by Roger Pearce
The hotel lay in the quiet streets behind Paddington mainline station and Derek Finch had secured his favourite spot, a softly-lit alcove invisible to business travellers and mid-range hookers lingering in the foyer. Ten days into the terrorist campaign, with multiple victims and no credible suspects, the deputy assistant commissioner looked unruffled as he settled into the chintz armchair, unbuttoned his jacket and smoothed his powder blue tie. ‘So, Vanessa. What are you going to do for me?’
Gavron’s chair was at right angles to his, the arms almost touching. ‘I’m going to tell you who’s putting the bombs down.’
This was a reversal of the usual information stream. In the previous century, Detective Superintendent Finch had been Gavron’s contact in the National Crime Squad, and his chauvinism still needled her. She had changed into a charcoal trouser suit for their meeting and instinctively shifted her knees as he leaned closer. ‘What makes you think I don’t already know?’
They paused as the waiter arrived with Martinis on a silver tray. Finch was an infrequent visitor, yet the barman indulged him as if he were a celebrity living in the penthouse, reaching for the vodka as soon as he entered the lounge. It was the deference that flowed from generosity or fear; and, knowing Finch to be a mean tipper, Gavron sensed pressure around his shaky immigration status.
‘Well, you’re buying, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Cheers.’
Finch brushed an imaginary speck from his thigh. He had acquired another expensive looking watch since their last encounter and a couple of charity wristbands she did not recognise. ‘Perhaps I just enjoy your company,’ he said, holding her eye.
Gavron laughed. ‘Come on, Derek. Have you seen what the hacks are writing about you? On the telly more than Jon Snow and they still say your investigation’s shit.’
‘So you’ve come here to save my skin?’
‘You’re a busy man with the mortuaries full, the cells empty and a dead Home Secretary draped around your neck. I guess you’ll be getting a lot of phone calls right now, and none as friendly as mine.’ She checked her iPhone, stirred her drink and popped the olive into her mouth. ‘I called your office, what, less than one hour ago? And here you are, practically out in the sticks. Which tells me you’ve got sweet FA.’
‘I’m staying the night, as a matter of fact. Usual room,’ said Finch, shifting in the armchair. ‘And now you’re making me impatient.’
Gavron smiled. Usually, she agreed to meet at a location chosen by her contact, or a quiet coffee bar behind Charing Cross Road. The Bull always insisted on the Jasmine, for daytime meetings and discreet overnight stays. At times of high activity, a reservation on the Met’s corporate card saved the late night drive home to Bromley. It also offered a haven for illicit sex and escape from the second Mrs Finch, a cut-throat health professional with a hatred of bed-blockers. Gavron knew all this because Finch had confided in her. Recently, in a straight trade-off for sensitive information about a corruption scam in South America, she had agreed to join him in Room 806. The sex had been unprotected, stifling and short. Afterwards, collapsed on his back, chest hair glistening with sweat, he had slapped her bottom as she slipped from the bed and joked about a ‘Fairtrade fuck’; locked in the bathroom, showering away every trace, Gavron had reproached herself for a joyless connection she vowed never to repeat.
She searched her tote bag for a plain notebook and flipped the pages. ‘Someone just passed me information you need to have urgently. A Catholic priest.’
‘Another paedophile,’ said Finch, flatly.
‘A source. I was expecting the call but not the content.’
‘So what’s the big deal?’
‘Something he heard from a young man in church.’
‘As in “confession”?’
Gavron nodded. ‘A walk-in last week.’
‘About the bombs? And you left it till now?’
‘He came back this afternoon. The priest rang me straight away and here we are.’
Finch looked sceptical. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘My source is obviously bound by the seal of the confessional.’
Finch smirked and sipped his drink. ‘How long have you been blackmailing him?’
Gavron took a moment to scan her notes. ‘The guy claims he put down the devices.’
‘Irish?’
‘Belfast accent, according to the priest.’
‘And he would know, right? Because he’s from there, too?’
Finch loomed close again and dropped his voice. ‘Bollocks to the priest, penitent thing, Vanessa. I want names.’
