The Sweeney 01

by Ian Kennedy-Martin

  Tanya talked, but Regan was recalling another voice. Chief Inspector Pirie Taylor, probably the only man who had ever meant anything to him on Squad. Taylor was a man of forty-five who looked sixty. He had a face that had been lived in at least three times. Taylor worked alone, lived alone, drank alone. He had died in a POLAC on the Ml chasing some bugger for no good reason. The squad car had blown out on the front offside tyre and had gone into a bridge upright. Taylor had commented to young, newly married, Detective Sergeant Regan, "Why did you get married son? What the hell have you got to offer a woman? Except "maybe"? Maybe be home tonight, maybe see you tomorrow night, maybe see the kids, maybe take a holiday. Women are social animals. They need a man around. If you stay in Flying Squad, you’re not available.’

  The story of his marriage and now the story from Tanya’s lips. Pirie Taylor would have smiled. Tanya was saying, ‘For instance, why did you not phone me and take me for the meal John took me to? You two are on the same case. Why did he have time to call and take me out, and not you? I mean the reason’s obvious.’

  ‘What?’ He asked mildly. ‘You’re not that daft to think I’ve got another girl?’

  ‘No.’ She protested with a kind of hopeless shrug. ‘The opposite. You don’t even have the time John Ewing found for me. You certainly don’t have time for two women. Except maybe the famous seven minutes with a tart. And you would be studying your watch.’

  She’d worked the whole thing out. Now his role was apparently to listen and maybe at the end agree to split, or stay together. He didn’t know.

  ‘I’ve asked you a specific question — will you answer? Why, if you and John Ewing are on the same case, sharing the same work equally, could he have time to take me out, and not you?’

  ‘I went to bed, ten o’clock, to try and catch up some sleep.’

  ‘John Ewing didn’t.’

  ‘I know he didn’t. He was banging you.’

  Her eyes flashing anger. ‘I don’t think that’s funny.’ She snapped it out.

  He was nodding. ‘I don’t think it’s funny, either. I’ll tell you something — and this I think is where it all goes wrong. I thought that you cared, not loved, cared. Enough for me to have a certain confidence in you. The confidence, say, to take a night off, get some sleep. That’s a possible definition of love — confidence. And when that’s gone, the whole thing, the lousy house of cards that everybody lives in, caves in…’

  She wasn’t following his words and he knew it wasn’t her English or lack of it, it was her decision.

  ‘And I know something else. You screwed Ewing to get at me. You knew you’d failed to make me want you enough to elbow the job. But you always looked for the test. Then the perfect one. Two blokes, equal billing, on the same case. Why could John Ewing phone you up and not me? Answer? Because you’re a whore. And that makes it a lot easier for me to forget you. I’ve known a lot of whores in my life. I’ve forgotten every bloody one of them.’

  She stopped walking and talking. Her eyes started to fill with tears. They’d reached the Marble Arch gate. Twenty yards away he saw an empty cab in the traffic. He signalled the driver. The driver saluted back. He left her standing by a flowerbed and walked to the cab without a backward glance.

  ‘I hit her twice. Once on the side of the head. Once on the jaw,’ Ewing said the moment he opened the door at 15 Blenhurst Mansions. Regan stepped past him.

  ‘Here, wait.’

  Regan could hear a low moan coming from the bedroom. He halted and turned.

  ‘She delivered the goods,’ Ewing said gently, as if it justified and dismissed his action.

  ‘Goods?’

  ‘Like she really thinks her boyfriend’s abroad but she’s come up with an address of a farm north of Bath. She says all his IRA pals stay there.’

  ‘You think that’s the truth?’

  ‘I am confident that she decided to tell me the truth.’

  She was sitting hunched up on the bed, moaning into a Kleenex, about the tenth Kleenex she’d used. The rest were on the floor by her feet, each soaked in blood. The white nylon eiderdown on the top of the bed stained every square foot with some smear of blood. Regan wasn’t shocked because of that. He’d seen, in his experience, people lose more than a pint of blood from a split lip. He was shocked by the calculated callousness of it.

