Javelin - the gripping new thriller from the former commander of Special Branch (John Kerr Book 3)

by Roger Pearce

  Donna took a bite of her baguette. ‘Tuesday morning.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, scrolling up the page. ‘Day after the bombs and he just disappeared. I hadn’t got a clue.’

  ‘We know what he’s like,’ said Donna, peering at the window in the diary. Between nine and ten, in the space she had tried to reserve for Ritchie, was a mobile phone number. She stole another glance, pulling it into her memory. ‘Honestly, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Is for me, love. Totally embarrassing.’

  Donna screwed up the sandwich wrapper, licked her fingers and picked up her handbag. ‘Just popping to the loo.’

  In the cubicle she used her eyeliner pencil to scribble the number on a tissue, then drifted back to Barbara’s office. She stayed another ten minutes before returning to the eighteenth floor.

  Waiting for the lift, Donna felt relaxed about her deception. In late July, when John Kerr had quietly asked her for information against Finch, he had never been explicit about his reasons but she had never thought to refuse, or check whether he was acting on behalf of Bill Ritchie. Donna had been in the Branch long enough to read the truth, that Kerr was gathering proof of the Bull’s corruption.

  Donna genuinely saw no conflict between loyalty to Kerr and friendship with Barbara: in both, she was utterly sincere. In the early days, her head full of stolen names and numbers, she had occasionally felt a flicker of self-reproach; but now, as her friend confided in her more and more, she consoled herself that, one day, the Bull’s exposure and disgrace would also bring justice to Barbara.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday, 14 October, 16.47, Gabriel’s Bar, Acton

  Dodge’s new family home in Harrow was a high spec two-bedroom apartment on the first floor of Suffolk Hall, a refurbished Victorian preparatory school in sprawling private gardens. The living room was the old headmaster’s study overlooking the public park, and the flat immediately beneath had once been the refectory. There were only twelve units, six on each floor.

  Dodge had brought his wife and daughter here from their rented semi in Ruislip in the last week of September. He had been secretly negotiating the purchase since early summer, but for Nicola and Clare the move had been as sudden, unexpected and unexplained as their overnight extraction from Belfast in 2002. Nicola’s interrogation on the first evening, admiring the park from the headmaster’s sweeping bay window over double shots of Jameson’s, forced his admission that the apartment had cost their life savings, his resettlement compensation from the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the equity from the sale of their houses in Belfast and Edinburgh, plus a sizeable short term mortgage. She had assumed their move to a property protected by CCTV, wrought iron gates and a mobile security patrol was connected to his job, though Dodge’s working life had always been a secret diary she never cared to open.

  Both women were happy with their upgrade to luxury. A qualified paralegal in Belfast, Nicola now worked as a conveyancer for a firm of solicitors in Pinner, and her new commute on the 183 bus was easier than the tube from Ruislip. Clare, their daughter, was a second year law undergraduate at London University and still came home on the nights she was not sleeping with her boyfriend. They carried on with life as before, sorting through the jumble of crates, cardboard boxes and displaced furniture, while Dodge drank more, reverted to a pack a day and withdrew into the gloom she recognised from his time in South Armagh, where the IRA had tried to murder him.

  This morning Dodge had skipped breakfast and was still mooching around barefoot in a threadbare maroon dressing gown, sipping black coffee as he checked his iPhone and Sky News while Nicola got ready for work. He had barely slept since Wednesday’s meeting in Covent Garden, constantly re-running the conversation with the man who had called himself Bobby Roscoe. Check the news day after tomorrow. Now that day had arrived, and the words whirred non-stop around his brain.

  At the front door Nicola pinched one of his fleshy cheeks and planted a kiss on the other. Even at home his women called him Dodge. ‘You look like death,’ she said, kindly. ‘Want me to call you in sick with man flu?’

  Nicola was wearing her mock pearl necklace and earrings with a turquoise, mid-length dress he did not recognise. ‘Go get your bus,’ he growled, giving her backside a playful slap.

  ‘Sun’s out,’ she said, checking her make-up in the hall mirror. ‘Make yourself decent and sit on the balcony. Have a day off the booze.’ She kissed him again and he inhaled her perfume. It was a fragrance he had not given her, another reason to remember it was Friday.