‘Irish, but not IRA,’ she said, evading him again. ‘That’s the point. The boy hates them. The Real IRA kneecapped him for dealing drugs then rode him out of town, told him to get lost and never return. Exiled, basically, and that’s how he ended up in London.’
‘So I’m looking for a bomber on crutches?’
‘No,’ said Gavron, shaking her head. ‘But worth another look at the CCTV?’
‘Who’s he working with, this druggie?’
‘He was picked up a few weeks back and hidden away in a safe house, apparently.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere in London.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Then they ordered him to place the bombs at Victoria and Cheapside.’
‘Just like that,’ said Finch, unimpressed. ‘And the mortar attack?’
‘He hasn’t mentioned that. Or any accomplices.’
‘When was the first meeting?’
‘Friday.’
‘After he watched the bombs on TV?’ he said, as Gavron shrugged. ‘So you’re giving me a fantasist on dope.’
‘Or an arsonist who claims his fire.’
‘And why would he do that?’
‘He was acting under duress and feels remorse about the people he’s murdered, I suppose.’ Her shoulders lifted again. ‘The boy wants forgiveness. Aren’t you going to ask me who’s pulling his strings?’
‘Are you going to stop wasting my time?’
‘I’ll tell you, anyway. He’s an Englishman, the voice of the bomb warnings. Other people make the devices but the whole thing is being run from London.’
Finch suddenly looked shrewd. A couple of rogue nasal hairs quivered in her direction, like antennae. ‘This is hearsay, Vanessa. No, it’s less than that, because you haven’t even convinced me your boy exists. I’m investigating complex, high-end terrorism, well planned and executed. Have some facts. The orders are coming from west Belfast. The bombs are being made and put down by Real IRA paramilitaries.’
‘Really? You have forensics to prove it? Confessions? Criminal charges? Paddington Green isn’t exactly overflowing with suspects, is it?’
Finch took another drink and checked his watch. ‘This is what the intelligence community is telling me.’
‘Ah.’ Over the years Gavron had cultivated a senior contact in MI5, always willing to brief on success, real or imagined. As she shook her head, a cartoon image popped into her head of Toby Devereux leading the Bull by the nose. ‘Well, they’re wrong. Don’t you see? The people doing this are making it look like the IRA.’
‘And you offer me, what? Damaged goods. A boy on drugs and a priest teetering on the brink.’
‘Who risks excommunication for disclosing this.’
‘And public humiliation by you if he doesn’t,’ said Finch, curtly. ‘Your reverend father has been weighing his options, right? Kicked out of the church or thrown into prison. That’s his angle. What’s yours?’
‘Doing the right thing. Being a good citizen.’
‘Very nice,’ smiled Finch, nastily. ‘And hoping I’ll give you a story.’
‘You already have. I’m unravelling a conspiracy to stitch up the IRA and drag us back to war but Scotland Yard refuses to listen. Readers love a cover-up. This one practically writes itself.’
‘Vanessa, there’s nothing in this for you, or me. It’s a distraction.’ Suddenly, he rested his hand on her th
igh and nodded at the bar. ‘Let’s have another drink. I’ll give you more about the thing in Brazil.’
‘How can you be so dismissive? And so sure?’ The waiter was hovering but Gavron swung round to wave him away, dislodging Finch’s grasp. ‘With so many unanswered questions swirling around? I mean, you’ve got masses of denials from across the water, no suspect in sight and not a shred of evidence. With a hundred detectives working on each attack, give or take? That’s just weird,’ she said, slipping the notebook into her bag. She stood over him, frowning. ‘And you also look extremely pissed off, which intrigues me even more.’
‘You can’t write any of this,’ he growled.
Gavron bent down to look him in the eye. ‘What’s your angle, Derek?’ she murmured. ‘That’s what I really want to know.’
•••
Wednesday, 19 October, 21.13, Hornsey Vale
Cooking fish fingers and fries for her children, Nancy Sergeyev did not hear the iPhone because she had taken it through to the living room to arrange a babysitter and forgotten to retrieve it. The voicemail must have been beeping while she coaxed Tom and Amy to bed, checking hands, faces and brushed teeth before picking up the stories John Kerr had promised to read them.
