The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Kevin had lied to me. ‘I’ll call you back,’ I said to Toni.

  ‘No, there’s something I need to—’ she began. As I pressed the button to end the call I just caught her words. There would be time for whatever it was she wanted in a moment. For now, I had to stop Kevin getting in even deeper trouble than he already was.

  Chapter 65

  ‘Back off, boss,’ Kevin called out.

  The anger had returned. McNeil saw me coming and placed his hand on the pistol grip sticking out from the waistband of his trousers. His face deadpan, he placed himself firmly between me and where Howard was now restrained on the wooden planks. Kevin was lifting the end with his feet to replicate the position the MI5 officer, Miles, had been in a few minutes earlier.

  The threat stopped me in my tracks, and then a croaky, spluttering sound from my right drew my gaze. Miles was trying to speak. I kneeled down next to him.

  ‘MI5,’ he said, weakly. ‘Get help … please.’

  With my hand on his I did my best to reassure him. ‘Soon as I can … Miles isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. How did you know?’

  ‘I heard them call you that.’ Turning to McNeil and Kevin I could see they were already soaking the same grey cloth Howard had used. ‘This guy needs a hospital,’ I called.

  McNeil barely reacted, just a glance before returning to what he was doing. Kevin ignored me.

  ‘I said, he needs a hospital!’

  Kevin went stiff, took a deep breath and then exhaled hard. ‘We heard you. You’re the one with the phone. Call a bloody ambulance.’

  I hesitated. McNeil seemed to sense my concern. ‘This man was about to have you executed, boss. What’s your fuckin’ problem?’

  I didn’t reply. Truth is, I was torn. Torn between that sense of right and wrong that most of us call conscience, and a lust for revenge that I shared with two men I could see were about to do something I believed I could never bring myself to do. And, I knew that whatever I said to try and dissuade them, at that moment, I wouldn’t sound convincing. Even as the wet cloth covered Howard’s face and I saw the panic in his eyes, I felt nothing. No sympathy, no hatred, no will to step in.

  Through clenched teeth I played my final card. ‘Do not kill him,’ I said. ‘That’s a fuckin’ order.’

  I turned my back. Turned away from what I knew to be right. Something had happened to me. I’d changed, evolved. And I understood. Understood that being a soldier, learning to fight, to kill and to carry on doing so as men fell around you would always come at a cost. The army didn’t just turn people like me into men, it turned them into men able to take the lives of others, without feeling, as calmly and professionally as any other job of work. Kevin, McNeil, Grady, Howard Green and me, we were all from the same mould. The only factor that separated us was our moral compass.

  It took me several minutes to secure the attendance of an ambulance. Explaining to the emergency operator where I was and the nature of Miles’s injuries proved to be a challenge but we eventually got there. The female operator suggested it may be a job more suited to the air ambulance and I agreed.

  As I ended the call, I could hear Howard coughing and spluttering as he struggled to answer the questions McNeil and Kevin were asking him. McNeil wanted to know if there was another copy of the Al Anfal document – he hadn’t given up on that idea, it seemed – and Kevin wanted answers concerning his arrest, Sandi’s murder and the suspicion he seemed to have that Howard and Mellor may have been in cahoots.

  I told Miles that an ambulance was on its way to us. He nodded, seemingly relieved. Looking down at Chris Grady I noticed something sticking out from his pocket. As I looked more closely, I saw it was a small leather wallet. I removed it from his jacket and opened it. Inside I found cash, several hundred pounds, at least. There was just one further item, and as I pulled it out for a closer look, I felt a twist to my guts. It was a photograph. Two children, a girl and a boy, both aged about seven or eight. Both in school uniform, both smiling for what looked like their annual class photograph. Two happy kids in a picture carried by their father.

  ‘He had kids,’ I said, holding the picture up for the others to see.

  ‘So do you, Finlay,’ answered Kevin. ‘And that wasn’t going to stop him killing you.’