  ‘See you about eleven?’ she said, as if he might refuse.

  The dressing gown parted as Dodge coughed and swung away, exposing chubby breasts in a grey thicket of chest hair. The hacking was from cigarettes, not flu, and lasted several seconds as he nodded back.

  Friday was Nicola’s ‘night out with the girls,’ a cover for her adultery with the firm’s family lawyer, a man with a wife and young kids who specialised in divorce and child custody. Dodge had known about the affair for months, almost from the start, and thought the guy was taking suicidal risks with his marriage and career, like an accountant swindling his own company.

  For Nicola it was different. She was seven years younger than Dodge, still curvy and vivacious, and had sacrificed everything for him. He never gave her reason to suspect he knew, draining her guilt into his own reservoir of shame and blaming himself for their sexless marriage. ‘Have fun,’ he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, then turning to give her a hug.

  Through the kitchen window he watched Nicola press the green exit button by the gate and waited in vain for her to turn and wave. The moment she disappeared up the road he rang the office.

  Nicola forbade him to smoke inside so he made more coffee and lit up on the balcony, phone in hand, before slumping in front of the living room TV. You’ll see how genuine I am. By not reporting the contact, the source unit’s chief had broken every rule in his own book; and in concealing the information, however sketchy, he had betrayed his duty of care. Dodge stared blankly at coverage of anarchy in Syria and tribal warfare at Westminster, his eyes tracking the loop of breaking news beneath, hoping against hope. Three hours and a chain of cigarettes later, still undressed, he barely made it to their ensuite toilet when Gemma’s message about Cheapside flashed onto his phone, and threw up again as the news exploded on TV. Shame flooded through him as he watched Dolphin and Drew burn. This is about bashing the banks. The Yard could have warned the City, circulated one of their confidential notices to every financial house. To save his own skin Dodge had chosen to keep silent, and these slaughtered victims were the price of his fear and cowardice. Head in hands he sat forward on the sofa, his dressing gown speckled with vomit, transfixed by the carnage he could have prevented. This was his fault: it was as if he had placed the bombs himself.

  He showered and dressed, preparing for the summons he knew would come. The instructions were as terse as the first time, though he had never heard of the venue and recited the address back twice, street and name, to be sure he had it right. Dodge’s car was a battered silver Audi A4 without satnav, and he made a couple of wrong turns on the outskirts of Wembley. As he drew closer he felt sick again, forcing the car into a crowded bus lane and retching into the kerb.

  Gabriel’s Bar was on a side road off Acton High Street, between Chi Chi Hair Design and Chicken Express. Roscoe had told Dodge to park fifty metres away on a residents’ bay, but instead he found a pay and display car park behind Lidl and walked through to Fortune Road. Directly opposite the bar, fronting a small park with swings and a slimy ornamental pond, was a disused Victorian public convenience with tiled staircase, a Gentlemen sign missing three of its letters, and concertina gates with years of litter piled on the inside. Gabriel’s was a pub from the same era, with towering plate glass windows, ornate external woodwork painted black and the giant letters of its former name, The Grey Horse, just visible above the curtained windows of the upper rooms. At first sigh
t the bar seemed as derelict as the toilet, with peeling stucco and the thickly whitewashed windows of a store that had ceased trading. The only sign of life was the name in ornate gold lettering above the entrance to the left, as discreet as a private members’ club in Mayfair.

  The door swung open more easily than Dodge had expected, pulling him onto the threshold. He paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and his ears to the vividness of Radiohead, a pulse that instantly revived his final days in Belfast. The polished oak bar hugged the right wall, swinging round before the entrance in a giant inverted J. Soft light from three chandeliers showed at least thirty drinkers hanging out in couples or small groups, business types slumming it with builders, Bloody Mary versus Stella, and every head swung round to regard him, drawn by the sudden shaft of natural light. The walls of square wood panelling and ruby flock wallpaper were divided by a dado rail. High on the wall opposite the bar a muted TV showed footage of the bombings, but the hubbub beneath was pure Friday night live. Two men in identical yellow waistcoats were working flat out behind the bar, one young enough to be in college, the other in his fifties, lean and shaven-headed (Gabriel?), plus the only female on the premises, a girl with nose piercings, a scorpion tattoo on her upper arm and bright red hair, who shot him a big smile.

