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

by Roger Pearce

  She felt Langton stir as a man appeared in the doorway. He stood checking the terrace, flinty eyes probing them for a second, as Costello slipped the phone into her denim jacket and leapt from the couch. ‘Luca! Hey!’ He held her shoulders and bent to greet her, three kisses, then they hugged for several seconds as Justin pretended to wake up and the watchers made themselves smaller. Tanned and neatly bearded, he wore a tawny polo neck with slim trousers and tidy canvas pumps, no socks. To Melanie, who years ago had learnt to distinguish true militants from the parasites who clung to them, he appeared mean and threatening, and she guessed Langton was thinking the same. He was probably a generation above Costello, yet possibly her lover, and their intimacy sent Melanie a pulse of alarm: how the hell could Justin not know about this guy?

  ‘This is Jay.’ Justin lazily got to his feet as Costello introduced them. Justin would have bumped fists but Melanie watched the new arrival grab his hand and pull him close, a powerful move that could have been comradely affection or a discreet pat-down. She saw Justin surrender his place on the couch for a single chair at right angles, allowing the cameras a clear line to both targets, and caught Langton’s murmur of approval. When the barman appeared Costello signalled for more drinks, chiding Justin for not drinking beer with them, until Luca restrained her and tapped Justin’s Diet Coke for a replacement.

  For almost fifteen minutes they talked, while Melanie eavesdropped. Costello included Justin in the preamble, only to ignore him as Luca slipped into French, leaning in so close that their heads touched. Abruptly, Luca stood with his beer and walked into the dark interior. ‘Look after my stuff, Jay,’ said Costello, grabbing the holdall and following him. Through the pergola, Melanie saw Justin immediately remove his watch and lay it on the table. She shifted against Langton’s shoulder for a discreet view inside the bar, watching them move beyond the cluster of locals before disappearing to a deeper spot near the toilets. ‘Lost,’ she murmured to Langton, immediately easing forward as he got to his feet and ambled inside with their empty glasses: so long as Langton stayed in the bar, the plot was clear.

  She looked across at Justin, tense, upright, poised for her nod. The moment she gently dipped her head Justin moved with lightning speed, dodging back to the couch to search Costello’s jacket for her new mobile. In one smooth movement, his long fingers never fumbling, he unclicked the back panel, took out the Sim card, pressed it against the metal watch strap for five seconds, replaced it and returned the phone to the jacket.

  When Costello returned seven minutes later, smoking a joint and spilling beer, she found Justin stretched out on the couch, shades lowered against the strengthening sun, her jacket clutched over his chest. By the time Luca reappeared with a different bag, she was kneeling beside him, unsteady, blowing marijuana into his nostrils. Melanie watched her stroke his brow and kiss him on the mouth, teasing him with her tongue, gently scolding him until Luca nudged her with his foot. ‘Is he good to fly?’ He was speaking French, but Melanie caught the gist. ‘Wake him. I want to leave now.’

  Luca’s eyes were scanning again as Melanie looked away to the beach, and this time it was jealousy, not vigilance, that animated his face. She watched them leave for their taxi back to Rotterdam, Costello holding on to Luca, Justin trailing behind, sidelined, isolated, vulnerable. She knew about the loneliness of the spy and felt especially close as he disappeared without a glance. Sitting quietly while Langton checked the tracker, she also thought about Justin’s girlfriend. I’m getting near the end of the road…has he got someone else?

  ‘They’re in the taxi,’ said Langton, watching the blip slide along the screen. ‘You alright?’ he said, peering at her.

  Melanie shook her head. ‘Let’s move.’ She led him the long way round to the car park, her anxiety for Justin sharpened by sorrow for Louise. And pity for their unborn child.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Friday, 21 October, 12.07, The Fishbowl

  Cherry-picking his emails, Kerr saw Gemma approaching through the main office, a loaded Waitrose bag in each hand. She stood in the doorway, stray hairs wafting as she blew out her cheeks. ‘Spare a minute?’

  Kerr could not recall the last time Gemma had visited the Fishbowl. ‘For you to slum it upstairs? You bet,’ he said, weaving round the desk to take the bags from her.

