The Jonah

by James Herbert

  ‘It’s the lorry,’ the driver replied, his neck craned forward for a better view. ‘It’s jack-knifed across the bloody road!’

  Their eyes widened as they saw four men jump out from a car which had crashed into the back of the security van. The men’s heads were covered by balaclavas.

  ‘The bastards are pulling it in the Tunnel!’ Cook exclaimed.

  One door at the back of the jack-knifed lorry swung open and three overalled figures dropped to the roadway. Their faces, too, were hidden by masks. Cook just had time to see that two were carrying snub-nosed objects that could only have been sawn-off shotguns. The third was holding something that looked far more cumbersome.

  ‘Get on the radio,’ he ordered Kelso. ‘Get some back-up down here! I want the entrance and exit sealed off, too!’

  Kelso blinked his eyes, still stunned by the blow he had received. But Cook’s words cut through his confusion. He reached for the transmitter and pressed the button. ‘All Units, this is Leader One. Request immediate assistance in the Blackwall Tunnel. Robbery in progress.’ He waited for acknowledgements, but no sound came from the receiver. Both he and Cook understood the problem at the same time.

  The driver stared at Kelso. ‘What’s wrong? Get through to them!’

  ‘He can’t.’ There was anger in Cook’s voice. ‘The fucking tunnel’s blocking the transmission! We’re on our own!’ He reached for the .38 at his hip and Kelso dug into the pocket of his combat jacket for his own gun.

  ‘Sorry, Dave,’ Cook said to the driver. ‘You’ll have to come in on this.’

  ‘Okay, guv.’ Police drivers usually kept away from the heavy stuff, but Riley knew he had no choice this time.

  Kelso pushed the passenger door open and whirled when a hand grabbed his shoulder. The man whose car had crashed into the back of the Granada staggered backwards when the gun was pushed into his face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his hands held out before him as though to ward off any bullets fired from the Smith and Wesson.

  Cook, who had just stepped from the Granada, gave the man a vicious push. ‘Get back into your car and stay there!’ He joined Kelso, and they quickly took in the scene before them.

  A dozen or so cars lay between them and the security van. Drivers were getting out of their vehicles to see what had happened up ahead; they jumped back in just as smartly when they saw two hooded figures approaching, both carrying shotguns. The armed men were reaching into the vehicles and snatching out the keys; they tossed them across the road. One driver who tried to protest was struck with the butt of a shotgun. A metallic whining noise filled the tunnel, spinning off the curved walls and amplified by the acoustics of the confined space. Horns from the held-up line of traffic which stretched back to the tunnel’s entrance added to the noise. Cook suddenly knew what the cumbersome object carried by the third man was: they were using a chainsaw to open up the security van, ripping into its armoured side like a tin opener.

  ‘Keep down!’ Cook shouted as he ran forward, his body crouched.

  Kelso ducked and sprinted over to the inside lane, using the stalled vehicles as cover. He moved swiftly past an Allegro and a woman passenger stared out at him curiously, her eyes widening when she saw the gun he was carrying. Cook was just ahead of him in the opposite lane, Dave Riley following close behind. Kelso raised his head and saw the two gunmen were only a few cars away, one approaching in the centre of the road, the other on the far side. The one in the centre would soon spot Cook and Riley in the channel created by the two rows of vehicles. He hurried forward, hoping to draw level with the two villains before his DI and driver were discovered.

  He risked looking over the top of the next car as he ran, and froze when he saw the nearest gunman had stopped and was pointing his weapon down the centre channel.

  ‘Hold it, you!’ he heard the masked figure call out.

  Cook felt naked under the glare of the black twin barrels. He dropped to one knee and raised the .38. ‘Police! Put the gun down!’

  Instead, the masked man raised the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled back the two trigger hammers.

  ‘Drop it!’ Kelso shouted, his arms stretched across the car roof before him, both hands gripping the Smith and Wesson tightly.

  The gunman whirled and released one of the triggers. The shot mangled a broad section of the car’s roof, shredding and scarring its shiny surface, but Kelso had dropped down, reacting by instinct as soon as the barrels had been swung his way.

  Cook pulled open the passenger door of the car he was kneeling beside, breathing a swift prayer of thanks that it wasn’t locked, and used it as cover. The passenger shrank away from him, almost crawling into the lap of the driver by his side.

  The sound was deafening as the blast tore into the door, pushing it against the crouching DI, some of the shot passing through to splatter against his clothes. The window above him shattered and fragments of glass showered his head.

  Without hesitation he pushed the car door away from him and staggered to his feet, knowing the gunman had used up both shots. He went for the villain, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun and using his own weapon as a club. He relished the jarring sensation as the gun connected with the man’s covered scalp. Both men went down onto the road’s hard concrete surface.

  DC Riley ran forward to help his senior officer and stumbled to a halt when he saw the frightened, staring eyes of the other gunman, who was standing in the gap between two cars which hadn’t quite connected in the pile-up. The shotgun in his hand was unsteady, but it was aimed at Riley’s chest.

  The police driver was not armed, for it had not been his intention to take an active part in the arrests. He saw the hammers on both barrels had been drawn back.

  ‘Kelso, get the bastard!’ he screamed.

