by Iain Cameron
‘Two down, one to go. Hang on, what about the explosives in the sports bag in Hackney?’
‘We found that bag in the house my team raided. The tracker inside the bag led us to it.’
‘Good call.’
‘We were worried to find some of the contents had been removed, but they were discovered in an upstairs room.’
‘By moving them there, I think they were all set to use them.’
‘Yep, that’s the general consensus. We’ve not only closed down a large part of the TFF operation, but averted a major catastrophe with goodness knows how many casualties.’
Matt finished the muffin and dropped the screwed-up wrapper into the paper bag, deep in thought. ‘It looks like we can close the file on David. We know why the TFF wanted him, and why and how they killed him.’
‘Yep.
‘The one loose end I don’t understand is how they managed to kidnap him in the first place.’
‘They didn’t. It was Tamplin and Thomas.’
‘I know that, but we know it was done for the TFF, presumably because they didn’t have the wherewithal at that stage to do it themselves.’
‘Okay.’
‘My question is this. In order for them to engage the services of Byron Locke and co, how did they manage to ingratiate themselves with this criminal chain so quickly?’
‘I guess it’s something we’ll never know, but putting that thought to one side for a moment, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. There’s been another.’
‘Another what?’
‘Another abduction?’
‘When? Who?’
‘A Superintendent in Serious Crimes at the Met: Jonty Fleming.’
‘Jonty Fleming?’ Matt said, turning his astonished expression to face her.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Rosie, he’s my old boss when I worked there. He’s a good mate, and like David, we meet every couple of weeks for a beer and a catch-up.’
‘Yeah?’
He nodded. ’You know what this means?’
It was her turn to nod. ‘Someone is targeting you.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Matt and Rosie headed towards Hackney once again. This time it wasn’t to check on Steph’s surveillance operation, but to close the TFF terrorist outfit down. Another team were heading to a supermarket in Stoke Newington to arrest Yusuf Batuk, the man who had left the sports holdall full of explosives at the target house.
MI6 and MI5 were resigned to losing the surveillance operation. With Matt’s destruction of the operational cell, and Rosie doing the same to the quartermaster cell, the remaining terrorists would have little choice but to go underground once they realised what had happened. No way would Matt let the TFF continue in their current form, and even colleagues in other parts of the security services were coming around to his way of thinking.
‘Let’s hope,’ Matt said, ‘once we nab these guys, they’ll be more forthcoming than the ones you grabbed at the quartermaster’s cell.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Rosie replied. ‘I get the impression there’s some sort of informal pecking order between the cells. Everyone seems to look up to the operational boys, but they all look down on the lot in Hackney, the fund-raisers. With their cell-based operation, these guys probably don’t know too much.’
‘Could be they’re not so bright or as committed to the cause as the others?’
‘We can but hope.’
Matt drove in silence for a few minutes. It was a misty morning, visibility down to about one hundred metres, and a cold, damp feel to the air.
‘What happened to Kerem, the guy I shot in Stoke Newington?’
‘The guy who dived under the bed?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘You’ve no idea how many jokes this has spawned: that’s an extreme way to deal with bedbugs; I hid under the bed and someone shot me; I had a dream someone was shooting me and woke up with this hole in my leg. All sorts of stuff.’
He laughed, but clutched his side as a bolt of pain spasmed through it. ‘No more, or I’ll be back on painkillers.’
‘It’s a surprise Kerem is still alive, as you shot him in the chest. He was taken into surgery on Sunday, where they removed your slugs, and he’s been in intensive care ever since. I checked with the hospital yesterday afternoon and he’s out of danger. The doctors think he should be okay to be interviewed by about Saturday. We need to be in there sharpish. The anti-terrorist boys are hovering and I think they want a piece.’
‘You could use your old contacts to tell them this is our shout and for them to back off.’
‘Fat chance. If you think the police are macho, it’s ten times worse in there. Nothing, and I mean nothing, stands in the way when they’ve got their eyes focussed on a target.’
‘It’s good to hear the patient is getting better, not because I wish him a speedy and painless recovery, but because I want to interrogate him. Turn the tables on the smarmy bastard who was questioning me.’
‘I’ll make sure when we speak to him, you’re not standing anywhere near his respirator or drug control unit in case you accidently-but-on-purpose switch either of them off.’
‘Me? I would never do such an atrocious thing to a helpless human being.’
‘You have history.’
‘Maybe I would at the first sign of belligerence, if he prevaricates or thinks he can try and spin us some crap.’
They arrived at the street in Hackney where the target house was located, and quickly found a parking spot. It was around five-thirty in the morning and according to Steph, the TFF guys in the house had all been out selling drugs the previous night until after one in the morning. No way would any of them be up at this time, refreshed from having had enough sleep, eager to go out for a morning run.
Rosie called Steph for the latest update, and she confirmed everything in the house was just the way they expected, quiet with no movement. The same couldn’t be said for their neighbours. Despite the ungodly hour, a succession of commuters were hurrying along the road, some he imagined to be on strange shift patterns, others with long journeys ahead of them.