  ‘It’s Alan’s turn,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be waiting for ever. And he gets the wrong stuff.’

  ‘Sounds comfortable.’

  She made a face, gave him a pretend slap and sat down. ‘Do you know how long it is since I last shared?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream…’

  ‘Eight years.’

  ‘So this is a big deal.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, wiping her forehead. ‘Alan’s coping. Not brilliant on the food front, but improving.’

  ‘So you’re good?’

  ‘We’re good.’

  He smiled. ‘Lovely man, right?’

  ‘Stop prying.’

  Kerr held his hands in surrender.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been poking my nose in, too. Which is really why I’m here, and hope you don’t mind. I’ve been moonlighting from home. Just open source stuff, Google, etcetera, which makes it alright, yes?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Who. Avril Knight’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Maria Benita Consuela. Don’t waste your time,’ said Kerr, searching his screen. ‘Already logged to Finch’s urgent inquiry team.’

  ‘Who immediately boshed her as no further action, which Alan says is, quote, utter bollocks, pardon my French, so I’ve been doing my own research, which you may find interesting. Or not.’

  Kerr regarded her for a moment. ‘Gemma, you’ve got enough on with managing the comms. Plus the other things in your life right now.’

  Gemma was wearing a charm bracelet, which she kept sliding up her wrist. ‘This is personal, kind of, because it’s connected to the bombing campaign…and the way it’s affected Alan? He asked me, sort of subcontracted me, and I’m perfectly okay with it, honestly.’

  Kerr nodded at the shopping. ‘Do you want to park that in the fridge?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘Won’t take long.’ She slapped her hands on her thighs, making the bracelet jangle, then searched her bag for a crumpled sheet of A4 and held it up. ‘Late night scribble. So. Avril Knight’s beloved. Bereaved victim, arty, floaty, earthy. Charitable projects through the embassy, saviour of deprived kids, heart of gold, etcetera, etcetera. Get the picture? But we think there’s something suspect about her, don’t we? The clandestine sex, the killers getting to Avril Knight on Benita’s doorstep, the only place she wasn’t protected. Benita’s painting hanging in pride of place in the Wymark office. And we know Deering’s lot are dodgy. No website, secret clients stashing their lucre offshore to evade tax, and goodness knows what else. All very shady.’

  ‘But circumstantial.’

  ‘John, forget the unworldly-painter-naked-beneath-the-kimono spiel. I found a window to Benita through her ex, Maximo, and she was heavily into the big bucks. As soon as they moved here from Madrid they set up shop in High Street Ken.’ Gemma checked her scrawl. ‘Manera Ceramics and Fine Art. Incorporated three years ago, according to Companies House.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘Two tics. Within weeks of trading they had a major burglary. Practically everything lifted. Old Bill were useless, of course, couldn’t give a monkey’s, so guess who they employed to do a private investigation?’

  Kerr’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘Hubby’s FB.’

  Kerr started. ‘You hacked into his Facebook?’

  ‘Alan searched it, through Mercury. Maximo Leon Salvatella is an unusual name, practically jumped out at us.’ Gemma stared back in mock surprise. ‘John, I hope you’re not going to chastise me? Anyway, Deering’s finance guy befriended Max,’ she said, checking her notes again. ‘James Walker. Sunny Jim, ecstatically divorced, dating
a Spanish babe he met online, the full midlife crisis bit. There’s even a picture, the lech and the gold digger heading for the cliff, though the buddies mostly text each other on Skype. Alan’s got the screengrabs but, reading between the lines, Wymark’s investigation got nowhere, then the insurance refused to cough up because Max’s alarm system was rubbish. Point is, Benita and Max borrowed massively for the start-up and the banks called in the loans. Pulled up the drawbridge overnight and ruined them, basically. Alan’s terrorist finance women are going to identify the lenders.’

  ‘And the collapse broke their marriage?’

  ‘That’s the story they put about, only it turns out the saintly Benita was already having it off with the chap at the kids’ charity. Xavier. That’s what the junior man on the Home Sec’s protection team told Karl Sergeyev. Basically, Xavier fixed the first meeting with Avril Knight, and Benita made the play. Then Benita followed up with a twosome at the Notting Hill bistro, almost like she was, you know, grooming her. I’ve been on a date there, and it’s nice. Tapas, red wine and mood music. Bingo. They’re in love.’

