by Roger Pearce
Dodge had expected Bobby Roscoe’s home base to be a flat or terraced house, but Trig’s overnight marker pulsed insistently as he lurched across the pitted yard of Betta Tyre and Exhaust, parked across the entrance and spent a moment studying the new roof. It was evident at once that Trig had brought him to the right place, for its timber spars and corrugated plastic sheets matched the order he had extracted from Tommy Roache. Wisps of straw blew around his legs as he made a rapid survey of the grim, deserted building and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. The only access was beneath a rusting roll top door secured by a single padlock. From the boot of the Audi he took a crowbar, the professional prop he always carried for protection against double-cross or compromise. The padlock gave at the second attempt, and a single shove from Dodge sent the door screeching up to the roof. Adjusting to the gloom, he took in the dark inspection pit and the piles of exhausts and tyres, wrinkling his nose at the reek of oil, rubber and dankness as he made for Roscoe’s jumbled workplace in the far corner. No sign of a desktop or telephone. A set of grimy blue overalls lay across the rickety captain’s chair, but the pockets were empty. The paper strewn oak desk had two drawers on the side, one crammed with fuses and light bulbs, the other with gay porn mags and emergency kit of mouthwash, Vaseline and Trojan condoms.
He tipped the contents onto the concrete floor, searching through the piles of business letterheads for phone numbers, emails, a diary, anything that might offer a window into Bobby Roscoe. Trig left him in no doubt that Roscoe had spent the night here, yet there was no space to sleep, wash or change, and no toilet. Out of frustration as much as curiosity he overturned the chair, ripped into the upholstery and smashed open the Roberts radio. He stole another look around the grim interior, then back into the daylight at the inexplicable new roof. Nothing anywhere, except a workshop empty of vehicles and an office incapable of generating business. A cover.
Another glance at Trig: the light still pulsing north. Along the rear wall, brand new tyres and exhausts were stored in racks according to their make and specification. They were based on the ground except for three piles of remoulds stacked on a heavy duty steel platform trolley by Roscoe’s office. It was the symmetry of used tyres rising in neat silos that drew his attention. Flexing the crowbar between the rubber, he saw they were supported from the inside by three vertical iron rods. The trolley implied mobility, but these tyres were going nowhere. Something was wrong. He pulled hard on the trolley handle. The platform rolled on its castors away from the wall to reveal a plywood door built into the breeze block wall, secured by another padlock that gave as easily as the first. Beyond was a windowless, rectangular cell the size of a large garden shed, dark as night, with the dog breath of recent occupation. Fiddling to find the torch on his mobile, he located a wash basin, roughly plumbed toilet and wooden chair squeezed against a futon. Dirty underwear lay scattered over a crumpled sleeping bag, with a reading lamp beside it on the floor. He pocketed his mobile, checked Trig again, then used the lamp to scan every inch of Bobby Roscoe’s hideout. Squeezed into the left corner was a wheelie bag on top of a rigid motorcycle pannier, but it was the opposite wall that grabbed Dodge’s immediate attention. Hanging from a nail was a blue Trapper hat over a long black coat that instantly spirited him back to the stables at Great Scotland Yard and Jane Hemming’s startling video, with every detail unrolling inside his head: Bobby Roscoe standing in the rain, phone to his ear, the side flaps of the hat folding as he bent forward, hand chopping the air to emphasise the short, lethal speech Dodge knew by heart.
The wheelie bag was empty, the pannier locked. He smashed the lid, glanced inside, retreated to the relative light of Roscoe’s office and tipped the contents onto the desk. There were yellowing cuttings from the Belfast Recorder, each carefully annotated in fading pencil, and letters with other personal effects: keys, a small wooden crucifix and a Letts diary among fading colour photographs of a smiling young man in his early twenties. Frankie, photographed on his own, now with another man, as Dodge peered close and found himself staring into the eyes of a younger, leaner Bobby Roscoe.