  ‘That’s all he had on him. A wallet with cash and a picture of his kids…’

  The burner phone began to ring. It was in my pocket and, as I reached to answer it, I saw that my hand was trembling. It was Toni again.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re alive, that’s what’s happening,’ I said. ‘There’s one of your people here, a man called Miles…’

  ‘Is he OK … is he hurt?’ she asked, anxiously.

  ‘He’s been better, I’m sure, but yes, he’s OK. I’ve called a local ambulance to come and pick him up.’

  ‘A civilian ambulance?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Toni seemed to want to know everything.

  ‘OK, leave that with me. I’ll arrange a heli to pick him up. What about the others the Chinook crew reported, anyone wounded?’

  ‘We’re fine … and the other two are Kevin and McNeil.’

  ‘Kevin? Kevin Jones?’

  ‘Yes that’s him. Howard was planning on framing him for my murder as well as Sandi and that literary agent, Maggie Price.’

  ‘Jesus … can you give me a minute?’

  The phone went quiet as Toni talked to someone on another line. I was glad of the break and took the opportunity to sit down and rest. Her first question on returning to me was to ask after Howard Green.

  ‘OK for now,’ I said. ‘But, if Kevin does what I think he’s planning to do, that situation is going to change.’

  ‘He plans to put things right for the Increment lads?’ she asked.

  ‘And for Sandi Beattie. And he also has this notion that Superintendent Mellor was working with Howard.’

  ‘That’s not right … Can you put him on the line, let me speak to him?’

  I held the phone up and called to Kevin. ‘Toni wants to speak to you.’

  Waiting with Miles, as we all attempted to listen to what was being said on the telephone, Howard tried speaking to me. I only heard the word ‘deal’ before McNeil punched him hard in the guts and ordered him to be quiet. Coughing and retching from the blow, Howard took the hint and stayed quiet.

  Kevin had walked to a point where he was nearly out of earshot. At first, he and Toni seemed to argue but, as the conversation progressed, I saw his body start to relax and he became less animated. Their discussion gave way to what sounded like a tacit agreement. It seemed Toni had succeeded where I had failed.

  ‘Put the water away, Mac,’ Kevin addressed his instruction to McNeil as he handed me the phone. ‘MI5 need him intact.’

  Less than a minute later, an Apache gunship appeared hovering above us. The noise and downdraft suppressed any further attempt at conversation. Soon after that, a Chinook arrived. I’m not sure if it was the same one we’d seen before but it looked like it. As a team of soldiers wearing a very familiar kit abseiled down and headed up the track towards where we stood with our hands clasped firmly on our heads, I allowed myself a smile.

  Kevin had finished untying Howard and was standing watching the Apache as I approached him.

  ‘What did Toni say?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean what did she say that you didn’t think of?’

  ‘I’m curious…’

  ‘She offered me something you couldn’t. A way to clear my name and a fresh start. Bit of a no-brainer, really.’

  ‘And that persuaded you to lay off Howard?’ I asked.

  ‘She insisted.’

  ‘We’re too old for this,’ I said, ruefully.

  Kevin smiled sadly as he turned to me. ‘We’ll see, boss. We’ll see.’

  Chapter 66

  Fleet Street, London, EC4

  Kevin pulled the Ford into the side of the road, turned off the wipers and
then switched on the hazard lights.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Toni. ‘I shouldn’t be long. And make sure you keep that cap pulled down and your collar up.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Or should I say yes, blondie? That wig suits you by the way.’

  ‘Perhaps we should swap? It itches like the blazes. And remember what I said about eye contact. Avoid it, completely. The eyes are your biggest give away.’

  Toni opened the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement. Parking in the City of London was a nightmare. With virtually every street now controlled by double-yellow lines or parking meters she gambled that the awful weather would buy them enough time to avoid the attentions of a traffic warden. ‘If someone moves you on, just drive around the block and meet me here,’ she called through the open door. Kevin raised a hand to show he understood.

