by Jeff Gulvin
Webb was seated in a carriage three seats back from McCauley. They faced each other, both occupying seats on the aisle. The phone rang.
‘Yes.’
‘Graves. You got him?’
‘Yep.’
‘How crowded?’
‘All the seats are taken.’
‘Standing?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What carriage are you in?’
‘Fourth from the front.’
‘Good.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Graves put the phone down and looked at the BR executives. ‘Delay the train,’ he said.
‘How long?’
‘Ten minutes. Tell them it’s signals or something.’ He stood up as a man in a black coverall suit came in. ‘Blue team’s here, Sir.’
‘Good. Green?’
‘Two minutes.’
Graves nodded. He walked across the office and looked at the layout of the track on the wall. ‘First stop is Clapham Junction,’ he said.
The BR man nodded.
‘He’s in the fourth coach from the front. I want you to wait ten minutes then roll the train out. I’m going to get my men to Clapham Junction. I may need you to stop the train on the tracks to give me more time. Can you do that?’
‘We can.’
‘Then do it.’
The BR man issued the orders. Graves went out to his men.
On the train Webb waited and watched McCauley sitting easily in the seat ahead of him. His eyes were closed, the bag held loosely across his knees. Webb wondered if he could move past him and take the bag. The gun would be in the bag. McCauley opened his eyes, looked at him and hunched the bag closer to his chest. Webb stared out the window.
Vanner got out of the car and walked over to Westbrook. ‘What’s going on?’
‘SO19 deal now, Vanner. Scene Commander’s working on it.’
‘What can I do?’
Westbrook laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘If I were you I’d sit back in the car.’
Vanner drew in a breath, filling his chest and letting the air out slowly. He stared about him. Uniformed officers were taking statements from witnesses at the entrance to the station. He looked again to the bus terminal stand where she had lain a few minutes earlier.
‘Is she dead?’
‘Don’t worry about it now’
‘He stood and watched me. McCauley.’ He shook his head very bitterly. ‘Got what he wanted didn’t he.’
Westbrook looked him in the eye. ‘You’re a good copper, Vanner. This is his fault not yours.’
Vanner looked beyond him then and saw Superintendent Morrison moving towards him from the entrance to the station. He went back to the car.
Graves spoke to Webb on the telephone. ‘We’re going to let the train out of the station. I want to take him at Clapham Junction. If there isn’t enough time for us to get there we’ll stop the train on the track, signal failure.’
Webb spoke with his face averted from McCauley. ‘He’s still armed. Carriage is full now.’
‘Okay. Listen carefully. We’ve deployed two SFO teams, and three ARV units to Clapham. When you get there we’ll have cleared the station. BR will announce that the train is going to terminate there. A second train will be waiting on the next platform. The passengers will be asked to transfer. Where’s he sitting?’
‘Forward end of the carriage,’ Webb said, ‘aisle seat on the right-hand side as you look from the back. Four seats from the end.’
‘Next to him?’
‘Girl.’
‘And across?’
‘Can’t see. Both seats are occupied though.’
‘You armed?’
‘No.’
Webb switched off his phone again and checked the battery. McCauley was staring into space now. Webb checked his watch. The train was ten minutes late. And then it moved under him, pulling slowly out of the station. He felt the adrenaline begin to build.
Vanner looked into Morrison’s face. He was sitting in the back seat of the ARV once more.
‘What happened, Vanner?’ Morrison’s face was stiff.
Vanner pursed his lips. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
Vanner stared through the windscreen and flared his nostrils. ‘I shot the wrong party.’
‘How? Why were you armed?’
‘PROT got shot in Kensington High Street. In the ambulance the paramedic gave me his gun.’ He looked at Morrison. ‘By the book, Sir. Instant arming. It was logged with SO13.’
Morrison nodded. ‘And he lured you here?’
‘Phoned me on my mobile. Sloane Square tube. I was here in three minutes.’
