was pretty confident there was no tail but, to be safe, I pulled into a multi-storey car park. From the time I’d spent on operations in Northern Ireland, I remembered the challenges such places represented to a surveillance team. With many cars coming and going, a target could easily be out of sight in a few seconds or another car could block your way while manoeuvring or parking. I knew of many operations that had been blown when operatives had either failed to get close enough to avoid losing their target, or their presence had been noticed as they did just that.
As I entered the car park, I collected my ticket and took the opportunity to take a close look at all the queuing vehicles nearby. I made eye contact with all drivers I could see, looked for those containing young children – an indication they could be discounted, but no guarantee – and then headed for the top floor.
My plan was simple. Most car drivers entering would be looking for either the nearest space they could find or one near to the pedestrian exits. Not many head to the roof, so any vehicle that did the same as me would be suspect. Nothing did, but to be doubly sure I then headed straight for the exit and managed to find one driver in the process of reversing into a space on the second floor. I swerved, and timed my move so the lane behind me would be blocked. An irate BMW driver wasn’t impressed as I came close to taking off his front bumper. But, as the little Citroen weaved around him to the sound of a blaring horn and an expletive through an open window, I smiled. It was time to switch direction and head west towards Wales.
Evening was drawing in and, as the lanes narrowed and became devoid of other cars, I began the climb from Brecon and up into the mountains. I noticed the slope tipped the car fuel gauge into the red. I didn’t panic though, experience had taught me it was one of the little car’s quirks on hilly roads. I knew I still had enough for quite a considerable distance.
The main house at Moel Prysgau was deserted. I figured Kevin would have given it the once-over but, to be safe, I took a look around. A sense of nostalgia gave me some comfort as I took in the almost forgotten smell of the place. Damp, stale but relatively clean, it had provided me and many of my peers with shelter when we sought refuge from the ravages of the changeable mountain weather.
The track to the bothy was designed to allow Forestry Commission vehicles access to the woodland for tree felling, so it was more suited to a four-wheel drive than my little car. But, true to its reputation, the 2CV coped admirably with the rutted and boulder-strewn drive. Soon, the tiny shack came into sight. It commanded a good view of the approach and, I had no doubt, Kevin would have seen me coming.
I was right. As I pulled up and switched off the engine, he emerged. He looked a little tired and moved stiffly, but as he shut the bothy door behind him and stood waiting for me, I could see he was smiling. That was a good sign. How he would react and whether he would still be happy after hearing my news, only time would tell.
We wasted little time in unloading my car, moving Kevin’s gear into the small hut and stashing it beneath one of the two tiny bunks. Before closing the driver door for the final time, I pulled the phone Toni had given me from my pocket. I checked the battery level. It was nearly full. I was about to turn it off when I had second thoughts, a ‘just in case’ moment of the kind that is hard to explain or justify but, nevertheless, I’d learned to act upon. As a result, I left it turned on, switched it to silent and then tucked it into my pocket. ‘You never know,’ I said, beneath my breath.
I then removed the final two bags containing my kit and carried them indoors.
‘Long time since we were last here, boss,’ Kevin called from the doorway, as I kicked the final bag out of sight beneath one of the sleeping cots.
I said a silent goodbye to my kit before replying. ‘I wondered if I would find it, given that we only ever seemed to be here when it was dark.’
‘Is it all there? Everything from the allotment?’
‘Yes, and the few bits and bobs I had left as well. What you do with it is up to you, but I’m done with it.’
‘You sure? You never know when stuff like that may come in useful.’
‘I’ve promised Jenny. Family and being a provider has to take priority now.’
‘Something might happen; how can you know?’
‘Nothing will. Normal people don’t need a secret stash of weapons and I plan to be as normal as life will allow. Do you have the makings of a brew? I meant to pick some things up but I forgot.’
‘Manc is taking care of that. He’s gone into the town to pick up some supplies. I thought you were him coming back when I heard the car.’
‘Manc? Who’s Manc?’
‘Chris Grady. Formerly of D Squadron. He ran the escape plan.’
Kevin saw me react, saw the hesitation and uncertainty as he said the name.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
It was as well he couldn’t read my confused thoughts. Grady and McNeil, the two surviving members of the Increment Afghanistan patrol, and within twenty-four hours they had both appeared. I wondered what Toni Fellowes might make of the coincidence.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Last year, when Toni was looking into the attacks on us, she asked me if I knew Chris Grady. He was one of the lads on Increment with Bridges and the others. Nell Mahoney mentioned his name recently as well.’
