The Sweeney 01

by Ian Kennedy-Martin

  He stuck his head in the window, his hand holding the gun straight out m front of him. He saw the redheaded man, carbine in his hand, turn. But the carbine was held loose. And the red-haired man saw Regan and knew there was no hope. The red-haired man looked back and down at his dead companion, the blood-smashed face unrecognizable, and he was stunned. Perhaps not even aware that Regan was pointing a gun at him. Perhaps not even aware of Regan, as he stepped over the windowsill, across the broken glass, and prised the M64 carbine from the man’s hand.

  Regan turned to Ewing, who was studying the scene from the window. ‘Christ, don’t stand there! Tell Maynon to call them off! This is the moment we get shot by mistake!’

  Ewing carefully withdrew his head.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Regan asked the red-haired man.

  The red-haired man turned his head and for the first time really looked at Regan. And Regan knew certain things from the look. First, that this was Declan Murray. Second, that he was not going to talk. And third, that the whole case now rested on making him talk.

  Maynon chose the dining room of the farmhouse for the gathering. Patchin and his men came in from Bath Headquarters. Also some senior, unidentified, Bath and Wells CID personnel.

  Maynon sat at the top of a fifteen-foot long oak refectory table. Some sat in upright wooden chairs — there were about a dozen chairs. Others stood around fidgeting. Maynon said nothing until the stage had been cleared — the photographing of the dead policeman and the two suspects completed, and the bodies taken off by ambulance. Then he set the stage. Six men were placed on the approach road out front, another three covered the rear — all armed and ready to grab unexpected visitors.

  Nobody seemed anxious to hustle events. It was now four o’clock in the afternoon — the policemen’s faces resigned, as if they really didn’t expect the meeting to get off the ground until six.

  Regan studied Patchin. Patchin had said not one word since he’d arrived at the farmhouse. He must obviously be pleased that Declan Murray was now in custody but also he’d be livid at Maynon for losing the two others. He would be on about that for the rest of his life — that if he’d been in charge, he would’ve got all three alive. Patchin’s silence was also the reaction to a dead copper — one that Patchin knew as vaguely as did Regan — and the copper had been in Regan’s Flying Squad lot. But witnessing or being in the proximity of the death of a policeman on duty — the identification — had a brutalizing effect on the emotions. Patchin was also quiet because he was thinking, like everybody else assembled there, about revenge — that two suspect police killers were dead, but there was one who could still be punished.

  Declan Murray had been placed inside a police car parked out of sight inside the byre. Sergeant Carter and another sergeant from Cawder’s lot, guarding him. Carter, who was armed with a Smith and Wesson, was also given a Remington.

  Regan studied the rear of the squat head. Patchin was sitting on a wooden chair midway between himself and Maynon, facing Maynon, back to Regan. Regan summed it up: the danger area in this room at this meeting was Patchin but, curiously, events had got so out of hand that Patchin might not give trouble. All right, raise objections that would be recorded in the minutes that would be written by a DI from Cawder’s section. But give no trouble here in the farmhouse, because he was going to flay Maynon alive at the official enquiry which would happen within days.

  ‘I don’t want to spend a lot of time in useless talk. We have to clean up and clear off these premises as fast as possible. I wanted you all here to see this house — to see the difficulties we had assaulting it, and grabbing Murray. There will doubtless be an enquiry and some of you will be witnesses.’ Maynon turned and addressed Patchin. ‘I’ve just made a number of phone calls. One to your superior, Superintendent Mirren. He’s agreed that Murray is possibly the most important find ever — and it does look as if this farmhouse is some kind of centre — and that others of the IRA Provos may turn up here.’

  Patchin studied his police notebook, didn’t look up at Maynon, made a couple of notes with a Bic.

  ‘I’ve also obtained the co-operation of the Bath and Wells Constabulary to take the unusual course of helping us to stage a fake accident on the M4. They will then issue reports that three men, one identified by driving licence as Declan Murray, have been killed in this accident.’

  ‘What’s that about?’ Patchin asked, and paused, and added: ‘... sir?’

  ‘It means, Mr. Patchin, that we in the Flying Squad have evidence that Declan Murray and associates planned an important robbery, probably in London, using a group of people the rest of whom we would like to get into custody. If they learn that Murray’s in police custody, they may take to their heels and we may never see ‘em again. If they think he was killed in a car crash, they may remain in England long enough for us to interrogate Murray. And the information we get from Murray may secure their arrests.’

  ‘A fake car crash? A little elaborate when the chances of getting information out of Murray are slim. Correct? Well, that’s what I think.’

  ‘It’s what your superior officer thinks that matters, Mr. Patchin,’ Maynon said quietly. ‘He agrees with me. There’s a large Job being drafted somewhere. We want our hands on the potential robbers. It’s possible that they won’t disappear in a puff of smoke if they see in the papers a photo of a wrecked car, and are convinced that their three compatriots lost their lives in a simple accident.’

  ‘I understood that the first time you explained it Superintendent,’ Patchin said gently, obviously anticipating now that the enquiry into the Islade Farm deaths, whenever it happened, would find against Maynon. That meant any charges of insolence or insubordination that Maynon wanted to bring, say against Patchin, would be dismissed. Patchin pressed on.