  She looked up. She remembered him as the Squad Detective from the night club interview. ‘You fucking shit-head,’ she said, a blood trickle on her lips. ‘How could you let this maniac loose, you fucking Sweeney bastard...?’

  Regan turned to Ewing and lifted an index finger, gesturing the American to follow him out into the hall. Once out of sight of the girl, Regan turned and steam-hammered his right fist round to hit Ewing in the solar plexus. The blow never connected. Ewing’s right arm came across, and his body slid sideways and Regan went spinning, his blow fended off and reduced to total ineffectuality.

  Regan was amazed by the speed of the big American’s reaction. He stood there. It was obviously pointless to throw a second punch.

  ‘What was that about?’ Ewing said softly.

  Regan took his time to answer. ‘You hit the spade too hard. That wasn’t the agreement. You fucked my love life — a whore called Tanya — that wasn’t the arrangement.’ But he didn’t know where the hell to take it from there. ‘What’s the address of the farm?’

  ‘Islade Farm, Hamnett, near Bath,’ the American’s cold eyes on Regan, his finger-tips touching the area of his jacket sleeve where he’d fended Regan’s blow.

  ‘We take the spade down to Notting Hill nick, charge her — I don’t like the irony — with assaulting you in your civilian capacity as a fucking tourist. You probably have a slight bruise on your arm from brushing off my blow...’ Regan turned back to head into the bedroom and collect Martha.

  Ewing’s hand came down on his shoulder and Regan spun round expecting the punch. But Ewing just stood there. He took a few moments to carefully phrase the words. ‘I have to warn you,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t ever try to hit me again for any reason. Don’t ever lay a hand on me. Understood?’

  ‘The need won’t arise," Regan said hard. ‘The next time you piss me about I’ll get a gun and blow your fucking head off!

  ‘They’re not getting on,’ DC Haskins told Superintendent Maynon. Not at all well, I’m delighted to say.’

  They were in Maynon’s office. Maynon was cleaning out his pipe with a penknife and wire brush, the thorough, once a month, overhaul. ‘Roger, you’re skating around. What are you saying about Ewing’s usefulness reference Regan? And would you say it in words of one syllable.’

  Haskins took a moment considering the simplest way. ‘I think we can make Regan obey orders, be part of a team, discipline him, teach him a permanent lesson, through the agency of this Yank.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ve made them partners. I think it’ll be an unholy partnership, and make appalling mistakes. If the mistakes are appalling enough, we boot Regan out of Flying Squad. If not, we threaten him with endless disciplinary action unless he settles and stops the general cavalier behaviour which has become his stock in trade. Ewing is the catalyst for breaking Regan down into useful and manageable components.’

  Maynon began to fill his pipe. His expression as he digested Haskins’ ideas seemed unsure. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  Regan and Ewing walked into the conference at one pm. By then there were about twenty men in Maynon’s office. Regan sat down and his eyes went round the faces. Most of them he knew well, some were just vaguely familiar. This type of meeting happened often enough but there was always that slight shock when an investigation suddenly threw up something, and in came the heavy brigade. Regan and Ewing had been quietly investigating a dead snout, and some vague connections with West Coast, USA, and they had been setting their own pace. Now an address of a farm north of Bath had turned up that could be HQ for the leader of the IRA provos in England. Suddenly a lot of large grim men crowding
into this office. Regan knew that this meeting was going to be a fifteen-round heavyweight wrestling competition and the prize was the case, and the challenger was the Bomb Squad, and the title at the moment was held by the Flying Squad. But that meant nothing.

  Maynon stood up behind his desk. ‘There’s a DCI in Bath and Wells CID. Name of Minshaw. Worked under me for years here at Squad. One hundred per cent reliable. I’ve talked to him. He’s gone to this farm address to keep an eye on it. If there’s any kind of exodus before our operation, he’ll call in his CID lot.’