  It took Dodge a moment to locate Bobby Roscoe, sitting alone at one of the round tables between the crowd and the toilets. He half-stood to attract Dodge with a little wave, as if they were old friends who met up like this all the time. Dodge eased his way through the bar, his grumbling excuse me’s struggling to be heard above the hubbub, and every face that turned to him was friendly or challenging.

  Unshaven, in dark blue working overalls with a smear of grease on his cheek, Roscoe looked completely different from the groomed man who had summoned Dodge to Covent Garden. On the table were two glasses of whiskey, both double shots, and he slid one across as Dodge sat down. ‘As promised,’ he said, unsmilingly.

  Dodge pushed the drink aside, splashing whiskey onto the table. ‘Driving.’

  ‘Risking your job, you mean?’ said Roscoe. He slid the glass back and leant in above the music, the northern accent harsher than before, more pronounced. ‘Believe me, a touch of Jamies is the least of your problems.’

  Dodge downed the whiskey in a single gulp, waiting for the kick as Roscoe’s eyes lifted to the TV.

  ‘Tragic,’ said Roscoe quickly. The screen’s flicker disturbed the dark atmosphere like neon but Dodge had to crane his neck round to see the pictures. ‘Shocking. But like I told you, right?’

  Dodge felt the hard ‘g’ driving into his brain. Manchester. ‘How did you know?’

  A couple of drinkers were squeezing past them, brushing Dodge’s shoulder, so Roscoe waited a moment before leaning across. ‘What’s my access to these wicked bastards, you mean?’ He took a drink and threw Dodge a ragged smile. ‘Now that’s a very big question.’

  Perhaps it was the taunt that made him snap, or the anguish of the past three days terminating in his remorse and self-loathing. Before he could stop himself Dodge was on his feet, upending the table as he scrabbled for Roscoe’s throat, words of pure hate sticking in his own. But Roscoe was even quicker on the draw, surprising Dodge as he caught his wrist and slowly pressed him backwards, like the victor in an arm wrestling contest. Heads were taking notice again and a pumped-up guy in white vest and combat pants paused on his way to the toilet, ready for action. Roscoe raised his hands in contrition, mouthed an ‘okay’ at Gabriel behind the bar, straightened the furniture and rescued the glasses.

  ‘You need to calm down,’ said Roscoe when they were settled. ‘I told you when. Doesn’t mean I know who.’

  ‘You despicable bastard.’ Dodge leaned in, breathless, weak from sickness and anxiety. ‘I should have arrested you on Wednesday.’

  ‘But now you can’t, because you haven’t told anyone about us. Right? Not a single soul. Too late to cover your arse now. And I’m guessing you didn’t record us, either?’ Roscoe waggled his iPhone and made a tutting sound. ‘Unlike Yours Truly, who always catches everything. And I know for a fact no-one’s following me.’ He signalled Gabriel for the same again. ‘So I think I’m safe. Your threats ran out of steam a long time ago.’

  The Killers were playing now and Dodge slumped back as the first bars of ‘Human’ washed over him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Both of us know that. I told you it was about the banks. That’s the what. Well, now they’re going for the big one.’ Dodge stared at him as Roscoe nodded. ‘Bank of England.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What sort of bomb?’

  Over by the door the bar suddenly erupted in laughter. ‘That’s all I have,’ said Roscoe when the noise subsided.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Dodge, knocking the table again as he hurled himself forward. He grabbed Roscoe’s forearm, but this time it was from agitation, not violence. ‘You can’t just come out with this shit and expect me to walk away.’

  ‘Really?’ Roscoe freed himself and stepped over to collect the drinks as Gabriel called from the bar. He paid with a twenty pound note and left the change.

  ‘This is going to totally screw me,’ said Dodge.