She did not check her emails and pick up Kerr’s message until an hour after lights out. It was brief and affectionate, from somewhere in the open, the words suffused with drink and contrition. He must have thought he had covered all the bases, his voice full of assurance about an early morning flight and promises to the future; Nancy poured a glass of Sancerre, paused The Good Wife and called him back, anyway, stirred by feelings of disappointment, indignation and curiosity.
Perversely, listening to the international dialling tone, she half expected Robyn to answer. When Kerr’s voicemail cut in, she rang off and dialled again. This time, he picked up almost immediately.
‘Nance? Everything okay?’ He was inside, now, somewhere quiet, and sounded croaky, as if she had woken him up.
She checked the time: just after ten in Rome. ‘Fine. Guessed you’d be late but wasn’t expecting a no-show. I made a casserole.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry.’
‘You didn’t say where you were staying.’
‘I’m on the early bird. Coming straight home.’
Kerr was keeping his voice low, which answered her question. She heard other sounds, too, the creak of an old bed frame, the swish of a duvet being kicked away as Kerr stepped onto the tiled floor, then a second voice, smaller, sleepy, a woman murmuring to him.
Nancy took a slug of wine. ‘How did it go?’
‘Good. We covered a lot of ground. Not just Hammersmith. The whole shebang.’
‘What, from the Italian liaison officer?’
‘We kept it low key, actually. Unofficial.’
‘So just you and Robyn, in the sunshine all day?’ she said.
‘Gabi was there, too.’
‘Not all work, then?’
‘Okay, we had a nice lunch. Gabi reminded me about Robyn’s birthday.’
‘And I bet you’ve given her a present to remember,’ said Nancy, wincing at her own crassness.
Silence at the other end. ‘Nancy, she’s the mother of my child.’
‘But you’re staying with her, right? Spending the night there?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘You’ve already got a girlfriend.’ Above her, she could hear Tom scampering along the landing. She leaned across the sofa to peer up the stairs and spotted a flash of pyjamas heading for Amy’s room. ‘Bed! Now!’
‘Kids alright?’
‘Not really. Don’t change the subject.’
‘Nancy, that bomb on the bridge almost killed her. Me too.’
‘And what? It’s brought you closer?’
‘This is ridiculous. You need to…’
‘Don’t bloody give me all that crap. I went through years of two-timing with Karl, remember? I was stupid then and it’s not going to happen again.’ He was quiet at the other end, so she drank some more wine. ‘You hear me?’
‘Nancy, this is not what you think.’
‘Stop it. Just bloody stop it,’ she said.
Another phone rang from somewhere close by, the bedroom. She heard a woman’s voice answer quietly in Italian, then English, removing all doubt.
‘Listen,’ said Kerr. ‘We can do this tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said Nancy, draining her glass. ‘We can’t. So. Here’s what you need to do. Catch the flight in the morning and drive home. I mean, to your place, not mine. Decide what you want. Don’t ever call me again unless you’re absolutely sure.’
He had started to speak again as Nancy rang off. She paused at the foot of the stairs to listen for a moment, on her way to the kitchen. All quiet, everyone settled. She loaded the dishwasher, lit a flame under the casserole and poured herself a large glass of Merlot.
‘Ciao,’ she said, winking at her reflection in the oven door.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Wednesday, 19 October, 21.18, Vanessa Gavron’s Apartment, City of London
Anticipating cocktails with the Bull, Vanessa Gavron had left her Saab in the undergound car park of her apartment block near Bank station, changed and taken the tube to Paddington. Rush hour was in full flow by the time she escaped the Jasmine and it took over forty minutes to reach home, balancing against a handrail in the packed carriage as she scribbled Finch’s exact words into her tiny notebook. In Reception she smiled at the concierge and took the lift to the sixth floor, making a face at her reflection in the full-length mirror: Gavron’s long day had begun with an early morning drive to Heathrow, delivering a nervy Donal Quinn to Virgin for his flight back to New Jersey. Double-locking the front door behind her, she unbuttoned her jacket, kicked off her shoes and stripped his bed, relishing the return to normality.