  A disapproving sound coming from a large baldheaded man — DCI Patchin, Bomb Squad. Patchin now leant forward and started to voice his doubts. ‘Guvnor, I’m deeply disturbed about this. Declan Murray and his associates are obviously and exclusively our province, certainly to the extent that we carry their files and have had, for three months now, a warrant for Murray’s arrest. We’re delighted your people have turned up this address. Assuming this farmhouse is some sort of centre, and terrorists are holing out there — I’m sorry, but we were first on the Murray case. It will, of course, be our province to plan raid strategy.’

  Maynon said nothing. Patchin’s argument was basically sound if Bomb Squad had opened the case file on Murray first and had a warrant out. Maynon was waiting for somebody else to disagree with Patchin.

  Regan studied Haskins. There was a pecking order. Haskins as Squad DCI should answer DCI Patchin. But Haskins was sitting there looking sour, as if he’d been deprived of breakfast this morning and now, because of the timing of this meeting, was going to lose his lunch.

  Regan waded in. ‘I have some observations, sir,’

  Maynon nodded.

  ‘I’d say if one were to characterize our work on the Flying Squad, it’s gathering information, and carrying out raids. Equally I’d characterize the Bomb Squad as very good people who rush around searching Left Luggage Offices, and organizing the military to unknit gelignite from alarm clocks. Or who are very good at TV interviews when the bombs have gone off before the Bomb Squad got to them.’

  He could see the colour begin to rise on Patchin’s neck. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Regan?’ Patchin’s voice hard. That sounds fucking insolent to me.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Maynon’s voice acid, ‘I’d like to make the point that arms will probably be used in this raid. Chief Inspector Patchin, I think you’ll agree that the Squad has a higher percentage of grade marksmen.’

  ‘And if the Squad cocks it up?’ Patchin queried. ‘Then everyone will want to know why the Sweeney was dabbling in IRA affairs on a case that was already established as a Bomb Squad case.’

  Ewing tapped Regan on the shoulder. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘There are other people interested in the IRA. Everybody and his mother is looking for promotion.’

  Ewing didn’t understand. He was studying the back of Patchin’s head which was wagging to emphasize the points he was making. And he was talking about Mavor and Declan Murray and Martha Williams, and it did sound as if it was Patchin’s case all along and somehow the Flying Squad had stumbled on to it.

  ‘What exactly is he trying to do?’ Ewing making no attempt to keep his voice low.

  ‘Patchin wants the raid and the Big Arrest,’ Regan replied.

  ‘You mean we could get the squeeze. We might not be there?’

  ‘It’s possible. Patchin has to be talked out of it — that’s Maynon’s job — otherwise he may go over Maynon’s head.’

  ‘Look, there’s no time to fuck about,’ Ewing said firmly.

  Regan turned his back on Ewing and studied Maynon standing behind his desk, listening to the Patchin monologue, hiding so well his impatience. Eyes flickering for one second across the faces, and meeting Regan’s.

  Regan cut straight across Patchin summing up some argument. ‘My opinion, sir, is that it has to be simple, small, competent numbers. It sounds as if Mr Patchin is trying to organize a charabanc party-’

  ‘Shut your bloody mouth, Regan!’ Patchin snapped.

  ‘I have to interrupt you twice, Mr Patchin, sir. Our American friend here has pointed out there is a slight element of urgency-’

  ‘What d’you mean, American friend? What does that mean?’

  Regan turned round automically in Ewing’s direction. Ewing had gone.

  Haskins stepped in. ‘What makes this a Bomb Squad case? It’s a Gloucester CID Murder Squad case relating to the Mavor murder. The Flying Squad are also involved because Mavor was once a career informer of ours. I fail to see any connection with the Bomb Squad until we physically discover a bunch of IRA micks in the raid area.’

