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

by Roger Pearce

  Finch shook his head. ‘Twenty-nine. Another female passed last night,’ he said, solemnly. ‘And the two on the bridge, of course.’

  ‘So thirty-one murders?’ said Horbury.

  ‘And many with life-changing injuries.’

  Finch had omitted to mention that the dead included a police officer. He was sounding like an undertaker, sending a chill hush over the room as people bowed their heads to digest the news.

  ‘How ghastly for them and their families,’ said Horbury after a pause, covering her cheek.

  Kerr understood their awkwardness. The job of CIG officials was to make an unstable world intelligible to their political masters. Brutality, suffering and degradation belonged in another country, so nothing touched them personally. They dealt in policy, not empathy, sanitising nuclear threats, spilt blood and cyberspying with a dry assessment of the threat to British interests. Horbury’s quiet condolence for lives destroyed a couple of miles away laced an intellectual exercise with compassion, and no-one broke the silence. A floor polisher whirred somewhere deep in the building.

  ‘So where do things stand this evening?’ asked Horbury, eventually.

  Finch took his cue. ‘This is a dynamic and fast moving series of interconnected operations,’ he began, shifting from pious to pompous. ‘Highly complex, unprecedented in my three decades of service. I have over three hundred specialist officers working for me. We recovered the abandoned motorcycle near Charing Cross and CCTV of the bomb vehicle as well as…’

  Finch may not have heard Horbury’s impatient sigh, but the clink of bracelet against wristwatch stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘You want an update, right?’ he said.

  ‘I want to know who did it, Mr Finch.’

  The Bull cleared his throat. ‘The two men today probably did all the attacks. They won’t get far.’

  ‘I mean “who” as in “which organisation”,’ said Horbury evenly.

  ‘We’re talking Real IRA. That’s my professional opinion. The bomb warnings with known code words, the method of delivery, the use of Semtex, etcetera. We’ve recovered today’s bomb intact. It’s a mortar, same type as the IRA used against Number Ten and Heathrow in the nineties. The intelligence today was faulty,’ he said, with a hostile look at Kerr, ‘but other channels are available to me. All credible and true. Military. Everything fits the dissident profile. I’m afraid remnants from the past have returned,’ he said, ominously.

  Kerr caught Horbury’s glance in his direction but stayed silent: this evening, his commander would do the talking.

  ‘Whenever we suffered an IRA attack on the mainland in the past,’ said Horbury, ‘the RUC Special Branch were able to tell us if paramilitary suspects were away from home. Has that happened here?’

  ‘We’ve moved on from those days,’ said Finch. ‘Everything’s community based now.’

  Horbury made a face. ‘How about MI5?’ she said, turning to Toby Devereux. ‘Anyone playing hooky?’

  ‘As outlined at Monday’s COBRA,’ said Devereux with a shake of the head, ‘we have no intelligence of travel to the mainland, or other illicit activity. Is this the work of dissident paramilitaries? We raised the mainland threat level in May, as you know.’ He indicated a pile of papers beside the secretary. ‘It’s in our draft submission, T6D, in your bundle. I find myself agreeing with the police on this.’

  ‘And whose idea was it to sacrifice Mark Bannerman?’

  Horbury’s bluntness seemed to catch Devereux by surprise. ‘It was a joint decision with MI6,’ he said, carefully. ‘We had to confront them…’

  ‘By sending Mark into the lion’s den? What were you hoping for? An IRA confession?’

  ‘…and give them the opportunity to hand over the perpetrators.’

  Horbury looked at him in disbelief. ‘You seriously expected the IRA to grass up their own volunteers?’

  ‘Or confirm they were not responsible.’ Devereux wore round, steel framed glasses, which Kerr often saw him polish at moments of stress. This evening he used his tie. ‘The mission did not turn out as we hoped, obviously.’

  ‘The humiliation and torture of one of our finest Arabists, you mean?’ said Horbury, her voice flat with sorrow. ‘You wasted Mark to prove a negative?’

  ‘This was agreed at top level, Ruth.’

  ‘And is Philippa available this weekend?’

  ‘DG’s on a bilateral in France.’

