by James Nally
I ring Will and break the news; somehow, 100 kilos of heroin slipped through their search team’s fingers. Minutes later, he gets back.
‘They drilled into each ingot multiple times at different angles,’ protests Will.
‘How big was each ingot?’
‘400 centimetres by 154 centimetres, or about 13 feet by 8 in old money.’
‘And how long were the search team’s drill bits?’
‘Er let me see,’ says Will, fumbling about. ‘Twenty-five,’ he says finally.
‘Inches?’
‘Er no,’ Will mutters quietly. ‘Twenty-five centimetres.’
Vingt-cent, I think, it’s all connecting …
‘No wonder you didn’t find any of it, Will.’
‘But they drilled those ingots all over. The smugglers must have known the length of our drill bits. Jesus.’
‘Yeah well thanks to Bernie, we’ve just been presented with a second chance.’
Chapter 72
Slough, Berkshire
Saturday, July 9, 1994; 14.00
In the end, Ron Regan agreed to sell the lead ingots to Bernie, so long as Bernie turned a blind eye to one final fiddle. As customs ‘search teams’ butcher the ingots in Bernie’s yard, he tells me how Ron Regan felt compelled to stiff his confederates until the bitter end.
‘He insisted on cash for the lead, of course, and on charging VAT at 17.5 per cent, which he promptly removed from the envelope and stuck in his back pocket before ripping up the invoice and receipt.
‘So, out of this scrap deal, he’s split the £700 with his pal and made an extra £122.50 in VAT. In other words, for the princely sum of £472.50, he has landed himself a life sentence and sold out the nation’s deadliest and most untouchable crime syndicate. And he wouldn’t even let the 50p go.’
They’re still petty criminals at heart … they have to try to mug off the other party in any deal.
Right on cue, the frenzied yelps of sniffer dogs seal the fate of Mickey Sheeran, Commander Neil Crossley and Ron Regan. Will from Customs almost gallops over to confirm what we’ve just witnessed, and agrees that office-bound Fintan deserves to hear the news first.
As ever on a Saturday afternoon, he’s frantic. ‘You’ve got to get them to hold off charging anyone until tomorrow,’ he says.
‘I’m not sure I can do that, Fintan. And why would I?’
‘Let’s just say something sensational has cropped up. And you owe it to Nathan Barry’s family.’
‘I don’t have any say in this.’
‘Yes you do. Tell your handler Will that if he holds off charging anyone for twelve hours, I won’t run the story about how, despite top-grade intelligence, customs allowed 100 million pounds worth of heroin into the country. Scrap that, put me straight onto him now.’
Will nods a lot, loses colour, then says: ‘Off the record, you don’t have to worry about sub judice. We’ll be arresting them this evening but not charging them until much later tomorrow. But in return for this, Customs will be expecting extremely positive coverage when this case goes to trial.’
Chapter 73
Arsenal, London
Sunday, July 10, 1994; 09.00
‘Where there’s a gutless Will, there’s a way,’ smiles Fintan, presenting me with a copy of today’s Sunday News.
Ex-Police Chief Murder Probe, screams the headline. ‘Yard Commander and cop killer Sheeran “paid for murder of private eye”. Exclusive, by Jamie Smythe-Benson and Alex Pavlovic.
‘You gave Pavlovic a byline?’
‘He’d nothing to do with this story, but it totally fucks his relations with Crossley. That’ll teach him to threaten me.’
The scoop, based on the explosive claims of ‘committed anti-corruption campaigner’ George Field MP, claims to ‘crack the six-year riddle of the country’s most notorious unsolved murder.’
Field reveals that Nathan Barry, a constituent who’d been working on top-secret Tory projects in January 1988, handed him a sealed envelope ‘containing the names of two men he claimed wanted him dead’.
According to Field: ‘Nathan instructed me that, in the event of anything untoward happening to him, I should pass the envelope to a trusted senior police officer.’
After Nathan’s murder, the MP for Lingfield opened the envelope, found the names of Commander Crossley and Sheeran inside, along with a list of allegations Nathan had been about to leak to an unspecified Fleet Street source.