  That started Patchin up again, and louder. Regan looked at his watch. He couldn’t walk out of this meeting like Ewing, because his voice was needed. The meeting was critical. If everything went well on the farm then it didn’t matter, but if there was a foul up, and normal practice was to plan for the possibility of things going wrong, then there would be an enquiry afterwards. The key question at any enquiry would be how was the raid set up, who were the command group, and why?

  Regan was worried. Patchin was really digging his heels in. Declan Murray might die of old age before this argument was resolved. It was going to take time to resolve. Regan could see there was now a distinct possibility that he, Ewing, and the Flying Squad, were going to lose the case to Patchin.

  Len settled the Rover 3500 down to just under a hundred and ten.

  As the Squad car shot past the airport spur on the M4, and into the Thames Valley constabulary, a white traffic Landrover with two astonished uniformed coppers pulled out and gave chase and got within about a half mile of them. Then Len gave three blasts on the Winkworth gong, and the Landrover dropped behind and disappeared. Only the Flying Squad had Winkworth gongs fitted to their Q-cars. Regan could imagine the gist of the conversation of the two in the white Landrover. ‘Fucking Sweeney, who do they think they are?’

  London to Bath took one hour fourteen minutes. Then they were turning right off the Lower Bristol Road and heading up past Royal Crescent, and then left along Weston Road and on to the B4421 towards Bristol. A mile along that Len made a righthander.

  ISLADE 1/2 MILE. Len indicated the signpost almost obscured by a small tree. He slowed the Rover down now, in the mud lanes. He didn’t want to drive straight into Islade Farm. There was DCI Minshaw of Bath CID to find, the whole set-up to be discussed with him, and his local knowledge absorbed. Like all busts, the important plan is not the assault on a house, farmhouse, whatever, it’s the contingency plan if it goes amiss — when a house is rushed in order to grab a killer with a shot-gun, and it’s discovered too late that he’s got hold of six schoolchildren as hostages.

  They found an empty Austin Allegro parked by the side of the road, one indicator, the nearside one, flashing. It was a standard issue station car, presumably Minshaw’s -the indicator blinking to draw the attention of the approaching party from London,

  Regan signalled to Len to pull over, and got out of the car fast. He headed up the fifty-yard incline towards the point where the road disappeared over a small hill. There was a line of bushes and trees crowning the hill. A man came through the trees. He had the cut of a plain clothes country copper: Harris tweed jacket, Viyella shirt, dark tweed tie, olive green trousers, but regular police issue black shoes. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Regan — Flying Squad.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Minshaw.’ He extended a hand for a perfunctory shake, then swung the hand to indicate the area left of the road beyond the hill. ‘The farmhouse, just over the top — about twenty yards. I’ve seen two men.’

  ‘Could there be others?’

  ‘Could be fifty, it’s a big place, perhaps fifteen rooms.’

  ‘Description of the men, sir?’

  Minshaw described them. One could’ve been Declan Murray. Maybe. Maybe not. Neither was Purcell. ‘Tell me how you city gents think you’re going to handle this?’

/>   Regan told him how the London lot would be organized. He didn’t tell him about the two-hour meeting in Maynon’s office which had ended in an all-out row and Maynon pulling rank on Patchin. Patchin had gone off and tried to locate by phone one of his own superintendents, and had failed to do so. He had then no alternative but to accept Maynon’s orders: Patchin and his members of the Bomb Squad to go to Bath CID and wait it out there; Regan, Carter, another DS from Regan’s squad, Hille, and another complete squad under Inspector Cawder — ten men — to go to the farm, armed. Also, two uniformed sharpshooters. Also Superintendent Maynon. Eight cars, all to make their own way to Bath, or to the farm as quickly as possible.

  Len and Regan knew they had a head start of ten minutes at least. Regan had signed out a Smith and Wesson .38 before the meeting, anticipating events. All the other coppers there had to find the armourer, fill in and sign forms, before setting off on the journey.