  ‘What makes you think, Superintendent, that you can hide the news of the death of your detective sergeant for days, weeks, perhaps months? What about his parents for instance? Or the Press?’

  ‘The operation of the IRA Provos is classified as a matter of national security and a D-notice will cover this affair and silence the Press. I think I’ve had enough questions from you, Mr Patchin, especially as some of these answers are self-evident to us in the Flying Squad. If we tell the parents of Detective Sergeant Ross that in order to get the criminal associates of his murderers they must keep his death quiet for a while, they will do so. Our men in the Flying Squad are of the highest calibre — we tend to find that their parents reflect these qualities.’

  Regan was struck by the irrelevance and emptiness of it all. Maynon and Patchin were now making speeches really for the sergeant who was taking the minutes of the meeting — quotes for the coming enquiry. Regan looked around. He’d been aware that Ewing had been present for the first minutes of the meeting, but then, guessing that it was descending into recriminations and backbiting, had quietly stepped out. Regan now followed suit.

  He came out of the front door of the farmhouse and headed for the byre. He couldn’t see the eight coppers who were probably watching him as he strode towards the byre. They, and colleagues to relieve them, would be stuck out there under bush and tree cover for weeks, perhaps, waiting to grab others of the gang or anybody who so much as turned a car off the road and into the drive of the farmhouse. Something was wrong. Regan quickened his pace to a run. He could see Len to the left of the byre tinkering inside the raised bonnet of the wrecked Rover. He could see the hole in the byre wall. But he could see no car, no Carter, no Declan Murray in the byre. Just the other detective sergeant sitting on a heap of rubble having a covert smoke.

  Regan ran in through the gap in the byre wall. ‘Where are they?’ he shouted.

  The young sergeant jackknifed to his feet. ‘Who, sir?’

  The prisoner Murray, and Sergeant Carter — who the fuck else?’

  The young sergeant instantly realized that something was wrong. ‘The American came …’

  ‘Lieutenant Ewing?’

  ‘I think Serge
ant Carter called him Ewing. He said Mr. Maynon’s orders were to proceed to London. They went off –’

  ‘Ewing, Carter, the suspect Murray — the three went off in the car?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Regan’s heart sank. He saw with appalling clarity that Ewing had to steal Murray, and that he, Regan, should have realized this. And he knew exactly what Ewing intended to do with Murray.

  Regan sat alone in his office at one end of Squad Office, Maynon alone in his office at the other end, near the Reserve Room. They hadn’t talked since Islade Farm. Haskins had gone off somewhere. Everybody else kept clear. Phone callers were told to call back later. It was ten-fifteen. Neither Regan nor Maynon had eaten. Len had wordlessly brought Regan a coffee. No one had dared go near Maynon. Ewing or Carter would either phone or just walk in. Nothing to be done until that happened. Regan sat looking out of the window into the black and rain of the London night, mind racing, chain-smoking, going over all the facets of the cock-up this afternoon. The unnecessary deaths, the indecision, no person to blame but Maynon to shoulder all responsibility. But actually they’d want more heads than just Maynon’s. Perhaps some votes for Regan. And that wonderful finale, the unthinkable finale — two lunatics out there with Declan Murray. Sergeant Carter, ludicrously ambitious, deciding in his omnipotence that, yes, he would be the Sweeney representative on the scene when Murray divulged all. But what a risk to take. When you kick somebody around, occasionally they die. Or the other possibility: Declan Murray might well turn the tables on both of them.

  Regan could well visualize how it had happened. The tall American walking into the byre, taking Carter aside and putting it to him. What were the chances of getting Murray to talk under the soft soap, Geneva Convention, jokey, white as the driven snow, British Police interrogation methods? None. At the same time, Murray had to talk. At the same time, there were methods whereby Murray might respond to questioning. Results could be got, whereby a man like Ewing, who was after all just a tourist, could wring the appropriate confession out of Murray, from no co-operation to a flood of words. And Carter would just simply have to be present, and take it all down. But out of that it might suddenly become Carter’s case, and no longer Regan’s.

  Regan shouted to one of his sergeants, Walmesly, on the other side of the partition wall. ‘Terry. Anything in the hospitality cupboard?’

  Walmesly entered the office carrying a bunch of keys. The keys were usually with the Duty Officer who this week was Haskins. Haskins — a rare chink of humanity in an otherwise impervious exterior — always gave the hospitality cupboard keys to Regan’s sergeant. The sergeant opened the cupboard and displayed the remnants of three bottles of scotch, one of gin, and a very large bottle full of something.

  ‘What’s that great thing?’

  The sergeant studied it. ‘Half imperial gallon of Old Grandad the FBI sent for our half-hour’s work on the Siranem case.’

  ‘I’ll have a small scotch.’ Regan did partake of Old Grandad on occasions — it was just that he felt cool about any form of American police institution at the moment.