  Across the road, a small alleyway led to the pub where her contact had agreed to wait. A large, illuminated glass sign told her she was in the right place: Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.

  It looked like the entrance was down the alleyway. On the main road, the three pub windows resembled giant noughts-and-crosses boards, each with nine panes of heavy, opaque glass. Inside, the lighting appeared warm and welcoming. Even though it was late, the pub still seemed to be packed.

  Every so often, a customer would either disappear down the alley or emerge to face the rain that was now beating down outside. All the patrons, men and women alike, seemed to be wearing suits. They all looked as she imagined they would – like journalists, winding down at the end of a busy day.

  Max Tranter was finishing a pint of beer as she approached. From the look of him, it wasn’t his first.

  ‘Mr Tranter,’ said Toni, as he drained the glass. Max wiped the sleeve of his sports jacket across his mouth and looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His eyebrows flicked up as he studied her for a moment. Then he nodded, approvingly.

  ‘Mrs Smith, I presume,’ Max emphasised the name, his scepticism clear.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked, ignoring his inference.

  ‘Nearly. My sub-editor on the news desk just called to say that a translator is on her way to meet us.’

  ‘The paper has Arabic translators?’

  ‘No, this lady is freelance, on a daily rate. Expensive but, if what you are offering is genuine, the cost of a translator will be incidental.’ He checked his watch. ‘She’s late. The rain, I guess? Ah … here she is.’

  Toni turned around. A woman of Iranian or Persian appearance was letting down her umbrella and shaking the water droplets in the doorway. She was well dressed, elegant even. The coat, the hair, the carefully applied make-up, all suggested someone wealthy.

  The woman approached and, appearing to recognise Max, she said hello to him and then introduced herself to Toni. Background voices in the pub meant that Toni didn’t quite catch the name but she didn’t ask her to repeat it. It probably wouldn’t matter. All they needed was her language skills.

  Max led the way to the door and out into Wine Office Court. A few yards away was Fleet Street, once home to almost all the national newspapers. Now, thanks to budget cuts and relocations to Wapping and Southwark, it was only a muted reflection of its past history. The only remaining name on the street was Reuters, and it was widely rumoured that they would be on the move before long.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a Ford parked across the road on the yellow lines. You climb in the front next to my driver. We’ll get in the back. A section of the document is in a folder on the rear seat.’

  Breathing in the cool, night air. Max touched his left hand on a polished plate mounted near the door. Toni looked at him quizzically.

  ‘The Sovereigns’ Plate,’ he explained. ‘It bears the names of every King and Queen of England since James the Second in 1685, together with their period of reign. If you look carefully, it may amuse you to note that the most recent entry, that for Queen Elizabeth II, has been inscribed in such a way as to not leave space to record an end to her reign.’

  Toni did as suggested, and saw that Max’s claim was correct. The translator concentrated on positioning her umbrella to ensure as good a protection from the rain as it might allow.

  ‘I’m something of a royalist,’ Max continued. ‘It’s become my habit to touch the plaque for luck. Shall we go?’

  As they reached the main street, Kevin was waiting.

  Rain flicked across the seats as they got into the car. Max remembered his instructions and used the front seat. Toni climbed in behind Kevin and sat alongside the translator. Almost immediately, the windows began to mist over.

  Kevin started the engine, flicked on the windscreen wipers and started the ventilation blowers. A black taxi flew past, spraying water from the road surface.

  ‘You have the document?’ Max asked.

  ‘Like I said in the pub, just some excerpts for now … a taster. The original is well over an inch thick.’

  ‘Can we see what you have?’

  Toni handed the folder to the translator. ‘I suggest we get moving. I wouldn’t want to attract the interest of a passing police car due to us being on yellow lines.’ Max nodded his agreement as Kevin eased the car out into the traffic.

  In the back of the car, the translator quickly got to work. On Max’s instructions, she read out loud in English. She made slow progress – some of the language was unfamiliar to her – but she was able to explain most of it. She commented that it was as if it had been written in sections, by different people from varying countries. In the driver’s mirror, Toni saw Kevin smile knowingly as she said it.