Morrison looked across the road where the traffic was jammed up solid with the police activity. People filled every space imaginable though the rain still fell in torrents.
‘Same clothes, same hair, same bag. I was thirty yards away,’ Vanner said. ‘She got out of a cab. Went for something in her bag. I shouted the warning twice, Sir.’
‘And then you shot her?’
‘She was bringing something black from the bag. Eye contact. She ignored me.’
‘She didn’t hear you.’ Morrison leaned on the roof. ‘Too much noise. Too many people.’
Vanner thinned his eyes. ‘You believe me then?’
‘Of course I believe you, Vanner.’ Morrison straightened. ‘What’s happening now?’
‘SO19 are looking to take him out. He’s on a train. George Webb has him eyeballed.’
‘Well let’s hope they get the bastard.’
‘CIB on their way?’
Morrison looked back at him. ‘Not yet but they will be.’ He paused and looked Vanner in the eye. ‘I may not like you, Vanner. But you have my word — if there’s witnesses who heard you — I’ll back you to the hilt.’
Vanner looked at him and nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said.
The train crossed the bridge and rumbled along the open track towards Battersea power station. Webb looked down at his telephone, then again at McCauley. McCauley was watching him. Webb looked away, ignoring the urge to eyeball him. When he looked back McCauley was staring out of the window.
Just before the power station the train shuddered to a halt. Webb stared at McCauley who lurched forward in his seat, almost losing his grip on the bag. The passengers were restless. One man next to him got up and looked out of the window. Webb felt sweat on his forehead. McCauley was looking at him. His eyes were dull, a puzzled expression on his face. His right hand was on the zip of the bag. Webb felt his heart jar in his chest.
Just then the Tannoy crackled and the passengers were informed that there was a signal fault on the line. The train would be delayed a few minutes and would have to terminate at Clapham Junction. A second train would take them from there to their destinations. Webb licked his lips and watched McCauley’s face. He looked agitated, a tick starting just under his eye. The phone rang and McCauley looked directly at him. Webb looked away casually, grinned and spoke into the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘What’s happening?’ Graves’s voice.
‘Nervous.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ve got the teams on the move but you’ll be sat there for a few minutes yet. We need to clear the station. When you get there let him off the train before you, we’ll keep this line open now and you’ll have to identify him for us.’
Webb thought for a moment. ‘Lot of people getting off the train. Get somebody there who can identify him from your end.’
Graves was silent. ‘Who knows him?’
‘Vanner.’
The driver of Vanner’s Armed Response Vehicle took the call on his PX radio. He spoke quickly then looked over his shoulder at Vanner.
‘They’re taking him out at Clapham Junction,’ he said.
‘Commander wants you there to spot him for us.’
Va
nner stared in his face. ‘Let’s get moving then.’
They drove very quickly, the driver swinging the wheel through his hands, staggered sirens howling overhead, blue lights flashing as they cut a path down the middle of the road at eighty miles an hour. Vanner sat in the back, rocked from side to side feeling the sweat gather on the palms of his hands.
George Webb let out a silent breath as the train moved off once again. In front of him James McCauley’s eyes darted from one window to the next, his hand inside the shoulder bag. He watched the faces of the people closest to him, and then he stared at Webb.
The British Rail staff cleared Clapham Junction station. The first Specialist Firearms Officer team had arrived and were swiftly assessing the layout of the station for positions. Graves commanded, the open phone line in his hand. He directed two men to enclosed steps which led up to the other platform and the exit. Further along the platform a second set of steps led down. He deployed two men halfway down them. A red control room squatted in the middle of the platform. Two other officers crouched inside. Graves deployed further men on the other side of the tracks and stationed five more in the five-coach train that had been shunted onto the opposing platform. When all were positioned he checked in with each of them. The train approached slowly along the tracks. Graves moved inside the control room and took up a position, a BR jacket over his bullet-proof vest.