  Roscoe nodded. ‘Correct.’ The two men sat for a moment staring at each other. Tearing through Dodge’s shattered mind was the avalanche of questions he would face the moment he called John Kerr. ‘Like I told you before,’ said Roscoe eventually, ‘they’re are not out to hit your ordinary working people.’

  ‘You know I have to report this.’ Dodge caught Roscoe’s shrug, mocking him. ‘And to know how you know.’

  ‘Or you’ll look even more stupid, you mean?’

  Dodge shifted as his stomach churned, the alcohol’s warmth replaced by cold fear as panic climbed into his chest and seized his heart. He found himself gripping the table edge with both hands to avoid keeling over. ‘How the fuck am I supposed to sell this back at the Yard?’

  Roscoe took another drink and studied Dodge’s bloodless knuckles. ‘You’re the expert.’

  White noise filled Dodge’s head, wiping out very other sound. ‘Bobby, you have to tell me your source.’

  Roscoe gave another sloping smile. ‘First names now?’

  ‘And a contact number.’ Dodge was attempting an ultimatum but the words emerged as a plea. ‘We don’t react to info from a cold caller.’

  ‘But I’m not, am I?’ Roscoe shifted sideways and tapped his inside pocket as another man eased past them for the toilet. ‘Fancy a line to go with the whiskey? Cops don’t bother us here. Present company accepted.’

  Adele’s voice now filled the bar with ‘Someone Like You’ and, behind him, a group was singing with her. Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  Roscoe made an upturned fist on the table and uncurled his fingers, the nails grimy and split. ‘It puts you right there.’ Dodge felt Roscoe’s hand slide across his own, strong, the skin of his palm rough and scratchy. ‘How do you feel, Dodge, being in here with me, watching all these guys having fun?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  He stood as Dodge pulled his hand away and slumped back in the chair again. ‘Things to do,’ said Roscoe, draining his whiskey. ‘But I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘What am I supposed to tell them?’ Dodge was looking up at him, sickened by the desperation in his own voice.

  ‘You could always admit the truth about Frankie,’ said Roscoe, squeezing Dodge’s shoulder as he left. ‘And yourself.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Friday, 14 October, 17.48, The Fishbowl

  Mid-afternoon, as soon as Donna called him, John Kerr had dropped by her office to collect the stolen telephone number. ‘Did the boss ask for me yesterday?’ he said, slipping the tissue into his pocket.

  ‘I winged it for you, as usual. He’s all over the place but needs to see you as soon as.’

  ‘Right
.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call.’

  Kerr had swung by 1830 to have the subscriber details and call history identified, then flushed away Donna’s note in the men’s room, ensuring the mobile number had risen from the Bull’s jumbled calendar to Fargo’s telephone expert without leaving a trace.

  Back in the Fishbowl he played catch-up for a couple of hours before putting in his call to the government’s top secret science and technology laboratory at Porton Down, near Salisbury in Wiltshire. Polly Graham was in one of the external stores when he finally got through, her voice echoing around the concrete walls as she prepared for her second trip to London in less than a week. While they spoke Kerr imagined her in her trademark grey combat pants and baseball cap, loading search equipment into her ancient Land Rover Defender.

  The widow of Captain Richard Graham, BEM, an Army bomb disposal officer killed in 1987 while defusing a car bomb in Belfast, Polly had developed her own career as a Home Office explosives engineer. She and Kerr had been friends since the nineties, when she had data mined every explosive device planted in London, as well as reviewing IRA bombings in Hyde Park, Harrods and Brighton a decade earlier.

  ‘Did Melanie have a chat with you?’

  ‘Thanks for sparing the time.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Kerr heard the familiar squeak of the rear door opening, then something scraping across the floor. ‘I know you’ve got IRA code words and operation names, John, but I’m not pointing a finger at the obvious suspects here.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll come up with a single player? Someone we already know?’

  ‘Everything looks a one-off at the moment,’ she said, pausing to catch her breath. ‘Your afternoon of excitement at Hammersmith, then Victoria. Different explosive. No obvious connection to each other or anything in my database. No evidence of technology transfer. Did you see my reconstruction pictures of Hammersmith?’

  ‘Of course. Brilliant.’