In an extraordinary twist, Field reveals how he and Crossley belong to the same Freemason secret society lodge in Lingfield, where Mickey Sheeran holds the role of First Warden, or second-in-command.
According to Field: ‘Out of courtesy, I brought the matter to Crossley’s attention. He demanded to see the note and insisted it was nonsense, so I let the matter lie. However, from what I’ve since found out about Crossley, I feel duty-bound to follow my conscience and go public with my concerns.’
Field goes on to explain how ‘several junior members of the Lodge later approached the Nathan Barry investigating team with claims to deliberately muddy and mislead the investigation, including a Detective Constable Neil Rooney and local businessman, David Bremner.’
Fintan takes a long, self-satisfied drag on his cigarette. He then surveys me, as if weighing up my mental state for further revelations.
‘Spit it out then,’ I say.
‘This wasn’t Jamie Benson-Smythe’s only scoop this weekend. As you know, he spent Saturday night down in Somerset with the St. John Green clan. The champagne was flowing and it all got, as he put it, a tad lairy. First thing Chris confides is that he informs for Customs, who turn a blind eye to his own drug importations. But he’s been sailing too close to the wind and is desperate to get out before he ends up either in jail or dead.
‘Turns out Uncle Cyril St. John Green passed away late last year and left them all a shitload of money in trust funds. Old Cyril was a bit of a hairshirted Presbyterian moralist and attached lots of bespoke conditions to each trust and how and when certain monies are to be released. Guess what he demanded of young tearaway Chris?’
I can see what’s coming. ‘That he makes an honest woman of the mother of his bastard child?’
‘He won’t get a penny until he marries her and, better still, if they divorce, the money tap will be turned off.’ Eyebrows like kites, he produces that vaguely deviant Jack Nicholson smile. ‘Now, I wonder does Zoe know anything about this?’
My gaze returns to his newspaper. I flick through some more pages, allowing his game-changing newsflash to sink in.
For once, he cracks first. ‘Well? She’ll see right through his motives now. This will blow that smug, upper-class gobshite out of the water.’
I stop at page 44; Sandra’s photo casebook. There’s Tania, in a green thong and see-through bra, playing the part of a reluctant girlfriend being pressured by her boyfriend into group sex.
I turn the paper towards him. ‘Ever since I got her that audition, Tania’s taken a right old shine to me.’
Fintan frowns and blinks at the same time, like an owl in a headlock.
‘What do you mean?’ he laughs, but in a decidedly unamused way.
‘I bumped into her at the police station a few days back. They needed statements from both of us about Regan and co. Anyway, we got talking and really clicked. We went for a drink last night and had a little snog at the end. She’s invited me round to hers tonight.’
‘You old dog. What about Zoe, Matt … the dirt on Chris?’
‘I have to let Matt go, for everyone’s sake. I’ve done all I can to try to be a part of his life. No one else wants it. I want him to forget about me, for his sake.’
‘That’s really fucking big of you pal. And noble to boot.’
‘Oh it’s not that,’ I laugh. ‘I just want Zoe to be really unhappy.’ I giggle again at the sheer emotional recklessness of it all.
‘Jesus,’ says Fintan, shaking his head with a mixture of pride and disbelief. ‘Hey, I
bet Tania’s found out about your fifty-grand reward money. That’s what’s going on here.’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘But what the hell? As Ma would’ve said, Be Young, Be Foolish but Be Happy, right?’
‘Damn right.’
Epilogue
Donal Lynch was tested for Fatal Familial Insomnia, got the all-clear and promptly blew his Nathan Barry reward money taking Tania on trips to the world’s best Shiraz vineyards. Days after the money ran out, he and Tania split but remain good friends.
Zoe married Chris St. John Green in one of the decade’s most lavish society weddings. Donal Lynch declined an invitation to attend and severed all contact. The couple separated soon after.
Gangster Mickey Sheeran and Scotland Yard Commander Neil Crossley were sentenced to life imprisonment for trafficking heroin and the murder of Nathan Barry. Although the Julie Draper murder remains officially unsolved, Sheeran and Crossley were named as her killers in Fintan Lynch’s true crime best-seller, The Curse of Brinks-Mat. On his wine-based world travels, Donal Lynch sent postcards to Crossley in prison from several exotic locations, always signing off ‘With Love, The Village Idiot’.