‘That’s right. It was them that broke me out of court. Grady and another guy I didn’t recognise.’
‘Not McNeil? I assumed it was him who helped you.’
‘He wasn’t in on it – he only learned I was out when I
called him.’
‘How did you do that? I wouldn’t have expected you to have had a phone.’
‘Grady suggested I call you … to get my kit. He lent me his phone, but I couldn’t remember the number you gave me in the cell at Barkingside so I called McNeil instead and asked him to get in touch with you.’
‘Well, he did that alright.’ I rubbed at the bruises on my arm as I recalled the car park. ‘So, how did you arrange the breakout?’
‘It was the solicitor you met.’
‘In the cell?’
‘That’s him. He delivered the message to me. I just needed to be ready when they came. I wasn’t actually sure who was getting me out, so it was a relief to see a friendly face like Grady’s.’
‘I need to talk to you about that breakout…’
‘Not until we’ve talked some more about this Al Anfal document.’
‘Like I said on the phone, it’s fallen into the hands of MI5.’
‘Yeah, you said. Kinda scuppered my plans that did.’
‘What plans?’
‘Sandi’s kids. I was going to sell it to the press and use the proceeds to set up a trust fund for them.’
‘And what about your future? Escaping from custody doesn’t sound like the actions of an innocent man.’
‘I thought you might say that. But I couldn’t fight my corner from a prison cell, now could I?’
‘Maybe … listen to this.’ I took the burner phone from my pocket, turned the volume to full, located the Mellor recording and pressed ‘play’. Kevin made to interrupt until he heard Mellor’s voice. The device then had his full attention.
‘He didn’t caution you,’ he said, as the recording ended. ‘Schoolboy error…’
‘I’d wound him up. Maybe that’s also how he let slip his take on what happened…’
He breathed deeply. ‘He’s right, of course. No jury would ever have believed me. They were trying to have me admit it was some kind of sex game gone wrong. Bastards. But why plant a gun in my car?’
‘Best I can come up with is that Mellor wants to make something stick. I had hoped that by recording him I’d catch him admitting to stitching you up. Just imagine what could happen if we’d played that in court.’
Kevin frowned. ‘Oh, believe me, he’s framing me alright … or someone is.’
And as he explained the line of questioning Mellor had taken, it became very clear the Complaints Superintendent was determined to get him, one way or another. And not only that, it was apparent I was also in his sights. He’d been biding his time, watching us and waiting, looking for his chance. It made me angry to think that a cop would plant evidence on a colleague but Mellor was no ordinary man. He was on a mission and, to him, the end justified the means.
I was silenced. The argument was lost.
‘And another thing—’ But Kevin stopped mid-sentence. Once again, he looked up towards the track, checking the approach track, I guessed, for Grady’s return. I sensed something was troubling him.
‘Would it be about that document?’ I replied. ‘You said you wanted to talk some more about it?’
‘Yeah, I did. Listen now: McNeil has been doing some more research on the missing Increment lads. Over the last couple of years they’ve all been murdered or died in accidents. His theory, and I agree with him, is that somebody was eliminating anyone and everyone who had a claim to that document.’
‘To what end?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.
‘To keep the proceeds of selling it for themselves, of course. They would have known that all the lads would want a slice of the pie so they made sure there were fewer mouths needed feeding.’
‘So, is McNeil after a slice of the pie as well?’
Kevin shook his head, as if even the very notion of my suggestion offended him. I knew him, though; he would think about what I had said, mull it over and, in his own sweet time, he would come back to me with his opinion.
‘Are you ready for the biggie?’ I asked, anxious to get Kevin back to focussing on the need to prove his innocence.
‘Like what?’
‘Like the news that Nell Mahoney found another bug … and it was in Sandi’s place.’
‘They were recording her?’
‘Not they, Kev. Toni has found out who planted it.’
‘I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this.’ Kevin looked anxious, even nervous as he began to walk up and down the tiny floor space.
‘It was Mellor,’ I said. ‘There’s every chance he has a recording of what really happened the day Sandi died.’
Chapter 55
The rumble of an approaching car brought an end to our conversation.
Kevin raised a finger to his lips as he stood and peered through a small window overlooking the approach. ‘It’s Grady,’ he said.
‘Does he know about the document?’ I asked.
‘If he does, he hasn’t said anything. McNeil had said we’d run it past him soon to see what he thinks but now it’s lost there doesn’t seem much point in that.’
