by James Nally
Cue a toddler-tantrum pout as I fight an urge to actually hug Geoffrey.
‘What difference does it make?’ argues Pat.
Geoffrey spins around.
‘I really must insist you keep your counsel, sir, when inside my auditioning zone.’
Pat looks rattled. ‘Alright Dickie fucking Attenborough. Don’t lose your beret.’
I jump to my feet.
‘Allow me Tania,’ I gush, racing over. ‘Give me the keys and I’ll lock your watch inside the dressing room for you.’
She takes off the watch and plants it petulantly into my palm. I take her dressing room keys in my other hand and walk out to the corridor.
It’s just as well I stepped up for the task. At the top of the stairs, clutching the other set of dressing room keys to his heart in shock, Fintan looks every inch the Dickensian pickpocket. I hand him the vintage green Rolex and he scarpers.
Chapter 65
Mayfair, London
Wednesday, July 6, 1994; 09.40
Watch in cupboard. Regan in trouble. Me in car on Cork Street. Fintan’s text mercifully springs me mid-audition, but only after I claim that Thora Hird’s had a funny turn on one of my drama shoots.
I jump in his ‘borrowed’ Porsche and we roar off towards Whitechapel where I’m due to meet Gary.
‘It took less than five minutes,’ Fintan says. ‘Julie Draper got that Rolex serviced twice, most recently late last year.’
‘So, the Rolex watch given to Tania by Pat Regan the day after Julie Draper died belonged to Julie and we can prove it,’ I say, mostly to explain it all to myself.
‘Exactly,’ says Fintan.
The sheer magnitude of this breakthrough requires considerable breaking down. He lets me draw conclusion number one. ‘Regan, Walsh and Shaw kidnapped and murdered Julie Draper on the orders of Mickey Sheeran and Commander Crossley.’
Other jigsaw pieces now click together. ‘The day we went on that drive with Ellen and Tania, when we found Julie’s body, Tania said her boyfriend had given her that watch the day before. Regan had no idea it could be traced back to Julie through its service history.’
Fintan’s already found the flaw in the prosecution case. ‘Of course, Regan will say he bought it off some geezer down the pub. But what it proves to us is that they’re working for Sheeran and Crossley, who must be financing this load of heroin coming in later this week. It’s too major league for these clowns.
‘But if Regan, Shaw and Walsh were to get busted with that much heroin, they’re looking at ten to fifteen years apiece. You can offer them a deal to get those sentences slashed, if they agree to give evidence against Sheeran and Crossley. It’s the only way you’re ever going to connect this haul to the Big Two.’
I remind him that we already have dirt on Sheeran and Crossley. ‘We can connect them to Julie’s money laundering. And, although he doesn’t know it, we’ve got the Prince’s confession on tape.’
Fintan shakes his head. ‘It’s nowhere near enough. Bernie was right. You should scrap this E deal and stay tight with Regan until the end of the week, aim for the bigger scalps. You’ve already established the heroin’s coming in with a load of lead on either Thursday night or Friday. Surely that’s enough for Customs to work on? I’m sure Gary will see it the same way, if you tell him everything.’
I tell Gary everything, almost. The only thing I leave out is that the entire E deal pivots on the fact I have my own personal arms dump. I remind him of our intel that Tate and co. are bringing in a massive load of heroin just days later, but he doesn’t want to know. He still sees nothing but the E deal.
‘You were brought in here to nail the men who killed Molly Parker-Rae, and you’ve done a hell of a job persuading them to do this deal tonight. We stick with the plan.’
I know Gary’s decision is cynical, political and self-serving, but I can’t help feeling an enormous sense of relief. By midnight tonight, Regan and co. will be under arrest and I’ll no longer be living a lie. The constant, creeping, cancerous fear of exposure has hollowed me out and ravaged my nerves.
Gary lays a map on the table.
‘Ask anything you want, suggest anything you like, speak up now about anything you aren’t happy with. If we can’t resolve a single difference of opinion, we abort. Anything new I need to know before we start?’