Private investigator John Delaney and ex-cop Phil Ware won compensation from the Met Police for malicious prosecution, but were later jailed for phone hacking celebrities, along with crime reporter Alex Pavlovic.
Edwina Milne retired from the Home Office and dedicated herself to the investigation of unexplained phenomena and spiritualism. She is now one of the highest-paid speakers on the US paranormal lecture circuit.
Mick Lynch died on Easter Sunday 1996 with both sons by his side. His last words were a confession to his younger son Donal; he’d ordered the murders of Regan, Shaw and Walsh, but only after they’d threatened Zoe and Matt. The IRA contract killers sought out Donal after the murders that night on the specific instruction of his father, to ensure that he was okay.
‘I just never had the chance to help you before,’ were Mick Lynch’s final words, before he grabbed and held Donal’s arm with all he had left.
Acknowledgments
First, to the people who so blessed this book with their patience and talent. Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, the frankly brilliant editor at Avon. Razor-sharp copy editor Jade Craddock. PR whizz Sabah Khan, and Alison Groom, whose cover has so brilliantly evoked the essence of the book. Ed Wilson, literary agent at Johnson and Alcock and all-round rock of support and humour.
Thanks to Ben Mason, aptly-named literary agent and sculptor of rough talent, and Katy Loftus, whose verve and vision made this happen in the first place.
Thanks to those reviewers and writers who so kindly supported the previous two; Raven Crime Reads, Anne Cater, Liz Barnsley, John Sturgis and Tania ‘Boo’ Findlay of the Sun, Deirdre O’Brien and Nigel Atkins of the Mirror, Brook Cottage Books, Killing Time, Writing.ie, Books and Writers, Patricia Lenehan, Starry Marilyn, Crime Book Junkie, Bloomin’ Brilliant Books, Claire Knight, Mairead Hearne, Short Book and Scribes.
Thanks to those TV stalwarts for their unwavering support and friendship; Bruce and Sam Goodison, Paul Crompton, Adam Wishart, Emma Shaw, Andy Wells, Kathryn Johnson, Jeremy Hall, Duncan Moir, Laura Dunne, Peter Roemmele, Robert Gould, Paul and Max Williams, Hugh Williams and Andrew Mason.
Thanks to my good friends and endless sources of raw material; Ian and Zara Gallagher, Dennis Rice, Alison Clements, Frank and Elaine Roche, David and Sheila Hayes, Paul and Gaynor Morgan, Vincent Gribbin, the Bracken clan of Moate.
Thanks to my in-laws, the McGraths, for their Trojan support, especially Jim ‘the Croc’ and Anita. And to the Nally clan, especially my parents Jim and Bun, for always being there.
Special thanks to the three people who sacrifice so much so that I can get this done; my son James Nally, daughter Emma Nally and partner Bridget McGrath.
By the same author:
Alone with the Dead
Dance with the Dead
Want more of PC Donal Lynch?
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The police are convinced it’s the act of a serial killer.
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Chilling, brutal, addictive – if you like Tim Weaver and James Oswald, you will LOVE James Nally.
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About the Author
James ‘Jim’ Nally began his reporting career at the Westmeath Independent in the Irish midlands before moving to London and working for National News Press Agency in the early 1990s.
As the agency’s crime reporter, he covered Old Bailey trials and prepared in-depth ‘backgrounders’ for the national newspapers on all major cases in Southern England between ’92 and ’94.
His unfortunate expertise in the case of serial killer Rose West saw Nally recruited as a TV researcher by Channel 4’s Dispatches. Since then he has directed documentaries on a gallery of rogues that include Kenneth Noye, Charles Bronson (the one from Luton), a set of unhinged Swedish twins who ran amok on the M1 (one of Louis Theroux’s must-see docs), prison escapees, gem hunters and charity fundraising companies.
Nally has ghost written a number of books about yet more rogues, including IRA infiltrator ‘Kevin Fulton’ and the mercenary Simon Mann.
Although his official address is in Brighton, he spends most of his time at Southern Rail’s pleasure, battling in and out of London. He has a partner Bridget and two children, James and Emma.
About the Publisher
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