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

by Roger Pearce

  In the next instant another sound rose above the crackling fire, the rattle of the tractor starting up and crunching into gear. It drew Luca’s eyes straight ahead as he looked for Kerr high in the cab, not crouched nearby in the smouldering hay. The engine throbbed louder, closer, as powerful headlights pierced the smoke and Kerr saw Melanie sweep past, the lethal spikes of the bale stacker pointing at waist height.

  Luca was firing to kill the driver when he should have been saving himself, for the central spike pierced his waist as cleanly as a harpoon, whipping him from his feet as the tractor swayed down the track, his legs dangling uselessly from the bailer. On elbows and belly, Kerr dragged himself from cover to watch the tractor charge the end wall, smashing through the ancient brick and timbers to safety in the field beyond.

  With black smoke funnelling through the barn and most of the bales alight, Kerr was only dimly aware of Melanie’s silhouette as she flitted back through the rubble, calling his name. Nothing came when he tried to shout back but she was suddenly crouched beside him, yelling into his ear, then hauling him through the chasm into the fresh air, just as the whole wall collapsed in a storm of dust and sparks and the fire took hold of the roof, its embers pricking the sky like the remnants of Chinese lanterns.

  Ten metres from the blazing building, Kerr slumped against the giant tractor tyre, camouflaged by smoke but finding lungfuls of fresh air. ‘Didn’t know you could drive one of these?’ he wheezed.

  Melanie looked shattered, with dust rising from her clothes and her face smudged grey from ash or shock. ‘I can’t. Obviously,’ she said, already dialling.

  Kerr broke into a spasm of coughing, then gripped her arm. ‘Thank you, anyway.’

  While Melanie worked the phone, Kerr hauled himself up against the wheel to study the tractor’s mangled front end. Luca’s body had erupted on impact with the wall, leaving his innards trailing to the grass and his handsome face unrecognisable. Only one of his eyes remained, fixed in disbelief. Reviving fast, Kerr stretched, examined himself for injuries and tucked the Glock into the small of his back.

  ‘Ready?’ he said, as Melanie cut the call.

  Shielding her face from the heat, Melanie stared at him, incredulous. ‘John, whatever you’re thinking, forget it. We almost died in there.’

  Kerr was already making his way slowly down the field. ‘But we’re not finished.’

  He was already level with the barn and she had to lift her voice above the inferno. ‘Are you crazy?’

  Kerr wiped his face on the filthy polo shirt and turned to beckon her, his voice strengthening again. ‘I want you to look for something in the Audi.’

  •••

  They separated at the gate, Kerr returning to the Alfa, high on the bridge. He opened the driver’s window and drank deeply from Melanie’s water, taking in the scene. Seven cars were stranded in the lane and a clutch of pensioners encircled the Audi, peering at Consuela beneath the deflated airbag. A single local patrol car had arrived, its blue light flashing as the young PC darted between lane and field, searching for the connection between a car crash and a blazing barn.

  Kerr watched Melanie identify herself, a desperado claiming to be with the good guys, adding to the cop’s puzzlement. Then a roar from the field distracted him and the rubberneckers as the barn collapsed in a whirlwind of fire and falling masonry. Kerr was edging down the bridge as Melanie quickly reached across Consuela’s body, grabbed something from the dashboard and joined him. Sirens were approaching from the main road as Kerr weaved around the police car and sped away. ‘Any good?’

  Melanie nodded, clicking into her seat belt as she worked the Audi’s TomTom satnav and pointed to the red marker on the screen. ‘You were right.’

  ‘They’re strangers here,’ shrugged Kerr. ‘How else would they know where to go?’

  In her free hand Melanie held her phone map, with the Crown already located. ‘Okay. The pub is about half a mile further down but she’s directing us right, three hundred metres past the mill.’

  They drove between water meadows to the turn, then climbed steadily to the hamlet of Linton, a three way junction around a triangle of green with a war memorial and a pub serving five squat cottages. Kerr swung into a winding, one-track lane that suddenly climbed so steeply he needed first gear, cursing as the encroaching hedgerows whipped the bodywork.

  ‘We’ve arrived, according to this,’ said Melanie.