I tell him about Pat Regan’s insistence today that the E, the cash and Chris St. John Green should all be on the plot tonight. ‘Pat Regan doesn’t seem to trust Chris,’ I point out. ‘In fact, I’d wager he trusts me more.’
Gary smiles. ‘That’s music to my ears. And you’ll know why in a minute.’
He claps his hands, rubs them together; time to scrum down to business.
‘So, let me tell you Regan’s plan first. He’ll insist that you accompany them to the load. Once they know it’s good, they’ll waste you right there. They’ll ask Chris St. John Green if he wants the same and take their money back. That’s how these guys operate and that’s why they want both of you there.’
What Gary doesn’t know is that I have an insurance policy; Regan needs me alive so that I can lead them to the ammo dump. I haven’t told him anything about this, and I don’t plan to.
Gary continues. ‘Now, our plan. Firstly, not a word to anyone about any of this, understood? We’re right at the sharp end now. If something goes wrong, I need to know you didn’t leak.
‘Secondly, as you know, having the money and the merchandise on the same plot is usually a no-no. But this is different because we’ll be there, waiting to strike. Evidentially and logistically, it suits us. But it also makes this entire operation far riskier, for everyone involved.
‘The thing is, Donal, we need to catch them in possession of the E. But we can’t afford to have them shoot you or take you hostage. So working this out has been like that riddle about the hen, the fox and grain. But I’m convinced we’ve finally cracked it.
‘They’ll expect you to travel with them in their Range Rover to locate and inspect the load. Chris St. John Green follows in your car, where he holds the money. Before you set off, you must insist on seeing the money in your car, which we’ll kit out with recording devices after this meeting.
‘Here is a map of where you’re taking them tonight. It’s straightforward.’
He jabs a pointer at the relevant spots, military-style. ‘Windsor Road, B-road across Chobham Common, track into a field. Through a gate here. The load will be waiting in the field here, though you won’t be able to see it in the dark.
‘Before you set off, you need to provide a walkie-talkie for each vehicle and keep another on your person. We’ll give you a set of four before you leave, juiced up, tested and set to the right frequency so we can listen in. En route, you tell them that the GPS they’ll need to locate the E is hidden; only you know where it is. The gate into the field is controlled by a keypad code; only you know what that code is. This way, they need you all the way to the gear. And that’s when we plan to swoop.
‘When the Range Rover reaches this keypad-controlled gate, you need to warn them that it opens just long enough for a single vehicle to pass through, so they must drive in and wait for you. You’ll need extra time to dial in the code a second time so that Chris St. John Green can follow.
‘The code is 3106. Once the Range Rover is through and the gate shuts, you need to wait ten seconds, then radio the Range Rover and say the gate won’t open again. Ask Pat to come over. Show him a different code, say you can’t understand why it isn’t working any more. He’ll see that the gate’s heavy-duty, no one’s bulldozing it, even with a Range Rover. There’s no other way for a vehicle to get through.
‘Pat may well suggest you and Chris St. John Green accompany them in the Range Rover to the load. You’ve got to insist you can’t leave fifty grand in the middle of a field. What if it’s all a set-up, organised by Chris?
‘He’ll realise you won’t let Shaw or Walsh sit there with Chris and babysit the loot. You’re no
t an idiot. You say you’ll stay with Chris. Tell him the GPS is sitting next to a traffic cone fifty yards up the track on the right, and the load is 500 yards further on. You’ve programmed the GPS to beep when they’ve hit the spot. That’s also the armed response unit’s cue to move in.
‘Regan’s going to ask how they’re supposed to get out of the field, once they’ve picked up the gear. Use this map to point out a second exit, way over here. They can reach it simply by following the track all the way. A green button to the right of the gate releases it. Tell Regan you’ll drive there with Chris by road and wait for them. He’ll see this as their chance to relieve you of the cash after they collect the E without even having to fire a bullet. What do you think?’
I’m trying to picture it all in my head. ‘So, just to be clear about it, as soon as they reach the E, 500 yards from the gate, an armed unit is going to jump out of the shadows and arrest them?’
‘Shoot them if necessary.’