Hands trembling, suffocating in the workshop’s rank air, Dodge uprighted Roscoe’s chair as the iron fist squeezed his heart again. He propped Trig on the desk and began to read.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Saturday, 22 October, 09.03, New Scotland Yard
Kerr’s last contact with Nancy Sergeyev had been her phone call to Rome late on Wednesday evening. Since then, the texts and calls from his Islington apartment had loitered in the ether, Nancy’s invitation to leave a message seeming to become terser with each attempt. When at last she did pick up, in the middle of his toast and cereal, he found the bar set low for small talk. They sparred for ten minutes, Kerr trying to justify himself, Nancy frustratingly noncommittal, finishing the call before he could suggest dinner. A couple of minutes later he was in the bedroom, pulling on his navy chinos and polo shirt, when the BlackBerry rang again. He was hoping for a change of heart, then saw Melanie’s name on the screen.
‘Welcome back. Where are you?’
‘1830. Jack wanted to brief the Reds, so I dropped him in Brixton. Al tells me you saw Justin.’
‘Yup, all good. Waiting for him to surface again.’
‘Are you coming in, John?’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve been taking another look at the readout from his tracker.’
Kerr left a pause, disconcerted. ‘And?’
‘There’s some odd data.’
Kerr slipped into an old pair of loafers, intuition telling him Saturday was going to be a long stretch. ‘Does it affect Justin?’
Another pause. ‘Depends what he’s been telling you.’
Kerr grabbed a cotton jacket. ‘On my way.’
Twelve minutes later, free-wheeling down the ramp into the Yard’s underground garage, Kerr immediately spotted Polly Graham’s mud spattered green Land Rover Defender among the assorted hatchbacks, squeezed beside a spare armoured Jaguar. He parked, already speed-dialling, and left a brief message on her voicemail. Polly bumped into him at the top of the spiral staircase as she backed through the door with a rucksack and canvas tote bag, mobile clamped between ear and shoulder.
They exchanged a hug on the metal platform as a couple of Finch’s officers edged past, then stood for a moment, indecisive. ‘Up or down?’ said Kerr.
‘I already did the Fishbowl.’
‘So come back. I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘I have to be at Porton Down by noon,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Let’s talk here.’
The Land Rover was parked hard against a pillar, but Kerr managed to angle himself inside as Polly cleared a couple of loaded box files from the passenger seat. She leaned over to dump them in the back on a platform of four bespoke metal containers that filled the rear compartment. ‘Unclassified research stuff, in case you’re wondering,’ she said, making a face.
Kerr chuckled. ‘The last place to leave secrets lying around, right?’
The interior was littered with pens, three crushed Red Bull cans, a couple of tiny notebooks, a box of tissues and a pair of dressmaking scissors. Polly’s overalls hung from a hook on the side pillar, and a smell of leather and grease evoked his dad’s old car and the shooting range at Lippitts Hill. ‘So, did you find our bombmaker?’
Polly shook her head. ‘But I can tell you a lot about him. Or her. And I’ve already briefed Derek Finch, before you ask.’ She lifted her baseball cap to run a hand through her hair. ‘When the bomber made it safe he didn’t damage any of the components, so the device is more or less intact, except for a few pulled wires. We were able to dismantle it ourselves and test each element.’
They faced the garage wall through clear crescents left by the windscreen wipers. The rest of the glass was streaked with dirt and dead insects. Kerr turned to her. ‘We?’
‘Bomb Data Centre. The Bull wanted a pair of tame tecs alongside me, so we used the lab at Lambeth.’
‘To make sure you came up with the right answer?’
‘Fat chance.’ Polly traced a finger along the dashboard. A layer of dust covered every surface, as if no-one had driven the vehicle for months. ‘For starters, the Semtex is from the Czech SA11 consignment stolen from Marseilles.’
‘Same batch as the earlier devices?’
‘And never used by the IRA, which tells me this is not Irish dissident, obviously,’ she said, studying her fingertip. ‘Needs a clean. Anyway, that’s what I just told Finch.’
Kerr raised an eyebrow. ‘Not the result he’s looking for.’
‘That’s the trouble with science,’ said Polly, drily. ‘Doesn’t follow orders.’
‘Completely insubordinate.’
‘But keeps on giving and never tells lies, so listen up. Your bombmaker is meticulous, installing a very neat plywood circuit board with matching brass screws, brand new. Soldering, wire chasing and fixing, you name it, everything perfect, even the way the explosive was weighed and packaged. I’m giving this guy an A star.’