Stuffing the sheets into the washing-machine, she added her white blouse and underwear to the load, then padded into the bathroom. In a career of lifting stones, chasing contacts and avoiding enemies, home was a haven where she could roam naked and do whatever she pleased. Gavron cherished her privacy, and young Donal was one of the few men invited to share her space. There had been only two longish-term relationships in her life, with a sports writer in Dublin and a married professor of political history. Both had been ill-starred, the men unreliable, jealous and needy, the academic fleeing as her fertility reached the cliff edge. Now, time-poor, at the threshold of middle age, she managed her sex life through pornography and an upmarket dating site, nostrings-attached. One-nighters with rogues like Derek Finch she discounted: stories for sex were a necessary evil.
She took a long shower, refreshing herself for the night’s work. Lifting her face to the gentle rain, she tried to make sense of her conversation with the Bull. A credible senior detective would have welcomed a fresh lead to re-boot his stalled inquiry; Derek Finch, the highest of them all, had been dismissive, and his shadiness intrigued her. Evasive, stubborn or stupid, the Bull’s response goaded her, flooding her mind with possibilities. Towelling herself, she hurried into the bedroom, chasing the story. In silk pyjamas, leaving her hair damp, she searched the fridge for last night’s sushi, poured herself a large glass of Chardonnay and flopped onto the sofa for her evening news fix. She flicked through the channels to settle on Al Jazeera, staring at the screen while her own exclusive took shape.
When she was ready, she moved to her workspace at the dining table beside the picture window, with a clear view of the river. Late evening found Gavron at her most creative, immersed in a ritual of e-cigarettes, Bushmills on the rocks and Enya’s Paint the Sky with Stars on the surround sound. She fired up her ancient laptop and gazed over the Thames, a languid, inky blackness studded with lights, swirling away to the sea. An email popped up as she was about to start, a line in the Subject box from the private office of Charles Brandon, editor-in-chief of news agency CBB. ‘Free for a call from Charles?’
Gavron frowned. The Father Mic
hael investigation was her third CBB sponsored project, but this would be the first out of hours call from Charles in person. Dialling, she glanced at the clock on her phone: after nine, well into Brandon drinking time. ‘Hi, Trace. What’s up?’
‘Sorry to gatecrash your evening. Charles wanted to be sure you can speak in private.’
‘I’m at home. Christ, don’t tell me he’s still got you in the office?’ said Gavron, mischievously. Tracey’s affair with her thrice married boss was the worst kept secret among staffers in the CBB greenhouse, a cliché of stolen looks, snatched phone calls and synchronised departures. Gavron concluded she must be calling from his flat in Canary Wharf.
‘Hold on,’ said Tracey. There was a hiatus at the other end as she handed over the phone, a muttered ‘Ta,’ then Brandon’s voice slid down the line, fruity and lubricated. ‘Vanessa, thanks for touching base. I wanted to share the feedback on today’s session.’
‘You’re firing me.’
A chortle down the line. Charles Brandon, OBE, was an Irish Unionist, born and educated in North Down, though in drink his voice slurped into South Ken, as if scared of being found out. ‘Everyone on the team is very happy with your exposure of this… recalcitrant man of God,’ he drawled.
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Gavron, cautiously. ‘But?’
Another chuckle, then silence, as if he was reading something.
Gavron filled the gap. ‘Actually, there’s been a development,’ she said. ‘The man’s looking for a deal. I called Nisha about it.’
‘And Nisha rang me, which is why I need a word. What does your reverend father have to trade?’
‘He claims to have spoken to one of the bombers.’
‘Yes. In the confessional. And in return?’
‘I back away from the sex abuse.’
‘The mechanics create difficulties for us,’ said Brandon. ‘Ethically.’
‘But not the essence. The source claims the bombing campaign is being organised within England to frame the IRA. That’s our exclusive, Charles.’