‘That seems a long way from the gate, you know, if something goes wrong while it’s just me down there.’
‘Bottom line is, Donal, vanish before they reach the E. Any way you can.’
I groan aloud. ‘I wish Bernie was still involved. I feel safer when he’s around.’
‘That’s exactly why they were happy to cut him out. They know he wouldn’t let any harm come to you. With him out of the way, they’re free to kill you and Chris.’
I feel strangely betrayed; his blunt assessment of my worthlessness to Regan and co. makes me shudder. And I’m still struggling to read how Chris fits into all of this.
‘What have you found out about this St. John Green character? What’s his game?’
Gary sighs resignedly; I’ve pinpointed the chink in his otherwise bulletproof plan.
‘We’ve checked him out and we’re pretty sure he’s one of us. Though exactly which agency he works for isn’t clear. What I do know is we’ll be listening in to your car and tracking it throughout the operation. The way I see it, Chris is the least of your worries.’
‘If only you knew, Gary,’ I mumble.
Chapter 66
Berkshire/Surrey borders
Wednesday, July 6, 1994; 22.00
I’m sitting in the front passenger seat of Pat Regan’s Range Rover, scared out of my wits and realising I’ve made a huge mistake.
They don’t need my ammo! I handed Ron Regan the inventory of what’s sank in that dump. I bet they’ve already sourced enough lead for whatever atrocity they’re planning.
Pat turns left onto Chobham Common, a black, deserted scrub somewhere between Windsor and Woking. Walsh and Shaw sit in the back. Chris St. John Green tailgates in Fintan’s adopted Porsche, fifty grand nestling in the boot. Ron Regan is on standby somewhere nearby. I’ve obeyed Gary’s order not to breathe a word about this sting operation to another soul. Almost. I told Fintan it’s going down but I didn’t say where. I realise suddenly; no one on this earth who gives a shit about me even knows I’m here.
What we need to focus on is getting the E in position, and making sure Regan, Shaw and Walsh pick it up. Nothing else matters.
I don’t matter, to Pat Regan or to Gary my handler. And if I end up dead in a ditch tonight, it won’t come back on either of them.
There’s no medals for this work … in the eyes of the world you’ll die a drug dealer or an underworld scumbag.
Right now, I’m Pat Regan’s prisoner, and everyone in this convoy knows it. I’ve already compiled a mental list of ways this operation can backfire on me.
* They could toss the walkie-talkies out of the window, cutting me adrift from all back-up.
* Shaw or Walsh could place a gun to the back of my head and take control of the entire operation.
* If so, I’ll have no choice but to lead them to the E, then make one last desperate dash for safety.
* They could waste me as soon as we collect the GPS. They won’t need me after that. And back-up will be 450 yards away in pitch black, blind to my plight.
* Chris St. John Green could be in cahoots. Despite his noble, Victorian posturing, he’d love to get me out of the way. Why am I putting my life in the hands of a man who has already stolen my girlfriend?
I should’ve told Bernie everything, right from the start. As Fintan so rightly said, he’s the only one who has my back. Fintan’s so good at this shit; I try to imagine what he’d do right now. I’ve got to somehow borrow from his quick-witted genius. My life depends upon it.
Think, think, think …
First, I need to establish if they plan to kill me tonight. I’ll ask them what they need all those big guns for; if they tell me, they’re going to waste me for sure. Why would they risk it otherwise?
Regan replies right away. ‘We’ve got a big load of brown coming in through Felixstowe Friday morning, so big that we have to make sure no one is going to rob it off us. There’s some heavy Turk and Kurd gangs in London who’ll be watching, waiting for a chance. When they see the size of our shooters, they’ll back off.’
My God, it’s a cock-waving exercise. They don’t even need ammo! I’m a dead man walking.
In a half-hearted attempt to appear in control, I tell them about the code-controlled gate into the field, and the fact I alone know the location of the GPS, which will lead us to the load.
‘Fine,’ snaps Shaw. ‘We’ll rub you out after that.’
They all laugh, way too hard. My chops are so racked with terror that they refuse to concede even a fake smile.