The van containing the armed police team from the local nick arrived, and they all decamped. Matt conducted a quick briefing, going over the same information they discussed earlier and filling them in with Steph’s update. Minutes later, they set off.
With coppers positioned to the front and rear of the house, they were inside in ten seconds. This time they had to use the door banger, as the spare key from the flower pot was missing. A thought flitted through Matt’s head; was removing it the action of someone who intended leaving? He dismissed it as quickly as it had come. They would find out soon enough.
The house was instantly familiar to Matt: its shabbiness, the casual disregard the occupants had for the place where they lived and the people who owned it. The armed officers clumped upstairs leaving one of their number to check the downstairs area. In the living room, among an unhealthy collection of debris, they found one guy, groggy, in the process of waking up on the couch. How he had managed to sleep through the door being bashed in and the heavy-booted men clumping up the stairs, Matt didn’t know. The officer removed a handgun from the coffee table before handcuffing him.
When the couch guy was cuffed and the rest of the ground floor checked and found to be devoid of people and other weapons, Matt bounded upstairs. The delay in getting the other TFF members outside had been to give them a chance to put some clothes on. While the cops waited to cuff them, Matt explored the other rooms.
The bathroom contained little of interest. When four guys grew unkempt bushy beards, they had no need for razors, shaving cream, aftershave, and perhaps less need for skincare products. All they needed was a beard trimmer or a pair of scissors.
In the spare room, the only one not used for sleeping in by the occupants, he discovered guns and extra equipment for the drug dispensing operation which had been taking place on the dining room table downstairs:
bags, needles, and a set of scales. All told, he discovered six handguns and plenty of ammunition. He also found a large stack of cash, not new and crisp, as dished out by cash machines, but old and grubby as though it had passed through the hands of many people. Matt would bet, if tested, many of the notes would contain traces of cocaine.
He was about to take a closer look at the weapons cache when he heard the sounds of a scuffle coming from the room next door. It was either a brave or stupid move on the part of the occupants. A tooled-up and heavily armed cop looked and sounded intimidating, and appeared taller and heavier than they actually were. Matt would let them handle it, this was what they were trained for. Nevertheless, he stopped what he was doing to listen.
Suddenly, he heard shouting, followed by a gunshot. Matt knew the sound of the H&K carbines the police officers carried, and the shot hadn’t come from one of them. He reached the door of the spare room just as a guy dressed in shorts and t-shirt, and with a gun in his hand sprinted out. He made a bee-line for the stairs.
Without stopping to think, Matt sidestepped the copper who came out on the landing and raced after the fleeing man. Realising the officer downstairs would be in danger if the terrorist got there, Matt took the decision to stop him. He launched himself feet-first at the escaping figure.
It wasn’t such a well-timed tackle. Instead of his feet banging into the retreating man’s back as he intended, he hit him on the bum and hips, but the outcome was the same. They both fell in a tangled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Despite the excruciating pain in his chest, and now in his back after striking the edges of the steps, Matt grabbed the front of the t-shirt of the struggling man. He was flailing his arms around and trying to stand. Matt punched him hard in the face. When he continued to struggle, Matt punched him again. This time all movement stopped.
The copper who had been searching the downstairs rooms came out to see what all the noise was about. Seeing the tangle of bodies, he lifted the TFF guy out of the melee and dumped him face-down on the floor before cuffing his hands behind him.
Matt was glad the copper had lifted the guy off him as he couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t pull himself upright, and only managed to do it with Rosie’s help. If this was what getting old felt like, they could keep it.
THIRTY-FIVE
For obvious reasons, Matt hadn’t seen much of Suzy of late. Looking ahead, with members of the TFF now in custody and requiring interviewing, the outlook didn’t look much better. For this reason, he took the day off. Instead of meeting Suzy and spending the day together, not possible as she was working, he went to see where she and the rest of the crew were filming.
He felt good. The previous day, after ensuring the captured TFF members from the house in Hackney were secured and taken away, he’d attended a couple of meetings at HQ, first with Gill, then with senior officers from MI5. Later in the day, he’d gone to his local gym and done a cardio-based workout, aiming to exercise those muscles he’d been resting since his kidnapping. At times, it was painful, but he had to do something; he couldn’t play the invalid for much longer.
When he arrived home in the evening, he made a light meal, then watched some television before heading off for an early night with a couple of Ibuprofen. This was to ensure he wouldn’t be awakened by a sudden jolt of pain. It seemed to have worked as this morning, he almost felt back to normal.
Matt took the District Line train to Richmond. Emerging from the station, he walked past what appeared to be a smart shopping area before crossing the Thames at Richmond Bridge. The river was looking splendid in the morning sunshine, and he stopped for a few minutes to take in the sights. Boats were cruising at a leisurely pace, birds were nestling on the surface of the water, and people ambled over the bridge looking as though they had nothing better to do than wait for the numerous pubs and restaurants in the vicinity to open.
