by Tony Kent
Henry’s eyes widened. It was not just the weight on his chest that was now causing him to swallow fearfully.
‘You wouldn’t allow that to happen.’ The certainty of his words was betrayed by his faltering voice. ‘You’d never hand me over to the Americans. I’m a British citizen.’
‘So are half the orange suits in Guantanamo. And how do you think they got there? You really think we don’t jump when the US tells us too? Believe me, I’ve seen it.’
‘But I . . . I can’t . . .’
‘There are no “buts”. Either you speak to me or you speak to them. Your choice.’
This time Henry listened to every word. And to the obvious truth behind them. Rumours had circulated for years about the British government’s complicity in ‘extraordinary rendition’; the process of taking enemies of the United States to neutral countries not bound by inconveniences like the Geneva Convention. It was clear to Dempsey that Henry was terrified of betraying his employer. But that fear could not compete with the prospect of a hood and God-knows-what torture in a secret US prison.
Henry’s gaze moved up from the floor, towards Dempsey.
‘OK. OK. What do you want to know?’
Dempsey needed just one word.
‘Who?’
FORTY
‘I don’t know. You’ve got to believe me, I don’t. I just know that he calls himself Stanton.’
‘If you don’t know him, how did you become involved? How do you get paid?’
‘I don’t get paid. It isn’t like that.’
Henry reached out and took a mouthful of water from the glass Dempsey had provided. He was a beaten man. Dempsey had removed the chair from his chest and allowed him to get to his feet. They now sat across from one another, surrounded by what was left of the shattered glass table.
Henry continued.
‘They – he – contacted me about three years ago. I was in trouble. My wife had left me, I was gambling and I got in a lot of debt to some very heavy people. Real debt. Nearly a quarter of a million. It just spiralled, and then suddenly these guys were asking for favours. Asking for evidence to disappear. For other officers’ details. I had to do it. I had to do what they asked or I’d have lost my job and they’d have come for me.’
Dempsey did not respond.
‘Then suddenly they stopped. They stopped contacting me. They stopped chasing their money. They just disappeared and I tried to put it behind me. I tried to get on and rebuild my life. Then he called. Stanton.
‘Stanton told me that he had taken over the debt and that he would want one favour in return, then we’d be square. I was over the moon, you know. A bit worried about what the favour might be, but one and gone? It was more than I could hope for. So I asked him what the favour was and he said we’d discuss it when the time came. That was that. I didn’t hear from him again until a month ago.’
Dempsey stirred in his seat. What he was hearing was troublesome.
‘This was three years ago?’ Dempsey asked. ‘This Stanton guy bought your debt three years ago but didn’t call it in until last month? Were you working as the custody sergeant at Paddington Green three years ago?’
‘I was. I’ve been there five years.’
‘So what did Stanton say when he contacted you last month?’
‘Just that I had to make sure I was working on the day of the event. Nothing else. Just make sure I was on duty. Then, as the day came nearer, he contacted me again and he told me to make sure no officers had access to any prisoners that night. To keep the prisoners away from anyone else. I told him it was impossible but he said it would be easy enough on the night. Well, actually what he said was that it almost certainly wouldn’t come up and that he’d contact me on the day if it became necessary, and that either way we’d be square if I did just as he asked. So I did.’
‘What did he ask?’
‘Nothing at first. The only contact we had between then and the day of the shooting was when I came home and found a phone on my kitchen table. He called it and explained that it was a dedicated line between us. But after that nothing. Right up until the shooting. By then I thought I was off the hook. But then it all went to shit in Trafalgar Square, we were told to shut down the station for everyone but McGale, and I got the call. A few calls.
‘First off he told me to stick to the plan and keep every Met officer away from McGale. To clear them from the custody suite. That part was easy enough, like he’d said it would be. McGale was being dealt with by spooks. Two of them. So it was simple. I just kept my boys out the way.
‘But he called again and again with more demands. Suddenly I had to keep it quiet that anyone had seen McGale. I had to claim that Lawrence had never been in the building. Then I had to open the rear entrance and turn a blind eye for ten minutes. It just escalated. It got worse and worse, and I was stuck right in the middle. I didn’t have a choice.’
Dempsey ignored Henry’s attempts to defend his actions.
‘You turned a blind eye? You knew what was going to happen?’
‘Of course I knew. By then, anyway. There’s only one reason anyone would want to get access to a prisoner like McGale. But by then I was in too deep. What could I do?’
‘What about when you spoke to Sarah Truman? When you told her about the lawyer? You were supposed to be keeping Lawrence’s visit a secret.’
‘Not then I wasn’t. When I spoke to her all I was supposed to do was keep my own boys out of the way. And for doing that, all my problems were disappearing. So at that point I was on a bit of a high. It was only after she’d gone that the demands got worse. Christ, I wasn’t even told to cover up the lawyer until the poor bastard was in the place!’
‘And the two intelligence agents? Were they involved too?’
‘I honestly don’t know. They didn’t know about Lawrence though, I can tell you that much. Lawrence had been and gone in between interview sessions.’