  They headed east, into the City and then towards the Docklands, Kevin keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, in case they were followed.

  They listened in as the translator continued to read. With every section, Max appeared to focus harder on what was revealed.

  Finally, as they passed one of the new Dockland Light Railway stations, Max asked Kevin to stop the car. Politely, he asked the translator to step out of the car and wait in the cover of the station foyer. She did as she was asked without replying.

  ‘We never allow them to hear us talk money,’ said Max.

  ‘So, you’re interested?’

  ‘How much more of this is there?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I said, the full thing is over an inch thick.’

  Max paused for a moment. ‘So how much are we talking … Mrs Smith, or whatever your name is?’

  Toni ignored the comment. ‘Two hundred and fifty K was your bid, so that’s the price,’ she said, tersely. ‘I imagine your newspaper can afford it or you wouldn’t have gone that high.’

  ‘How would you like payment? Cash, I assume?’

  ‘Half in cash, half into this account.’ Toni passed Max a slip of paper across his shoulder.

  He read it. ‘A trustee account in the names of Paul and John Beattie?’

  ‘Once the money appears in that account I will be in touch to arrange to collect the cash and deliver the full document.’

  ‘I know the name Beattie, don’t I?’ Max asked. ‘These names, they’re the sons of the woman who was killed by her cop lover, I believe? The one who escaped from court and was killed in a drug war shooting in Wales a couple of days later?’

  ‘A tragedy that should be compensated for, don’t you think?’

  Max sat for a moment. It was clear he sensed a follow-up to the stories he had been pursuing, but it seemed he had taken the warning. ‘OK,’ he said, finally. ‘Let’s get back to the document. From what our translator read out, it reminds me very much of “The Project”, the report that the Muslim Brotherhood supposedly produced.’

  ‘It should. “The Project” is small beer compared to what I will be handing over to you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Max as he went to open the car door. ‘I’m satisfied it’s genuine. I’ll speak to my editor but the final decision will come from our owner. I don’t expect there’ll be a problem, though.’<
br />
  ‘We have an agreement then?’

  ‘Yes. So, who are you? MI6, perhaps?’

  Toni ignored the question. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Tranter.’ Then, as the two figures huddled together beneath the translator’s umbrella and trotted through the rain and up the stairs towards the station concourse area, she climbed over into the front seat.

  ‘Happy?’ she asked Kevin.

  ‘Very,’ he answered. ‘You asked for two or three times what I would have … and he didn’t bat an eyelid. McNeil will think all his Christmases have come at once.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I’m good, but that bastard journalist smelled a story, I could tell. He was watching you for a reaction when he said MI6.’

  ‘I thought the same. What about the amount?’

  ‘The money was never a big issue to me, to be honest. I just wanted Sandi’s boys to be ok.’

  ‘Good. Now … let’s get back to Camden. We have an appointment with an old friend of yours.’

  Chapter 67

  ‘I wasn’t aware this building existed.’ Superintendent Mellor looked out the window and across the North London skyline towards Chalk Farm as he spoke.

  ‘Not many people are, for obvious reasons,’ said Toni.

  ‘In better weather, I’d bet you can see Hampstead Heath from here.’

  ‘And beyond. Although the glass is one way, so people can’t see us.’

  ‘Sensible. Now, do you mind if I ask why you invited me over here?’

  Toni had laid out the office to achieve the effect she desired. Two chairs, one with its back to the door, a second, larger chair facing it with a desk in between. Formal, and not too cosy. She invited Mellor to sit, and indicated he should use the smaller chair. He accepted and, as she relaxed into her seat, she smiled warmly.

  The Superintendent remained expressionless. Cold fish, she thought. Let’s see if he stays that way.

  ‘We need to discuss a few things with you.’

  ‘We … I can only see one of you Miss … er Fellowes, you said?’