Vanner walked down the steps to the platform with the officers from 511 Trojan. He spotted Graves inside and moved to the door.
‘Where’d you want me, Cuddles?’
Graves looked at him and considered. ‘Just here inside the door.’ He put the phone to his ear. ‘You there, George?’
‘Live and kicking.’
‘What’s he doing?’
On the train Webb watched McCauley’s face. McCauley stared right back at him, hand still inside the bag. ‘Right now he’s watching me.’ He touched his lips with his tongue. ‘He’s very very nervous.’
The train drew slowly into the station. Across the other side of the platform the second train stood waiting with all its doors open. The Tannoy sounded again, the driver apologising for the inconvenience and instructing the passengers to move directly to the other train. Webb watched McCauley. McCauley was looking at the girl alongside him.
In the platform control room Vanner stood with Graves while Graves spoke into his PX handset. ‘Stand by,’ he said. ‘Stand by.’ Vanner watched as the first carriages rolled past. One, two, three, and then the fourth. It rolled beyond the window and came to a halt just before the stairs.
On the train Webb stroked his moustache. ‘Train stopped,’ he said quietly into the phone. ‘First passengers getting off. He’s not moving. He’s still not moving.’ McCauley got up as the girl in the window seat moved past him. He pressed himself close to her and looked up and down the carriage. His eyes alighted on Webb. Webb lowered the phone and stood up. McCauley was looking out of the window. Webb spoke again. ‘Moving, almost on the platform, black jeans, blue sweatshirt. He’s got a girl very close to him. Possible Yankee.’
In the control room Vanner stared at the doors of the fourth carriage. Graves was speaking to his men. ‘Stand by, possible hostage situation. Caution. Stand by. Stand by.’
Vanner saw McCauley step off the train, the girl in front of him. ‘There,’ he said to Graves.
‘Steps,’ Graves said. ‘Colin. Jimmy. Your man. Stand by.’
Webb stepped off the train. ‘He’s behind the girl, black jeans, blue sweat top.’
‘Eyeballed,’ Graves said in his ear.
All at once McCauley looked right and saw two armed policemen on the steps. He grabbed the girl by the throat and dragged her against him.
‘Yankee,’ Graves said.
McCauley had dropped the bag and as he did so he brought up a gun and pushed it against the girl’s cheek. He stared straight at the two policemen.
‘Back off,’ he shouted.
The rest of the passengers were moving towards the other train. Some of them looked round, a woman screamed and people started running.
‘Shit,’ Graves said and stepped onto the platform.
The SFO men were speaking to McCauley. ‘Put the gun down, James. There’s nowhere for you to go. Armed police everywhere.’
James was looking about him, sweat on his face, lips drawn back from his teeth. George Webb stood fifteen feet from him and their eyes met.
‘Put it down, James,’ Webb said. ‘Let her go.’
McCauley stepped back toward the train. ‘Back off. All of you. Back off or I’ll kill her.’
The two SFO men had their carbines trained on his head. Graves was watching them, watching him. The girl was silent, tears on her face, hair pushed up against McCauley’s chest, his arm locked about her throat, shielding his body with hers.
‘Put it down, James,’ Webb said. ‘It’s over.’
McCauley lifted one foot behind him seeking for the step to the train; the girl almost fell but he held her. Vanner watched from the door of the control room. He saw James McCauley and he saw the girl and he saw an innocent woman bleeding on the pavement in the rain. He touched Graves on the shoulder and stepped past him.
‘Stand by,’ Graves said into the radio.
Vanner walked slowly towards McCauley. Webb saw him and squinted. Vanner walked on, fists balled at his sides. McCauley had not seen him. He was pushed back into the doorway of the train. Vanner walked on, aware of his footfall, twenty yards, fifteen, ten.
‘JAMES!’ he suddenly shouted. James saw him and stumbled and as he did so the girl half-pulled away from him. From the bottom step the armed officer shot him.