Dempsey looked deep into Henry’s eyes as his answers came to an end. The man had been lying just minutes before, so Dempsey knew what to look for.
None of the signs were there. Not this time.
Henry was telling the truth. Satisfied, Dempsey ran that truth through his mind.
The first conclusion was obvious: someone with access to a high level of intelligence was behind this. Whoever Stanton might be, he had planned this for a long, long time. And he had planned it well.
Stanton had foreseen the need for a tame custody sergeant at Paddington Green police station three years before the killing. Anyone arrested for a terrorist attack in central London would be immediately taken there, and so to have Trevor Henry in place as a safety net was an incredible piece of forward planning.
The fact that Daniel Lawrence had met McGale and was no doubt killed because of that was just as important. Stanton had tried to cover this up by attempting to murder the only journalists to have uncovered the truth, successfully in one case, and the only friend Lawrence would have spoken to. The importance of keeping the conversation between McGale and Lawrence a secret was therefore clear, and that led to the next question: what did McGale know that Stanton needed hidden?
That question would need to be answered in time. Dempsey was sure of that. He was on the right track, and that track only ended in one place.
But right now there were other things he wanted to know.
‘If you were officially the only officer in the station when McGale died, how are you not a suspect?’
‘I’ve been questioned,’ Henry explained. ‘But only routine. Whoever Stanton’s guys were, they knew what they were doing. They made it look like a suicide. One you wouldn’t even question.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Dempsey said, leaning closer to Henry as he spoke. ‘I’d question it. And what about the phone you used to speak to Stanton? Where is that?’
Henry fidgeted. His discomfort was more than just physical, and Dempsey knew why. Henry’s next answer would be a watershed. Once given, it would implicate Henry in Stanton’s ey
es. There were other sources for the things Dempsey had just learned. But the phone? The phone could only come from Henry.
Henry’s eyes flicked towards the far corner of the room.
‘It’s over there.’
Dempsey followed Henry’s gaze and saw the handset. He indicated towards it.
‘Go get it,’ Dempsey instructed, ‘and throw it to me.’
Henry did as he was told. He rose slowly to his feet. Inched past Dempsey. There was no effort to renew his attack. The trauma of the last ten minutes had been enough and a further confrontation would end no differently.
Instead he walked painfully towards the handset, picked it up and threw it to Dempsey.
There was no code protecting the phone’s content and so Dempsey could immediately access the contact list. There was a single saved entry. The only number it had ever called.
Dempsey weighed up his options.
The handset could be submitted to the DDS lab for analysis. Should, in fact; it was the right thing to do. But that would leave it in the hands of an agency that Dempsey feared might be compromised. And with his current unofficial status he would struggle to secure its return.
Besides, Dempsey was sure that anyone who had achieved what Stanton had would not be traceable by mere telephone use.
The alternative option was to use the number, to gain an advantage that Dempsey could use.
Dempsey dialled the contact number.
It was answered after a single ring.
‘Sergeant Henry?’
The voice at the end of the line was deep and robotic.
A vocal modulator, Dempsey thought. Makes sense.
When Dempsey did not respond the man spoke again.
‘What do you want, Sergeant Henry?’
‘Stanton?’
It was all Dempsey said. All he needed to say. The difference between his voice and Henry’s was enough.
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Dempsey, Stanton.’
Dempsey expected no answer. He continued without one.
‘And I want you to know I’m coming for you. That no matter what happens, no matter who you’ve got protecting you – Henry, Turner, whoever – I’ll find you. You think you’re safe. You’re not. Now you sleep on that, because I’ll be seeing you soon.’
Once again there was no response. None was needed. After a moment’s silence Dempsey heard the line go dead.
Stanton sat alone at his desk. Stunned by what had just occurred. The implications took a moment to clarify in his mind.
Stanton was confident that Dempsey had no way to find him. He had taken every precaution. Phone lines so secure that even the best of Britain’s intelligence lacked the technology to intercept his calls. A state-of-the-art voice modulation unit that only the highest military grade equipment could reverse. And a level of message encryption that made even written communication meaningless to anyone but the intended recipient.
No. Stanton was sure that the call would be the closest Dempsey would ever come to him. But he was still shaken. The loss of control over the situation, although temporary, was unexpected. He had believed no one capable of bringing the fight to his door. Now, according to the voice at the end of the line, that was exactly what Joe Dempsey intended to do.
Stanton thought back to the first time Joshua had mentioned that name. The force of his words: ‘. . . then you don’t know Joe Dempsey!’ Stanton had taken it as panic – an excuse – but perhaps Joshua had been right after all. Perhaps Stanton had underestimated Dempsey. Just the fact that the man had somehow identified Joshua as James Turner suggested that.
It was not a mistake Stanton would repeat.
These thoughts still occupied his mind when his telephone rang again just moments later. For the first time he was unsure that, when he answered, it would be the voice he expected. Still, he reached out and connected as quickly as always.