‘But?’
‘The construction is too precise. For a signature I need idiosyncracies. The way the bombmaker operates is art, not science, and this baby is picture perfect, straight out of the engineering manual.’
‘Looking for a creative and finding a robot,’ said Kerr. ‘That’s tough.’
‘It is, a bit. I’ve found nothing singular enough to ping our bombmaker profiles at Porton Down. Sorry to disappoint you, John.’
‘But if we find the screwdriver?’
‘Even the fretsaw,’ shrugged Polly. ‘In the meantime, if you come across a left-handed suspect, give me a call.’
Kerr stared at the wall for a moment, then turned to her, as if he had misheard.
Polly was smiling. ‘He slipped up. Finished making the perfect bomb, then took out the circuit switch to fit a Memopark timer. Why? It was obviously done very quickly, a bodge-job completely out of character, which is great, because cock-up means more unique tool markings. And in the rush he must have ripped his glove, because I lifted a partial print hidden behind the Memopark.’
‘You what?’
‘Well, hardly even that, really. A smear of a dab of a smudge. A whorl and a loop. Couple of bifurcations, some dots and ridges.’
‘Enough to put through the scanner?’ Kerr was referring to AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, designed to compare suspect marks against a database of known and unknown prints.
Polly started the engine. ‘Enough to promise you it’s the middle finger of his right hand where he held the timer to screw it on.’ The diesel rattled through the garage and the sound of Elgar flooded the inside. She lowered the volume and crunched into reverse. ‘Sooner I get back…’
Kerr eased the door open against the pillar. ‘Thanks so much for sharing, Polly.’
‘It’s hardly anything, so keep it close.’
‘Have you told Finch?’
‘Not yet,’ she said, with a sly wink. ‘The Bull only deals in certainties.’
•••
Saturday, 22 October, 09.17, Room 1830
Kerr found Melanie sitting beside Fargo, surfing Mercury. They immediately led him into the reading room. ‘Justin was fabulous,’ she said, as they jockeyed around the cramped table. ‘Cloning Costello’s Sim at the beach bar was seriously fraught. He had a tiny window when they disappeared inside. Class act.’
‘Why did they kick him out at Clacton?’
‘Sexual jealousy,’ said Melanie, immediately. ‘From what I saw, this guy Luca and Gina Costello have a history that goes way back. They were shimmying around the second he arrived, snogging in the bar, then she’s trying to stick her tongue down Justin’s throat. We’re talking male possessiveness, not suspicion. Sex always outshines the mission. Jesus,’ she murmured, ‘I should know.’
‘Justin rates Luca as the real deal,’ said Kerr.
‘And I’d say our Justin is right on the button.’ She nodded through the glass to Mercury in the main office. ‘We snatched masses of photographs. See for yourself.’
‘In a moment. Which is Luca’s dominant hand?’
‘Left-hander,’ answered Melanie in a flash: for a surveillance officer, such detail was as routine as height or hair colour. ‘Why?’
‘Any concerns at all about Justin’s cover?’
Melanie shook her head. ‘He’s trusted, but that doesn’t make him less vulnerable. It’s the nature of this thing with Costello that worries me, not the quality.’ She glanced at Fargo for support. ‘John, we talked about this.’
‘Are you happy he’s giving you everything he knows?’ Fargo had paused from scrolling through Melanie’s tracker reader, a bespoke street map on an eight inch tablet.
‘Why do you say that?’ Kerr looked from one to the other, forced on the defensive for the second time that morning. ‘Does Justin show bias towards his closest associate, you mean? Is he protecting her? Of course, and I’ve factored in all of that stuff. But he stole her Sim and he’s bugging her laptop this weekend. So is he delivering what I want? Yes, again.’
‘Yet he told you Costello had never heard of Maria Benita Consuela, didn’t he?’ said Melanie.
‘No.’ Kerr felt a spark of irritation, the boss having his judgment questioned. ‘He said Costello had never mentioned her.’