  Suddenly the road levelled and cleared as the hedges petered out to a dry stone wall. A field bordered one side with sweeping views across the county and, to the right, a thatched cottage with a sign, ‘Let by Stapes and Coggles.’

  They abandoned the Alfa, knocked on the front door and peered through the tiny windows, front and back. Against the garden wall lay a bunch of fence posts, so Kerr picked the largest, smashed the kitchen window and stood back for Melanie to climb inside and open the back door. Unfurnished and smelling of damp soot, there was a small living room with low beams and the original fireplace and, up the narrow stairs, a bathroom and two bedrooms with sloping ceilings.

  Melanie coughed in the stale air. ‘How many years since anyone lived here?’ she said, then followed Kerr’s eyes from the hatch in the ceiling above them to recently disturbed dust on the rough wooden floor. Standing on his clasped hands, she reached up to open the hatch and release the loft ladder. She climbed into the roof space, gave a low whistle and made room for Kerr to join her.

  Beneath the square casement window were a telescope on a tripod and, lying ready on a metal table, a black sniper rifle. Kerr ducked beneath the oak rafters and hooked the curtain aside. The assassins had chosen the perfect vantage point, high and uncluttered. Beyond fields to the left a veil of smoke drifted over the mill; but the telescope was already calibrated on the low, whitewashed stone walls of the Crown pub, less than a quarter of a mile across open farmland, its terrace, garden and car park visible to the naked eye.

  Hands clear, like detectives viewing a murder weapon, they peered at the rifle, then Melanie took her turn at the telescope. ‘Which one do you think they were going for?’

  Kerr was already dialling Jack Langton. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Two for the price of one?’

  ‘Jack. Anything happening?’

  ‘Still at Wymark.’

  ‘We’ve got a situation here. My guess is your targets will be on the move very soon.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  This time, Kerr answered in a flash. ‘Hard arrest.’

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Monday, 24 October, 12.31, Hammersmith

  Robyn had evidently told the manager of the Anchor to expect John Kerr, for he unhooked the houseboat keys and handed them across the bar without question. The row of moored boats was floating on the tide and Kerr was careful as he made his way along the ramshackle pier, gripping the butcher’s bike on the stern to pull himself aboard. Inside, inhaling the familiar odour of grease and diesel, he remembered his first visit here and settled on the threadbare divan to wait.

  Kerr had spent Sunday evening in Bill Ritchie’s kitchen in Finchley, north London, recounting the drama near Chequers while the commander and his wife made supper. Today he felt drained by what Ritchie called his ‘lively’ weekend, with no prospect of a respite any time soon.

  His risk-benefit gamble had been settled in Mayfair just before two o’clock the previous afternoon with the ambush of Philip Deering, finance chief ‘Sunny Jim’ Walker and bombmaker Jonny Tranter as they dispersed outside Wymark Corporate Solutions. Before they could reach their vehicles, Jack Langton’s Reds had thrown them to the cobbled street with guns at their heads, then rushed them in separate cars to Paddington Green, the high security unit designed to contain terrorists.

  Early this morning the Bull had placed himself sick from an undisclosed illness, with SO15’s clique of senior detectives immediately falling as silent as their boss. Later, Kerr and Melanie would meet a team of independent examiners to justify the
murders of Bobby Roscoe and Donate Lucrecia Poncheti. In the meantime, investigation-wise, John Kerr was unavailable, with Ritchie fielding calls from his eyrie on the eighteenth floor.

  Soon, the pier creaked and the boat dipped as Robyn climbed aboard, the star player Kerr had held back from everyone. He hauled himself up as she appeared in the narrow doorway and stood facing him, neither of them willing to break the silence. She was wearing a fleece over tracksuit bottoms and carrying a soft overnight bag, like a woman returning to court for sentencing.

  Kerr blinked first. ‘Flight okay?’ Robyn had agreed to take the first easyJet out of Rome, a one-way ticket.

  She tried a laugh. ‘Better than the carabinieri at the door.’

  Surrender in London or extradition from Rome: those had been the only options when Kerr had rung her from Nancy’s house. ‘I spoke with Gabi.’

  Robyn dropped the bag onto the divan and flipped Kerr her passport. ‘I know.’