Suzy had warned him that Twickenham Studios wasn’t in the same league as Shepperton, where her last movie had been shot. Matt had little direct experience in this field, so he didn’t know what to expect, and despite her warning, the size and scale of the place he saw in the distance impressed him.
He stopped at the entrance where a barrier and security office prevented him going any further. The procedure he went through to establish who he was, why he was there, and who he had come to see, wouldn’t have disgraced the security team at Thames House, the home of MI5.
It seemed elaborate as he couldn’t imagine much inside could rival important government secrets. He understood it better after discussing it with the guard while they waited for someone to come and fetch him. At times, when a famous actor was in the building, fans would gather and pull any trick they could to gain access. It was also there to stop rivals from stealing movie ideas, and pranksters or protestors whose presence could disrupt an expensive day’s shooting.
From the large bland building looking a lot like an Amazon storage warehouse, a door opened and someone emerged, looking small against the vast expanse of the structure. It was Suzy. She came towards him at her customary fast pace; time was money in the movie business, she would say, and not that she was desperate to see him.
‘Thanks Eric,’ Suzy called to the security guard, before leading Matt by the arm in the direction of the door from which she had emerged. Away from the prying eyes of the security office, but not the CCTV cameras dotted around, she stopped. She threw her arms around Matt’s neck and kissed him passionately.
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he said and meant it. In the dark night he spent in the Stoke Newington basement, thoughts of seeing her again had kept him going.
‘I’m no longer buying newspapers, as any time I read about a shooting or some big raid, I imagine it involves you. All it does is save me money as I still hear everything from other members of the crew.’
‘It’s probably not us. For one, we try to keep ourselves out of the newspapers whenever we can, and second, we’re not active in as many operations as you might think. It’s more often the police.’
‘You seem to forget, I spin stories for a living. You can’t kid a kidder.’
She kissed him again, before leading him by the arm to the door. ‘C’mon, meet the crew. You’ve come at a good time, there’s been a break in filming while they change the sets.’
At the start of their relationship, the terminology of the movie business was all Greek to Matt. Over time, the little expressions and words Suzy used would need explaining. Now, he suspected he was about to get a masterclass.
The outside of the building was grey and lifeless, but inside it was glaringly bright, animated and colourful. While some technicians were dismantling the last vestiges of a London street, others were assembling the interior of a suburban house.
Matt was introduced to the director, cameraman, producer, set designer, a few of the actors, and a whole host of other people whose names he would have trouble remembering. In the main, they eyed him warily, a reaction he often received from people who knew he was an HSA agent, as it was well-known they were armed. This seemed to bother the men a lot less than it did the women, and if any kids were around, they would have demanded a look. However, as this production was staffed, in the main, by females, his welcome wasn’t what he would call warm.
It was a reaction he found difficult to reconcile with the film they were making. He had read an outline of the screenplay, a spy story with a strong love interest, and guns, shooting, and killing were integral elements of the plot.
Morning coffee over, the set began to look more and more like the inside of a sixties semi. Close to the restart of filming, the crew assumed a business-like manner, removing material, tidying up, rerouting wires and adjusting lights. They were being careful not to leave modern accoutrements lying around that would spoil a 1960’s setting, wary of giving those critics and websites specialising in identifying movie bloopers more ammunition than they deserved.
‘We’ll be back
shooting in about twenty minutes,’ Suzy said at his side. ‘You’ll enjoy this part.’
‘What do you do when this is going on?’ he asked. ‘Surely once you’ve written the script, that’s the movie set in stone?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a bit of it. You’ll see once they start, actors will trip over certain words or phrases. In the next take, they might say the difficult word right, only to fall over something else. Rather than tie everyone up for hours wading through the same passage, it’s often quicker to call me over and I’ll change it into something that rolls more easily off the tongue.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘In any sort of filming, the screenplay is just the starting point, an outline if you will. By the time we finish, maybe forty or fifty percent of it might have changed.’
‘That much?’
‘Yeah. Also, we might be about to shoot a scene and the director, cameraman, or even sound engineer will call a halt because the light isn’t right or the dialogue is echoing. This might mean a partial re-write to take a scene that was meant to be shot outside back into the studio. It’s always easier filming in a studio, as you don’t have planes flying overhead, birds chirping, people walking in front of the camera, and all the rest. The downside is studio shots often lack the depth and atmosphere you get from outdoor filming.’
‘It’s a lot to think about.’
‘Quiet please, everyone!’ a man with a loud voice shouted. ‘Phones off. No talking and positively no farting.’
Matt pulled out his phone and set it to airline mode. No way did he want to be the dork who spoiled a passionate love scene or a tense stand-off with it chirping with a new text or email.
Suzy squeezed his arm as they settled down to watch. He, with the casual interest of a bystander; she, with the intense concentration of a professional, running her finger over the text of the screenplay as the actors spoke.
The action stopped numerous times when someone spotted something wasn’t right, or a make-up artist rushed on to dab powder on one of the actor’s faces whose skin was starting to shine under the heat from the bright lights. It made for a more plodding affair than Matt was expecting, but it was a fascinating scene to witness nonetheless.