  ‘Yes, I already tried her in Paris.’

  ‘Antibes, actually,’ said Devereux. ‘Back tonight.’

  Horbury muttered something inaudible as she returned to the agenda.

  With every painful exchange, Kerr had watched Lisa Jordan’s face grow more flushed, either from anger or dismay. When her turn came for the Northern Ireland Office assessment, she pushed her glasses up against her tortoiseshell hairband, revealing a deeply furrowed brow. ‘Our reaction to all this, Ruth? God, where do I start? You’ll know about last night’s shooting spree, a Loyalist gang invading a fish and chip shop in the Ardoyne. Five Catholics murdered. We’re bracing for a bunch of tit for tat killings spiralling out of control, just when we dared to think those days had gone. Unless we resolve London quickly, expect firebombings, shootings, marches and general rampaging.’

  With fifteen years at the Northern Ireland Office, Lisa Jordan was a seasoned political operator in a crowded field, a pragmatist under no illusions about her homeland. As an A level student at Belfast’s Freshland High, she had rhapsodised about peace as a shrub with infinite possibilities, until a professional life grappling with the legacy of sectarian war took its toll. Early release of killers, comfort to terrorists and denial of justice to victims; rows over law and order, parades and flying the Union Jack: all had toughened her. With hope tempered by experience, a cactus was the only desk plant she tended these days.

  ‘It comes down to this. If we prove that extreme nationalist elements are responsible, unionists will pull back from power-sharing. But they’ll walk even if there’s reasonable doubt. People have seen the devastation on TV and drawn their own conclusions. They believe the Real IRA have just bombed London. And as soon as the secret code words leak, all bets are off. Politically, we’ve slipped back a lifetime in just six days.’

  ‘So how do we stop the rot, Lisa?’

  ‘We’re getting an avalanche of denials from Stormont and the police, but that won’t cut it. Ambiguity abhors a vacuum in Northern Ireland, so we need crystal clarity from London. A rebuttal to match Stormont’s, removing any scintilla of doubt. And after the uncertainty around Brexit, any whiff of anti-republican bias from Westminster will create a firestorm. I’d say we have a week to get this sorted.’

  Home Office was next on the agenda, but Ritchie’s hand was in the air. ‘Bill?’ said Horbury regarding him over her spectacles.

  ‘Lisa is spot on about urgency. May help if I dive in here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘To be absolutely clear, we believe these bombings are not dissident republican.’ Across the table, Kerr watched the Bull shift in his chair. ‘The IRA always claims its attacks. A mainland campaign is a massive propaganda coup, so why not own it? I think Government should be declaring that, in the LTTs.’ Horbury was already scribbling. ‘Second, nothing stacks up. Our counterparts across the water tell me the dissidents are incapable of mounting a campaign in London. I know the IRA, Ruth, and this doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Twaddle,’ interrupted Finch.

  ‘Not a word we recognise, Mr Finch,’ said Horbury.

  ‘My people have just recovered fragments from a Memopark timer. Used routinely by the IRA.’

  ‘During the seventies, Derek,’ said Ritchie calmly, ‘but not this version. Memoparks are made in Zurich, which draws us to Europe. Same with the Semtex. We have to look east, not west, to resolve this.’

  ‘Any specifics?’ said Horbury.

  ‘Yes. We’ve been working flat out with our intelligence liaison experts across Europe. The London t
argets are all financial institutions and our profiling suggests this is anti-capitalist extremism. We believe one group in particular satisfies the capability test.’

  ‘Toby?’ said Horbury, sharply, but Devereux was polishing again.

  ‘We’ll be developing this with MI5, naturally,’ said Ritchie.

  Finch’s voice rose in another breach of protocol. ‘And why am I hearing about this for the first time now?’

  ‘Because it’s happening now.’ said Ritchie. ‘Our agent was partially right today and I think we can crack this.’

  ‘On what balance of probabilities?’ said Horbury. ‘Scale of one to ten?’

  ‘I’m looking for certainty.’

  ‘Proof positive,’ said Kerr, unable to restrain himself.