  She had wanted Kerr to be the one to break the news to their daughter. By the end of their late night call, Gabi had moved through shock and disbelief to agonising remorse. ‘All this because of some stupid photograph at a party?’ she had sobbed. ‘I try to convince Nancy you’re a good guy and look what happens. This is all my fault.’

  Robyn produced a bottle of Barolo from her bag and stood it on the narrow drop leaf table. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she groaned, as Kerr shook his head, then squeezed past to fetch plastic wine glasses from the cabinet, just as she had done before. She poured them each a drink and sat opposite, resting against the back cushion. For a bereaved woman facing life imprisonment, Robyn looked remarkably relaxed. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘It’s your story.’

  ‘The clue’s in the title, right? Anti-Capitalist Insurrection?… One for the road, John. Please,’ she said, sliding his glass across in exasperation. ‘Blitz the banksters across Europe, first stop London because they’re fatter. Greedier.’

  Kerr took a sip. ‘Let’s have some players.’

  ‘Well, the IRA won’t be getting the Nobel Peace Prize any time soon. Have you followed their anti-imperialist spiel over the years? The dissidents were in bed with us from the start, Marxists with anti-caps.’

  ‘Who was the matchmaker?’

  ‘An IRA fugitive called Sean Brogan. He runs the cocaine operation out of Colombia and set up the contact. Funding through Spain, bombs from Belfast. That was the plan.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Spring. Beginning of April, I think. I was in Belfast for six weeks on the Spirito project I told you all about. Perfect cover. That’s when we agreed the targets and timings.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘Brexit.’ Robyn drained her glass, poured more wine and made a face. ‘The result no-one expected. Suddenly, everyone’s talking about Scottish independence and a united Ireland. For the IRA it’s ballots, not bombs all over again, winner takes all without firing a shot. Suddenly our operation is a distraction, a mega threat to their political campaign and whatever shady deal they’re cooking up with Westminster. They pulled the plug overnight.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A back-stabbing bastard called Tommy Molloy.’

  Kerr gave a low whistle. ‘He’s still Army Council,’ he said. ‘Leader of the pack.’

  ‘Yes. We had to find another way PDQ or call it off. And where’s the insurrection in that?’

  ‘So in walks Philip Deering?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Dropping her eyes, she frowned and gently chopped the table top with her hands, a classic Robyn mannerism. ‘Wymark were already laundering the money from Bobby Roscoe’s end-user coke markets. London and Manchester, with Amsterdam the export hub for Europe. And creaming a nice percentage off the top through Benita’s ex, who runs the accounts in Galicia.’

  ‘What made Deering take the next step?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’ She drank some wine, looking at him. ‘He’s in the nick, isn’t he? Ask him yourself.’

  ‘I want to hear it from you.’

  ‘Because that’s the deal, right?’ Robyn gave a harsh laugh and nudged his glass. ‘Anyway, we’re dicking around in Rome, wondering what to do, when Benita tells us Philip Deering hates the IRA more than the banks and wants revenge.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘This guy is your typical Sandhurst shite, tours of duty in Belfast and an obsession about Westminster capitulating to the IRA, like the British Empire just lost India all over again. He’s Tommy Molloy with a silver spoon, and you don’t want to get too close.’

  Beneath them something was gently knocking against the hull, driftwood, or a bottle trapped between the boats.

  ‘So why risk Belfast again?’

  ‘To warn Tommy not to renege on our deal. Give him a last chance before we hit Victoria.’

  ‘Or else?’

  ‘Or else.’

  Kerr wiped his mouth and studied her, sceptical but impressed. ‘You’re telling me you threatened Tommy Molloy?’

  ‘Told him to his face he was a cynical, calculating, treacherous bastard. Why not? It’s all true.’

  ‘Did you say what you were planning with Wymark?’

  ‘Not in as many words. But they tried to assassinate me anyway, in the middle of our private jig-jig, remember?’ she said, nodding through the window to Hammersmith Bridge. ‘With you jumping around up there, chucking things?’

  ‘And you making secret deals with soldiers from opposing armies. Christ, talk about sleeping with the enemy.’

  ‘Being pragmatic.’