He fell back, face exploding, the girl was spattered with warm blood and now she screamed a high-pitched wailing sound that lifted and lifted. McCauley fell against the train and bounced off the door before crumbling onto the platform. The gun rattled off concrete and settled.
Vanner turned away. He could hear the screaming; the screams of men, the screams of women. He saw the woman he had shot falling away from him and people diving for cover in the rain. He crouched, fingers pressed into the concrete. From his pocket he took a cigarette and lit it with wavering hands.
The smoke burned his throat. Somebody moved alongside him. ‘He’s dead, Guv’nor,’ Webb said. ‘So is she, George.’ Vanner spoke without looking up.
Vanner stood in the living room of his empty house listening to the rain on the window. He leaned against the empty fireplace with a glass of whiskey in his hand and stared at the photograph of his father. CIB had interviewed him. There were witnesses. They had heard his shouts, but an innocent woman was still dead and he knew all about James McCauley’s pain. Ulster and a rain-filled night and the members of Cl-ZG Squad all about him. Lights and blue tape and Quinlon dead in his shirt sleeves with his face buried in water. The past. The present. The future. He stared at his father again, wondering how he would face things without him. Not a gun but a slim leather-bound umbrella half in, half out of a bag. Rain and people and traffic. The clothes were the same, the hair. And then McCauley looking down on him while he lay prostrate in the rain with his face pushed into concrete.
A car drew up outside and he went to the window. George Webb got out and came around to the passenger side. He opened the door and Ellie got out with her bag. She looked drawn and pale in the fall of light from the street lamp. Vanner felt something tear inside him.
His heart began to thump as she climbed the steps. He looked at Webb. Webb looked at him and then got back in the car. Her key in the door, the terrible ache in his gut. The whiskey was suddenly sour in his mouth and he placed the glass on the mantelpiece. The front door opened, closed again and then silence. He stood where he was and then looked up as she appeared, tiny and frail and frightened in the doorway. The bag looked heavy in her hands. He looked at her. She looked back at him. He did not speak.
‘They told me what happened,’ she said.
He nodded.
�
�Is she dead?’
He nodded again.
She sighed then very heavily, closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door frame.
Vanner looked at the glass he had placed on the mantelpiece.
‘What’ll happen to you?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I shot an innocent woman.’
‘George said you shouted the correct warning.’
‘I did. But it didn’t make any difference. Maybe she didn’t hear me.’
‘But if you shouted you did the right thing didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘We’ll have to see, Ellie.’
Still she stood there. Still she held the bag, then she straightened and turned and went out through the door. Vanner heard her feet on the stairs. He followed her into the hall.
‘Ellie.’
She stopped on the first landing and looked down at him.
‘Are you going to pack your things?’
She stared at him, face very still. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
Acknowledgments
In researching this novel the author was accorded access to various units and specialist operations of the Metropolitan Police Service. He would like to thank those officers concerned for their assistance and confidence.
A special thanks to Andrew Seed, for the fag packet notes in Eureka
About the Author
Jeff Gulvin is the author of nine novels and is currently producing a new series set in the American West. His previous titles include three books starring maverick detective Aden Vanner and another three featuring FBI agent Harrison, as well as two novels originally published under the pseudonym Adam Armstrong, his great-grandfather’s name. He received acclaim for ghostwriting Long Way Down, the prize-winning account of a motorcycle trip from Scotland to the southern tip of Africa by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. The breadth of Gulvin’s fiction is vast, and his style has been described as commercial with just the right amount of literary polish. His stories range from hard-boiled crime to big-picture thriller to sweeping romance.
Half English and half Scottish, Gulvin has always held a deep affection for the United States. He and his wife spend as much time in America as possible, particularly southern Idaho, their starting point for road-trip research missions to Nevada, Texas, or Louisiana, depending on where the next story takes them.