  •••

  The Bull charged from the meeting early, making ‘ring me at once’ gestures across the room. Forty minutes later, Kerr and Ritchie were already outside by the time an angry Devereux caught up with them.

  ‘Working through us? Since when? We have the lead here, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Ritchie stayed in the lee of the building, his voice low. ‘Toby, does the name Gina Costello mean anything to you?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because we’ve sponsored her three times at our surveillance tasking meetings and keep getting turned down.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘A4, who else? Willie Duncan says it’s down to you. You know, Anti-Capitalist Insurrection? Costello’s a leading player.’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, slipping behind his ‘need to know’ mask.

  ‘And John just discovered something extremely interesting. Did you know one of the chiefs at Dolphin and Drew Bank was Costello’s stepfather? She hates him, apparently.’

  Devereux studied his watch, which might have been a diversion or fear of missing his train. ‘We should diarise a meeting,’ he mumbled, making Kerr wince.

  ‘How about now?’ said Ritchie, nodding to the blue Audi A6 waiting in the bus lane.

  Devereux shook his head. ‘I have to get to Paddington and call Philippa.’

  ‘So I’ll tell Donna to expect you Monday,’ he called, as Devereux darted away.

  Kerr stood for a moment, watching him cross Whitehall. ‘Now that’s a man running for cover.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Ritchie, returning Lisa Jordan’s wave as she hurried down the steps with her wheelie bag. ‘Let’s see if Lisa needs a lift to London City.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sunday, 16 October, 10.07, Vanessa Gavron’s Apartment, City of London

  Two decades of exclusives had brought Vanessa Gavron admiration, professional envy and the occasional death threat. Her reputation and unique access had generated a series of luxury cars, business class travel and a City condominium with bespoke Poggenpohl kitchen, mood lighting and a gym facing the river.

  Wrapping her hair in a turban, she stepped from the shower, reached for a fluffy white bath robe and brushed her teeth for a full three minutes to clear the aftertaste of last night’s whiskey. She padded barefoot into the living room and searched the cluttered table for the TV remote and an e-cigarette, still missing her Rothmans after almost a year. On the concave screen the meteorologist was describing a weather system building from the south-east, so she lingered by the picture window, watching the clouds advance from Kent in real time.

  Through a gap in the buildings she could see the rise of Southwark Bridge, still dotted with figures in white forensic suits. Because Gavron travelled relentlessly, she loved spending a moment here at the start of every day in London, gazing at the Shard and the Gherkin, relishing the permanence of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre across the river.

  Gavron flicked through the channels in search of the Home Secretary. Andrew Marr had already signed off on BBC1 and Sky was following another shooting rampage in the States. Avril Knight’s interview was shown for 10.40 in the running order, after the Sunday papers review. She flicked to BBC24 as she collected the whiskey glasses, then wandered into the open plan kitchen and inserted a capsule into the Dolce Gusto coffee machine.

  Knight’s scolding rhetoric caught up with her by the toaster, with an admonition that she was ‘not going to speculate.’ Gavron turned up the volume and perched on a bar stool. ‘The police have a job to do and we must wait for their investigation. If these attacks are connected – and I’m obviously not going to be drawn on that – then we have entered a dangerous new era, as menacing as the threat from Islamist extremism.’

  ‘So you don’t believe Islamist jihadis are responsible?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, either.’ In a navy trouser suit, hair styled into a tight auburn bun, Knight reddened as the hack sifted the papers strewn on the table between them.

  ‘So who, then? A lot of the headlines are carrying the same message,’ he persisted, holding up broadsheets and a couple of tabloids for the camera. ‘Over Thirty Dead: The Real IRA Just Came Back.’ ‘Loyalist Gun Rampage in Retaliation for IRA Attacks on Capital.’ ‘Mortar over London: They Never Went Away.’ ‘Stormont in Meltdown as the IRA Returns to the Mainland.’ ‘These will resonate with voters who remember the IRA bombings on the mainland decades ago, won’t they? Are you saying they’re all wrong?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s not helpful for the media or politicians to try and do the police’s job for them. As Home Secretary I have to be open to every possibility. Of course I do. That’s why I shall be making a statement in the House tomorrow. We are in this together. All of us. Look at Belfast now, then remember how it used to be. Nothing must be allowed to jeopardise that.’