  ‘So is Karl suggesting it was a set-up? They targeted her?’

  ‘Junior thinks so, but no-one’s listening.’ Gemma shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone told them Avril was susceptible, or Benita just got lucky. Her phone log shows a series of very brief outgoing calls on Monday mornings where no-one picks up. Which is suspicious, right?’

  Kerr gave a low whistle. ‘Why didn’t protection warn her off? Flag it up with us?’

  ‘Cross a secretary of state? Can you remember the last time anyone did that?’

  ‘You’ve just been speaking with him.’

  ‘Karl is Special Branch, doesn’t count,’ said Gemma, with a short laugh. ‘We’re talking bodyguards now, not intelligence officers. Want to hold on to your job? Keep your mouth shut and submit to the principal. Karl’s words, but anyone can see. And Avril Knight was an intimidating bitch. Apparently.’

  Kerr thought for a moment. ‘So what happened to Max Salvatella?’

  ‘Not much on FB, though his Twitter’s interesting. That was Alan, again, not me. I checked the Spanish Companies House – Registro Mercantil something or other – apologies for dodgy pronunciation, and Max pops up as sole director of a company called Puente Importaciones. It’s on the west coast, miles from Madrid, almost like he’s dropped out,’ said Gemma, turning her notes over and over. ‘Town called Ponty something. Similar name to his firm.’

  Kerr darted forward, remembering. ‘Pontevedra?’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ she said, peering closer. ‘If I can read my jottings. Max is seriously vexed about the bank foreclosure thing. Masses of tweets about filthy capitalists, secret Panama papers, offshore tax evasion, greedy bankers, criminal bastardos, etcetera etcetera. And all spiced up with a stream of re-tweets from something called Podemos, which bangs on about corruption, austerity, inequality, and miscellaneous money people who should be shot for causing the banking crash.’

  ‘Gemma, this is brilliant.’

  ‘And just a bit relevant, yeah?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Kerr was already scrolling through his folders for the latest intelligence on Gina Costello as a low voice floated from the doorway.

  ‘She told you, then?’

  They both swung round to see Alan Fargo leaning there, a couple of secret pink files under his arm, beaming down at Gemma. ‘Yes,’ said Kerr, ‘and it’s gold.’

  Fargo squeezed inside and tossed Costello’s file onto Kerr’s desk. ‘Pontevedra’s at folio fifty-seven,’ he said, flipping the reports. He looked warm, and smelt of soap and dusty paper. ‘Gina’s cash deposits are with the Caja Rural de Galicia, in the old town.’ There was also a slim folder for Maria Benita Consuela. ‘The grieving lover took a call twelve minutes ago. From Rotterdam.’

  Kerr looked up sharply. ‘Costello?’

  Fargo shrugged. ‘Twenty-three seconds, from an unregistered number. We’re looking at Mel’s pictures now. The new guy is called Luca and Jack just rang to say the three of them walked straight to the aircraft. Justin’s doing the pre-flight checks now.’

  Kerr checked the time, grabbed his car keys and came round the desk. ‘Thanks, you two,’ he said, by the door, but Fargo was already probing the shopping, muttering about the fridge.

  •••

  Friday, 21 October, 12.31, Bill Ritchie’s office

  Bill Ritchie was finishing a call from his MI6 contact in Karachi when Donna entered without knocking. She stood by the door. ‘Barbara just called. Mr Finch is on his way up and he’s not happy.’

  ‘Is he ever?’

  ‘That MI5 geek with the Harry Potter glasses came over and it’s really freaked him out…’ Before Donna could say more the door flew open, pitching her a couple of paces into the room. His face a livid maroon, the Bull looked breathless and distressed, as if he had raced up the fire escape. Jacket collar awry, perspiration radiating across his shirt, he glared for a second at Donna, as if she were responsible.

  ‘You alright?’ he grunted, holding the door for her to leave.

  Ritchie nodded Finch to the conference table. ‘What’s going on?’

  The Bull was clutching a brown envelope, smudged with sweat. ‘I’m supposed to be your fucking boss,’ he panted, emptying a sheaf of photographs onto the table. ‘What else are you keeping from me?’