‘Which is why you need to see this,’ said Fargo, swivelling the reader to Kerr. The screen showed satellite imagery of London, with a green line tracing the Fiat’s route from east to west and a grey time marker against key locations. ‘Obviously we couldn’t live monitor Costello’s drive from the airfield, because we were hanging around Schiphol,’ said Melanie. ‘So this is historical.’
‘But I’m guessing the tracker ended up at Costello’s flat?’
‘Yes,’ said Fargo. ‘We’re hoping Justin retrieved it from the car and stayed over.’
‘That was the plan. Where’s the problem?’
‘I’ve been retracing the route back to London,’ said Fargo.
‘She didn’t go straight home to Hackney. Overshot, see? Took the Mile End Road, as you’d expect, then diverted along the Westway to Bayswater.’ He scrolled through the map and double-clicked. ‘Then I find a pause, just here, see? Woodfield Crescent, back of Portobello Road Market. Stationary for just over three minutes, then straight back home.’
‘Benita?’
‘Not to her front door, but close enough. Luca’s drop-off point. No diversions, no backtracking. Gina Costello knows exactly where to find Maria Benita Consuela.’
‘Costello is playing Justin,’ said Melanie, ‘or Justin is lying to you. Either way, it’s not good.’
Kerr’s BlackBerry rang. ‘I need to deploy the Reds…’
‘Jack’s already on it,’ said Melanie. ‘Look, this is dangerous. You promised you were going to pull him out.’
‘I said I’m thinking about it.’ Kerr glanced at the screen and drew a hand across his throat for silence. He began to say something, then gave up, craning his head to concentrate. ‘Where are you now?’ he managed after a couple of attempts, waving for Fargo’s pen and notebook. ‘That’s a complete no-no, understand? Where, exactly?’ he said, scribbling furiously. ‘It’s alright, I’m coming now. Don’t move from there.’
Melanie and Fargo must have heard enough to recognise Dodge’s voice. When Kerr rang off, both were looking anxious. ‘He doesn’t sound okay,’ said Fargo.
‘He’s crying,’ said Kerr, flatly, looking between them.
‘Where is he?’
‘I need my Glock.’ Kerr stood so abruptly that the chair tipped back and left a dent in the partition wall. ‘Al, check any activity from his Trig and phone it through.’
‘Sure.’
He paused by the door, having second thoughts. ‘Mel, I need you with me, too.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
Saturday, 22 October, 09.53 Betta Tyre and Exhaust, Old Oak Common Lane, Willesden
It took just ei
ghteen minutes of hard driving to find Dodge, tearing west through Marble Arch and Hyde Park Corner, the speed rarely below sixty. As they careered along the Westway, Melanie took a short update from Jack Langton, then paused while Kerr squirted the siren to clear roadworks on the approach to Ladbroke Grove. ‘The Reds say Benita’s place is empty. Luca must be on the move.’
The sign for Betta Tyre and Exhaust Services was so dilapidated that Kerr almost missed the turning. Pulling into the rutted yard, they passed Dodge’s Audi and parked behind a screen of brambles. The workshop door had been rolled within a metre of the ground, and the only sound came from traffic and the distant thump of a Crossrail pile driver. They sat in silence for a moment, watching for threats.
‘Let’s go.’ Kerr got out of the car, drew his Glock and jogged to the side wall. He crouched to glance through the gap, then hoisted the door open. He spotted Dodge through the gloom, slumped by the desk. ‘Dodge, is it safe?’ he called.
Dodge peered at him, as if resenting the intrusion and the light of day.
‘Just me,’ he grunted, beckoning Kerr inside.
Kerr perched on the desk while Melanie watched from the door. Photographs were scattered around and Dodge was reading newspaper cuttings by torchlight, an older, lonelier figure than the friend Kerr knew so well. ‘Where are we?’
Dodge held up a photograph. It showed two young men in swimming trunks, arms around each other, smiling and squinting into the sun. ‘That’s Bobby Roscoe on the right,’ he said, then nodded at the opening behind the trolley of tyres. ‘Hideout’s in there.’
Hands in pockets, Kerr peered inside. ‘And a crime scene. Where is Roscoe now?’
Dodge screwed his eyes at Trig, propped on the desk. ‘Retail park in Luton.’