  ‘Especially an attack on London by republican dissidents?’

  ‘Look, no-one is under any illusion about the difficulties here. A just and lasting peace comes at a price. These cold-blooded murderers must be brought to justice, whoever they are. But that is for Derek Finch and his team to determine. We have to wait for the evidence.’

  Gavron gave a little shake of the head as the presenter moved on and the toast popped up. She had waylaid Avril Knight twice, in London and Belfast, and still felt the sting of rebuke in every answer, even to questions she had not asked. As a newly elected MP to the Northern Ireland Affairs Committee, Knight had discredited IRA promises on decommissioning and denounced the Good Friday Agreement; these days, she picked at the scab of devolved powers, unsolved murders and concessions to convicted terrorists.

  As she buttered the toast and poured the coffee, Gavron allowed herself a wry smile. She had just witnessed a classic ‘nudge and a wink’ denial, an IRA stitch-up to rival Iraq and the ‘dodgy dossier.’ ‘Christ, Avril,’ she murmured, putting the e-cig to her lips, ‘might as well have tossed a balaclava onto the table.’

  Gavron had to be in Haringey by noon. She checked the sound recorder in her tote bag and dressed quickly in a blue striped cotton shirt with denim jacket, skinny jeans and Skechers, applying minimal make-up, just moisturiser and a dab of lipstick. On the way out she checked the spare bedroom, a fug of dog breath and stinky feet that reminded Gavron of her brother’s bedroom in their Galway cottage. Donal Quinn was fast asleep, knocked out by Jamesons and jet lag, strands of hair sticking to his glistening forehead. Disturbed in the early hours, she had crept in to find him shouting at someone and thrashing in the bed. He was mumbling now as Gavron picked his Yankees shirt and jeans from the floor, so she paused to stroke his head, sensing his whole body relax beneath her. When he was quiet she left the room and scribbled him a note in the kitchen before grabbing her camera and taking the lift to the underground car park.

  Many of the streets around the City were still closed following the bombings, so she drove to Aldgate before swinging north up the Commercial Road. The capital seemed to be having a lie-in except for a few joggers, dog walkers and immaculate ladies in wide hats on their way from church.

  She found herself in Ducketts Road earlier than anticipated, lowering the window to check for signs of life from the presbytery
as she cruised past. This time she continued to the junction, turned right into Green Lanes and parked outside Seventh Heaven acupuncture clinic, her white Saab hidden among the parishioners’ hatchbacks. She calculated she could reach the church entrance in about seven seconds at a racing walk, and saw that one of the double oak doors had been left ajar.

  Gavron had deliberately chosen the eleven o’clock Mass for families and young people, ‘God’s Hope for the World,’ according to the blurb on St Jude’s website. Music floated beneath the drone of a distant leaf blower, uncertain voices trailing the organ’s wheeze, and Gavron recognised the third verse of ‘Come Down O Love Divine.’ She hummed the refrain, aimed her Nikon D3200 and fired a couple of test shots.

  After a stretch of silence the service ended with a fortissimo organ voluntary that blew both doors open and rolled across the street. Father Michael was first to appear, in full ecclesiastical rig, sausage fingers linked above the lace embroidery of his surplice, body perfectly still, red face benign. Satan dressed as the fucking Man of God, Donal had said, his young body still trapped in a nightmare sweat after all these years. Now it was Gavron’s turn to capture the shepherd as he lay in wait for his flock, evidently oblivious to the gentle snap of the Nikon across the street.

  It took several minutes for the church to empty, with the congregation filing out in a steady line and everyone wanting a piece of Father Michael. In return, he spared each of them a precious, beaming moment, blessing infants, chucking their siblings under the chin and back-slapping some of the dads. The families dispersed quickly, leaving a gaggle of teens that soon reduced to a core of seven, four boys and three girls, as their priest demoted himself from reverend Father to worldly uncle. Gavron watched the arm encircle young shoulders, the hand touching and squeezing, the stooping, in-your-face smile, with laughter spilling across the street and everything caught on the Nikon’s video.