‘You should see his face,’ says Pat, in hysterics now and I realise the three of them are coked off their tits. Of course they are.
Pat suddenly turns to me, unsmiling, staring hard.
‘Don’t you trust us, Donal?’
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, lads. It’s just that I’ve been around the track a few times.’
‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’
‘Remember I took Ron down to see that horse running at Fontwell the other day?’ I say cryptically.
Pat nods. ‘Yeah, a real thoroughbred.’
‘Well that horse is no longer running down there. It’s been moved to a different race track.’
I’ve never been any good at bluffing, so force myself to stare straight ahead and count to twenty. Their collective silence speaks volumes. They still need those enormous guns to secure their delivery later this week. Surely, they can’t kill me now?
‘Why the fuck did you do that?’ Pat hisses, finally.
‘Insurance, Pat. In the betting world, it’s known as laying off.’
‘Right, so you don’t fucking trust us then?’
He pulls up sharply. I can hear Chris skidding to a halt behind us. Next thing, I see stars. He’s hammering the side of my head.
‘I should put one in you right now, you sneaky Irish cunt.’
Walsh is holding him back. ‘Fuck’s sake, Pat, we need those shooters.’
I expect this may prove the only time in my life when I’ll enjoy taking a hammering, confirming, as it does, that I’ve just saved my own life.
‘Arsehole,’ spits Pat and we set off again.
I breathe for the first time tonight. Thank Christ Fintan and Da came up with that arms dump …
He turns into the track and slows to a crawl. My guts clench. Gate and flashpoint ahead. I’ll be getting out of this Range Rover and refusing to get back in it again. Will Pat buy it? He knows I don’t trust them one inch. Maybe he’s already smelling a set-up.
The jeep stops at the gate. I open the door when Regan grabs my arm.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Paddy, or I’ll plug you.’
I break free and leap out. Cold gravel feels soothing beneath my trainers, but my eyes struggle to adjust to the black. I walk towards where I think the left side of the gate should be and almost stumble into a ditch. A breeze seeks out my neck. I roll my shoulders, fail to stop my teeth rattling. Why is it so damned cold?
As I reach the keypad, my heart p
lunges into the pit of my stomach. I realise I’ve left my walkie-talkie in Regan’s motor. Now I can’t communicate with them after they go through the gate and back-up can’t hear me. Should I go back and get it?
It feels like I’m stalling, so I tap in the code and watch the gate open ceremonially inwards. The Range Rover roars through impatiently, skidding to a halt about thirty yards ahead. Chris St. John Green could’ve made it through too; thankfully he’s obeying orders.
The gate closes. I notice now there’s no birdsong. The sheep in the field aren’t munching; they just stand there. They all know something’s going down.
Why is it so damned quiet?
Bang!
I’m on the ground.
Bang!
I scrabble towards the gate, peer through a gap.
Two more muffled bangs. I see muzzle flashes at the open, right-hand rear door of the Range Rover. Shaw cries for his mum. The black figure ghosts to the left rear side. Two more muffled bangs.
I hear St. John Green reversing the Porsche. Bastard.
Up front, footsteps scrape the ground, scurrying about, hunting.
‘Other one?’ demands a clipped voice.
‘Gate.’
I get up and sprint towards Chris’ retreating car.
The prick turns his headlights on, exposing me. I hit the deck. Bullets ping the gate, the ground to my right and the car. He turns his lights off again and stops; bullets ping off the Porsche, making more noise than the gunfire. He’s reversing again at top speed, engine screaming; the fucker’s abandoning me! I roll sideways towards that ditch and keep rolling until I drop and wedge into cold, wet sludge.
I smell cordite, hear Chris spin the car around and more clanging ricochets. I hope with all my heart they plug the treacherous bastard.
Where the hell is back-up?
Four footsteps and two flashlights hurriedly hunt me. Closer, closer comes the scraping of gravel, that merciless white beam, burning through the grass and the leaves and the insects.
White scores my eyes. I close them and hold my breath. I know this is it. Ghostly echoes of Edwina’s agonised words …