  ‘Hypocritical.’

  Eyes widening, her face reddened by wine or self-restraint, Robyn shot him a glare of reproach. ‘It is what it is,’ she said, eventually. ‘Anyway, Plan B worked a treat. ACI provided the explosives from France. Deering came up with the old IRA code words and a bombmaker better than anyone Molloy could find.’

  ‘Who put the bombs down?’

  ‘They didn’t say and I didn’t ask.’ Robyn shrugged. ‘That was Bobby Roscoe’s department. But it was an awesome stitch-up. Bash the banks and frame the IRA. What’s not to like?’

  ‘But what’s the point? If you can’t claim the attacks for ACI?’

  ‘You really don’t fucking get it, do you?’ said Robyn, her voice rising a notch as the drink kicked in. ‘This is about stirring up Europe, not taking credit. Inciting the thousands of people the banksters have robbed and cheated. Our mission is to rock the boat and swim away. No labels. No egos.’

  ‘Luca?’

  ‘Including Luca.’ She flinched and her face flushed a deeper red.

  Kerr took a breath. ‘How did you get him into the UK?’

  ‘That was Gina.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Costello? She’s the ACI front line, so don’t act like I’m telling you something new. Gina does the ACI propaganda, social media, open activism and cross-border courier work. She recruited a Brit for us, a pilot. He smuggled Luca in on Friday.’

  Kerr looked out to the river, waiting and hoping. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘No idea. His name is Jay and she wants to use him for the next phase. End of.’

  ‘She trusts someone that new?’

  Robyn shrugged. ‘She’s up the duff.’

  Kerr had been worrying about Justin all night. Robyn’s answer, flat and offhand, banished his initial relief at a stroke. Absorbing the blow, he concentrated on a cabin cruiser chugging towards the bridge. ‘Avril Knight trusted Benita, too, didn’t she?’

  ‘And deserved everything she got. Did you know she was chief investment something or other in Trade and Industry? Just when governments across Europe were letting banks off the hook? Bungs and bonuses as usual while they conned everyone this shit could never happen again? Plus, she hated the political surrender to the IRA as much as Deering. Probably more, however much she tried to hide it.’

  ‘Why did you mark her as a traitor?’

  ‘The sign on her body? It’s what they did t
o that old spook who went over to threaten them. Avril Knight was a legitimate ACI target but we made it look like a second IRA execution. Another win-win.’

  ‘Which Benita planned right from the start?’

  ‘Used sex to get to her, you mean?’ Robyn laughed. ‘Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  They spent the touché moment in silence, listening to a pair of seagulls patter across the roof. Again, Kerr broke first. ‘We had a name for you…well, not you, obviously, because I only knew for sure on Saturday night.’

  ‘You going to tell me?’

  ‘Javelin. Code for the ACI activist who co-ordinated the campaign. The go-between for the bombs and the trafficking. That’s why I had to see you first.’

  ‘Before you turn me in.’

  ‘To hear it from your own lips. ‘

  Robyn fired straight back. ‘Because you think I’m incapable of this?’

  ‘It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, John. It’s how we met, remember?’

  ‘I mean, that you would put our daughter through this.’

  Robyn laughed. ‘Gabi is as radical as me and anyone in Brigate Rosse. You think she’s embarrassed to bear Gabriella Forini’s name? What is it with you? Do you believe I lost my passion the day I gave birth? Why should motherhood blunt idealism?’

  ‘Robyn, it’s an incredibly high price.’

  ‘Life in prison? You think I care what happens to me?’

  ‘For the people you murdered, I mean. Their families.’

  ‘What about the real victims? The workers who killed themselves because the banksters stole or destroyed everything they had? Homes and jobs lost, lives and families torn apart. People in despair taking the only way out.’ She regarded him carefully, then exhaled and dropped her voice. ‘Look, ours is a story of bonuses and bankruptcies. Wealth and misery rolling across Europe. Suicides unreported. Disabilities ignored, benefits slashed. People are suffering. Should they let the banks get away with it? Accept a lifetime of austerity because of those bastards? No. So our campaign is to punish the guilty, agitate the angry and ignite Europe. Watch the EU implode, John. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.’