I opened the front door in time to watch a rather ancient grey Ford pull up next to my Citroen. It was now getting dark and, in the dim light, I struggled to see who was in the car. Then, as the interior light came on in response to a door opening, I saw the driver – a lean, shaven-headed man in his late forties. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of my presence. Even as he stepped out onto the track and I saw him more clearly, I didn’t recognise him. If this was Chris Grady, I would have expected him to be more familiar. The man I now saw could have walked past me in the street without drawing a second glance.
‘Captain Finlay?’ the stranger enquired of me as he lifted a heavy-looking cardboard box from the back seat of the Ford.
‘Are you Chris Grady?’ I replied.
‘That’s right. Can you give me a hand with this?’
I stepped closer and took hold of the box. A quick inspection revealed a selection of dried food, a small gas burner, some vegetables, a container of orange juice and a selection of canned beers. ‘You’re planning on being here a while?’ I asked.
‘A day or so. You don’t remember me, I’d guess, from the look on your face?’
‘Yes, sorry. I expected to.’
‘Might be different if I still had my hair,’ he quipped, and I smiled at the joke. ‘Has Taff told you the plan?’
‘He hasn’t,’ I said ‘I’ll be honest – I think he should go back and fight the case.’
Grady shut the car door. In his hand he held a bottle of whisky. ‘For later,’ he grinned as he showed it to me. ‘He said you’d say that but, if you ask me, it’s already too late.’
Kevin appeared in the light now coming from the doorway of the bothy. ‘You two talking about me?’
I managed a smile. ‘Chris reckons it’s too late for you to go back to clear your name.’
He nodded. ‘I agree. In a day or so I’ll be out of the country anyway. There’s nothing here for me now.’
I turned to Grady. ‘Is that the plan you mentioned?’ I said, lowering my voice so that Kevin wouldn’t hear me.
‘I’ve a friend in Italy; he can hole up there for a while and decide on what to do long term,’ he said. ‘For now, the important thing is to get him somewhere that your lot can’t find him.’
‘Running and hiding for the rest of his life is no way to exist.’
‘Better than being banged up, wouldn’t you say? Especially for a copper.’
Checkmate. I’d lost the argument. Grady knew it, I knew it. With no immediate family to think of, it would need to have been a far more persuasive argument than I could come up with.
With darkness closing in, Kevin suggested we open the beers immediately, while they were still cold. There was no electricity or water supply to the bothy. All it provided was basic shelter. Light was provided by two kerosene lamps that threw eerie shadows across the interior of the tiny building as we moved around. Grady offered us use of the two berths, although as I tried the one Kevin h
ad previously decided was what he termed ‘officer standard’, I honestly wondered if the floor might have been more comfortable. In the morning, we agreed, I’d head back to London.
While the other two were preparing supper I slipped out to the car, tucked the burner phone under the driver seat and then returned to put some logs I’d found onto the fire. I began to relax as we laughed together, exchanging jokes and old stories as the beers started to flow. We talked about providing a watch, in case anyone should come looking for us, but Kevin and Grady were both of a mind not to worry about it. It was clear they thought we were safe and they were definitely far more interested in enjoying a good drinking session than taking turns on ‘stag’ outside while the others stayed in the warm.
Although more than twenty years had passed, I was reminded of many occasions when I had hunkered down with soldiers in similar situations that only varied in their degrees of unpleasantness. And yet, it never seemed to bother us so long as we had the company of men with whom the experience was shared. I’d sat through monsoons in the jungle, bitten to buggery by leeches and insects and so wet that our bivouacs lay under water; and I had lain on my bunk in the Afghan mountains where the skies seemed so close you felt you could reach out and touch the stars, yet where it was so cold that men had been known to freeze to death in their sleep and where it was necessary for those awake to check on their mates to ensure they had not slipped into oblivion. There were times – quieter moments when I allowed myself the indulgence of remembering, or like this when I got into conversation with other ex-soldiers – when I’d thought about those places and the camaraderie of shared discomfort and admitted, privately, that I missed it.
Grady cooked using the small gas stove he’d brought with him in the car. Perhaps due to the degree of my hunger or perhaps triggered by the effect of the alcohol, I found myself tucking into the fry-up with gusto.
‘Texas hash,’ he commented, seeing the speed at which I was eating. ‘It was a D Squadron special.’
‘Delicious,’ I replied, between mouthfuls. ‘So, what are you doing with yourself these days, Chris?’