  Ritchie crossed the room and put his head round the door to check on Donna. ‘No harm done, fortunately,’ he said, settling at the table. While Finch palmed his jet black hair and caught his breath, Ritchie scanned surveillance photographs of Gina Costello driving through Wales with a scarcely recognisable Justin Hine. ‘This is the woman I raised on Saturday as a person of interest, isn’t it? When everyone was obsessing about the return of the IRA?’

  ‘I’ve just been schmoozing a very pissed off Toby Devereux.’

  Ritchie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘What does that look like?’

  ‘According to that fucker Kerr, you put coverage on this woman without telling the Service.’

  ‘These are from A4?’ said Ritchie, holding up an image of Costello in the car park of the Farmers Arms in Anglesey. ‘We’ve been nominating Gina Costello at the Seven Up for months and the A4 bloke has consistently rejected her.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘This is the Security Service not sharing, Derek.’

  ‘It’s not for you to question the MI5 lead.’

  Ritchie gave a short laugh. ‘So much for transparency.’

  ‘What are you doing against Costello?’

  Ritchie regarded him for a moment. ‘Who says we are?’

  ‘Kerr told A4 this morning.’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘He’s on the road.’ Ritchie peered at a long shot of Costello’s car on the farm track. ‘Sex in a Fiat Uno? They could sue for invasion of privacy, right?’

  Ritchie’s flippancy seemed to inflame Finch’s rage. He jabbed Justin’s head. ‘What do you know about this man?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He trashed their surveillance vehicles.’

  ‘Embarrassing.’ Ritchie shuffled through the photographs again, studying Justin, dissembling.

  ‘Devereux is demanding to know if we’ve deployed an agent into Costello’s group?’

  ‘Dodge manages recruitments for me, but I would know, obviously,’ said Ritchie, slowly shaking his head. ‘But this is a good call. Belatedly. We should be looking seriously at Gina Costello and Anti-Capitalist Insurrection. That was my case to Ruth at the Silver Scrum.’

  ‘Which fell on deaf ears. Toby’s interested in terrorist networks, not a middle-class European leftie you have a bad feeling about.’

  ‘Yet he had her followed.’

  ‘MI5 have their reasons.’

  ‘A government agenda, you mean? Is Toby going to share that, too?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Finch, leaning across the table. ‘My job is to stop jihadis blowing themselves up and the IRA putt
ing bombs down. I’m fighting a war on two fronts and don’t need a third. If you don’t get that, it’s time to move on.’

  ‘So where are these IRA suspects?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the intelligence expert.’

  ‘What if there aren’t any? Here or across the water?’

  ‘So find some.’

  ‘Like Iraq, you mean? Make the intelligence fit the prejudice?’

  Ritchie laughed. ‘Is that what Toby’s doing for you?’

  ‘No. This is your failure,’ said Finch, his voice suddenly low. ‘When the reckoning comes, we’ll be holding you responsible.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Ritchie had rarely seen the Bull so dishevelled. The unbuttoned shirt collar and loosened tie seemed to have released Jack the Lad, the last century’s racist, sexist, corruptible detective still lurking just beneath the surface. Finch was already warming up for the blame game, and it made Ritchie smile. ‘Anyway, it’s not all bad news, is it? I mean, a device recovered intact is always a forensic treasure trove.’ He watched Finch collecting the photographs together. ‘Will you be disappointed if Polly Graham finds the bomber isn’t Irish?’

  Finch stood to leave, shoving his chair back so violently that it almost toppled over. ‘Just do your fucking job.’

  ‘What if he turns out to be an anti-capitalist? Or she? You know, a leftie? That’s the great thing about science. You can’t argue with it.’

  Finch stood to face him and handed over the envelope. ‘I want to know who that man is. And if I find Kerr has been pulling stunts behind my back, you’re both fired.’

  ‘Unless we’re right, of course,’ said Ritchie, quietly, walking away to the door.

  There were so many questions he wanted to level at Derek Finch: the connection to Wymark and Philip Deering, his aborted inquiry into Maria Benita Consuela. Why had he so blatantly dismissed Vanessa Gavron’s information?