  By midnight Regan was worried. He wondered what Maynon’s state was. At eleven, Sergeant Walmesly had come back into Regan’s office, given Regan a wink and a nod back towards Maynon’s part of the world, and opened the hospitality cupboard again. He took out a half-bottle of gin and three bottles of tonic.

  At twenty minutes past midnight Maynon walked in.

  Regan looked up at his ice cold eyes. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Ewing just dropped in to my office for a few minutes.’

  Regan made to get up. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Gone. He left a typed report.’

  ‘A report?’

  ‘Declan Murray’s coughed up. Everything. He’s talked about Purcell. Names and all details of a planned bank raid. The lot.’

  ‘Where’s Murray?’

  ‘Why?

  ‘Where’s Declan Murray?’ Regan’s voice sharp and hard.

  Mayon shrugged off his responsibility. ‘Middlesex Hospital.’

  ‘Why the fuck is he in hospital?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Where’s this report?’

  ‘You won’t be reading it. Haskins put you on the case when it was concerned solely with the death of an ex-snout of yours. Now it’s something different. I’m taking you off the case.’

  Regan’s face couldn’t conceal his contempt.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Carter will now...’ Maynon started to say. But Regan was already heading for the door.

  ‘Jack Regan!’ The sharpness of Maynon’s voice stopped him. ‘You always justified the way you blustered and bullied your way round Squad Office by saying you got results. Well, you haven’t done it in this case. Carter has.’

  Regan walked out and slammed the door hard enough for fifty detectives around Squad Office to wonder for a few seconds if a small bomb had gone off. Then they decided it hadn’t, and resumed their work.

  ‘Right arm fractured, two places. Jaw fractured, two places. The fingers of one hand crushed. Index fingers and thumb broken. Lacerations and bruising on face. His head injuries are serious, actually — he’s badly concussed. He’s in shock.’ The young Registrar of the Middlesex Hospital studied Regan sceptically. ‘The Detective Sergeant "Castle" or something...’ He’d forgotten the name.

  ‘Carter.’

  ‘Carter, yes the one who brought him in said the man Declan Murray had been in a car accident. He looked at Regan for his confirmation. Regan said nothing.

  The young doctor’s eyes went down to the Accident Department’s Diagnostic Card on the desk in front of him. ‘I’ve seen the victims of a hundred car accidents, Inspector. They’re our stock in trade. This man’s injuries weren’t caused by a car accident.’

  ‘I have to speak to him urgently.’ Regan looked at his watch as if minutes counted. In fact he’d lost track of time. It was one-thirty in the morning.

  ‘The earliest you’ll speak to him is tomorrow midday. Another thing,’ the young doctor was playing it cool, ‘if this unfortunate man Murray was in a car accident, why is it that PC Ridge Taylor, one of our local bobbies, is sitting in the men’s ward with a revolver lying in his lap?’ Then he dropped his voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘May I ask you a private question?’ He paused for effect. ‘What’s this fucking country coming to?’

  Too many scenes like this, thought Regan. I’ve been in too many hospitals taking too much stick from too many young doctors for too long. And many of them right, like this bloke tonight. But that wasn’t the point. I’m getting old, thought Regan, that’s the point. And tonight they are trying to write me off, and substitute the name ‘Carter’. Well, not yet — he’d be giving them and Carter a few more headaches before they wrote him off.

  He timed his return to the Yard for three am dead on. He told Len to go home, and that he’d get a cab. Len drove off.

  Regan showed his ident to the two security sergeants on the doors, and took one of them aside. ‘Maynon, DCI Haskins — gone?’

  ‘The Chief Inspector went at midnight. Superintendent Maynon about five minutes ago.’

  Regan headed for the row of lifts.

  Detective Chief Inspector George Heller had his feet up on his desk and was practising the art of putative sleep, real sleep that could be snapped out of in a second if something went wrong. Heller was a DCI of forty-three, two years off retirement, tough, and trusted by everyone. Regan gave a perfunctory knock on the door. Heller’s eyes came open wearily.

  ‘Guv, did the Day Duty Officer, Chief Inspector Haskins, give you the keys when he went off?’

  ‘Why, Jack?’

  Regan could see the bunch of keys on the desk in front of Heller.

  ‘Did he mention I could have a shufti at some "scene of crime" photos from the safe in his room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Funny,’ Regan acted surprised. ‘Anyhow I need the keys to his safe,’


  ‘Grab,’ Heller said, sitting back in his chair rearranging his feel on the desk-top.

  Regan turned to the door.

  ‘Jack, you’re lying to me.’ Heller’s cool eyes fixed on him unwavering for a moment. Then the left eye produced a wink. ‘You want those keys to poke about a bit. You don’t have to lie to me. Jack. I root for you against Carter or any other of those young shits. I’m on your side, Jack, ‘cos in the final analysis you’re a harder bastard than this whole shower put together. That I hand you as a fact.’

  Regan nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, guv,’ he said, and walked out.

  Heller closed his eyes and was asleep.

  He found it, not in Haskins’, but in Maynon’s safe. Pinned to the top of the report was a note to Maynon’s secretary. "Xerox one copy, forward to Head of Bomb Squad by nine am latest.’