This time the voice was familiar. It carried a strong Northern Irish accent.
‘You were right, they’re here. The two of them just went inside.’
‘Go in after them.’ Stanton made his decision in an instant. ‘Deal with them, but do it discreetly. I don’t want any more questions.’
He paused for just a moment as he considered his next thought.
‘And one more thing: don’t underestimate him. There’s been enough of that already.’
FORTY-ONE
The journey from London to Belfast City Airport had been uneventful. The cash Michael had taken from Daniel’s safe had been more than enough to cover both the forty-mile black cab ride from London to the misnamed ‘London’ Stansted Airport, and the cost of the two airline tickets. Neither Michael nor Sarah carried a passport but, as Michael had explained, photo-identity cards were sufficient for what was technically a domestic flight. Michael had also assured Sarah that the three-hour window between buying their ticket and landing in Ulster was not enough time for them to be tracked and intercepted. So far, those assurances had been correct.
Their safe arrival and Michael’s confidence had served to quell some of Sarah’s fears over the past four hours. Not all of them, but she now had at least a faint hope that they could survive what lay ahead.
That hope had grown upon their arrival at an unremarkable Express Hotel in the heart of Belfast’s University Quarter, where Michael’s quick thinking had impressed her.
As they had checked in and paid their bill in cash, Sarah had heard Michael’s accent become both broad and slightly slurred. Sarah had understood his intention; a few lewd comments to the night porter, designed for the impression that Michael was a local who had got lucky on a night out. It was the only scenario that could explain their late arrival and cash payment without raising suspicion.
Sarah had played along when, to complete the picture, Michael had grabbed her lustfully and made a show of escorting her to their waiting room. Conscious of the feel of Michael’s hand on her lower back and aware of how easily she could have bought into the illusion, Sarah had broken away as soon as they were behind the door.
‘Now what?’
It was their first moment alone since leaving Daniel’s office. The first time they could not be overheard by a cab driver or other plane passengers. Michael could finally share the plan that had been developing in his mind.
‘We go to McGale’s office. See what we can find.’
‘When?’
Sarah had not wanted to rest. Momentum had brought them this far and she had not wanted to lose it now. Michael, it seemed, had the same idea.
‘Tonight,’ he had replied. ‘It’s the only chance we’ll get. They’ll know we’re in Belfast soon enough. Once they do, the office will be the first place they look for us.’
‘Have you checked where his office is?’
‘Not yet.’
Michael had been sliding his phone from his front trouser pocket as he replied. Thanks to the earlier attack, there was now a crack running across its screen. Battered the phone might be, but it had come out of tonight’s violence in better shape than Michael himself.
Michael had spent the next few minutes online looking up McGale.
‘The guy was a professor of Political Science at Queen’s University. That’s about five minutes from here. He’s sure to have an office in the faculty building. We just need to find out which building that is, which will be on the university website.’
Sarah had responded with a nod.
‘Let’s go then.’
It was almost an hour later that they found themselves on the aptly named University Street. Michael had jotted down the directions before taking apart first his handset and then Sarah’s. Decades of criminal trials had taught him that mobile telephones are homing beacons for anyone with the right technology. Too much of a risk. He would settle for the old-fashioned way: a scrap of paper, covered in his hasty scrawl.
Located at the heart of the campus among the greenery of University Square, Queen’s University was just as Michael h
ad described. Or at least from what Sarah could see of it in the darkness. The expensively maintained grass expanse was almost entirely unlit and so they crossed the square with no fear of detection.
The faculty building was just ahead. A short stone staircase led from the pedestrianised square to the building’s stately entrance.
Michael reached the foot of the stairs first. Once there he turned and whispered to Sarah, telling her to step into the shadows as he climbed to the top. Sarah was unused to doing as she was told without explanation, but now was no time to argue. She moved into the darkness and watched as Michael went to work on the secured door.
Sarah could not see what Michael did in the minutes between first shaking the door to confirm that it was locked, and then somehow opening it. Whatever it was, she was surprised. Somehow Michael had bypassed the building’s security system and had gained entry to its interior.
How the hell does he know how to do that?
‘Wait there.’
She looked back up when she heard the words, just in time to see Michael disappear into the darkened doorway. He reappeared just a minute or two later and beckoned Sarah inside.
Graham Arnold was a well-respected non-uniformed sergeant in the police service of Northern Ireland, but he would always regard himself as being a loyal member of its infamous predecessor, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. It was as a representative of neither that he now sat in an unmarked police vehicle and watched Michael disappear into the building for a second time.
‘That was quick,’ he said with a smile. ‘Looks like they teach some shady stuff in English law schools, eh?’
‘Explains how he got away from Stanton’s other lads, I suppose.’
The response came from Noel Best, Arnold’s friend, colleague and co-conspirator. Best was no doubt as surprised as Arnold to see a lawyer bypass the building’s security entry system so easily. It did not seem to affect his confidence.
‘Let’s see him get away from us. Phone him.’
Arnold nodded, the phone already at his ear. The call was answered on the first ring.