  Kelso, who had been scrambling across the bonnet of the Allegro, stopped halfway. Half-sitting, he raised the Smith and Wesson towards the gunman, reluctant to fire, but knowing he had to. He pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Both barrels of the shotgun exploded and Riley was thrown back, his feet leaving the ground, arms outstretched, body curved inwards as the blast ripped through his stomach. He hit the concrete like a loosely filled sack and lay there, unmoving.

  For a brief second, Kelso and the gunman could only stare at the still form. Even Cook had stopped struggling with the semi-conscious villain on the ground. The chainsaw never stopped its whirring.

  The masked man holding the smoking weapon quickly looked from the dead policeman to Kelso. Wild panic showed through the holes cut out for his eyes. Kelso slid from the bonnet off the Allegro and ran towards him. The gunman turned to run and Kelso flinched as a shot rang out from behind. The shotgun clattered to the ground as the fleeing criminal cried out and his hands tried to reach the bullet wound next to his spine.

  He hit the ground just as Kelso got to him, his body squirming with pain. The noise from the chainsaw stopped abruptly and the hooded figures around the security van were running, ducking beneath the body of the lorry blocking the tunnel, making for the two cars waiting on the other side.

  Kelso heard pounding feet behind him and he turned ta see McDermott and three other detectives running towards them. McDermott’s gun was still aimed at the sprawled villain and Kelso knew it was he who had fired the shot.

  ‘You bastard, Kelso! Why didn’t you get him before he shot Riley?’ The detective sergeant was panting hard as he kicked away the shotgun. The other policemen pushed their way past, going after the escaping criminals.

  ‘My gun jammed!’ Kelso shouted, but McDermott had not stopped to listen. He was helping Cook to his feet.

  ‘What a fuck-up!’ McDermott said to the DI.

  ‘Shut up and get after those bastards!’

  With one venom-filled look back at Kelso, McDermott took off after the other three detectives.

  Cook brushed past Kelso, hardly giving him a glance. He knelt down beside the motionless policeman and
touched two fingers beneath his jawline, feeling for the pulse. He thook his head and muttered something under his breath. Then he stood up and stared at Kelso.

  ‘Stay here and keep an eye on those two,’ he pointed at the prone gunmen. That was all he said, but Kelso felt the disgust in the words. And he knew the disgust was directed at him.

  Kelso could only gaze blankly at the gun he held, as Cook turned his back and walked away.

  2

  It was rare, but only one person occupied the lift as it zoomed up to the fourth floor of Scotland Yard. Kelso leaned back against the rear wall, his head bowed as though studying the light-coloured but grubby sneakers he wore. He drew in deeply on the last inch of cigarette, filling his lungs, then expelling the smoke in a blue haze. The anorak he wore over faded denims was a size too big for him, making his shoulders seem slighter than they actually were. Dark hair, made flat and damp by the steady drizzle outside, hung limply over his forehead; he shivered as droplets of water found their way inside his shirt collar and ran down his back. He ran a hand over his chin, glad that he had taken the time to shave that morning; even so, the skin felt rough and made a scraping noise against his palm. The lift bumped to a gentle halt and he tucked his hands inside the anorak’s loose pockets, pushing himself away from the wall with his buttocks.

  He almost collided with someone entering the lift, but managed to slide around, barely touching the tall, dark-suited figure. Leonard Seyrig, Operational Chief of CID, six foot three – and still growing, some said – glared down at him.

  Kelso nodded without returning the gaze, and squelched his way along the corridor towards his department’s office. Seyrig frowned at the trail of wet footmarks and slowly shook his head as the lift doors closed.

  The noise hit Kelso even before he opened the office door. Pounding typewriters, ringing telephones and filing cabinets being drawn open and slammed closed were the mechanical sounds that joined with raised voices and general conversation buzz to create the clamour. A few heads turned in Kelso’s direction as he walked in, but no acknowledgements were given. He headed for his desk which was tucked away in a corner of the room which was large but seemed ludicrously small because of the office furniture, equipment and manpower crammed into its forty-by-thirty-foot area.

  He turned his head when he heard his name called. Detective Sergeant McDermott, a telephone receiver held momentarily against his shoulder, was pointing with his thumb towards the DI’s office. ‘He wants to see you. Now.’ McDermott resumed his telephone conversation.

  Kelso completed the journey to his desk, stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and pulled out a greasy bag containing two bacon rolls from his anorak pocket. He tossed the bag onto the desktop and made his way towards Cook’s office. Breakfast was cold, anyway.

  The DI’s room was merely a partitioned wall, half of it glass, in the main office area, only a door giving it some credence. Cook was just rereading his own report on yesterday’s foul-up, wondering whether an added word here and there would make it read more favourably, when he saw the DC in the open doorway.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and continued reading. ‘Close it,’ he added, his eyes not losing their scanning rhythm. Kelso closed the door and settled himself in the chair opposite his chief. He crossed an ankle over his knee and slumped down in the seat, arms crossed. Then he straightened. Why pretend to be relaxed?

  Cook sighed heavily and let the sheaf of papers he was holding fall onto his desk. No additions were going to improve it. His eyes met Kelso’s and they sat in silence for several seconds before Cook spoke. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Gun jammed,’ Kelso replied evenly.

  ‘I know the fucking gun jammed! We’ve had it checked. I’m talking about the blag. You told us it would go off on the other side.’

  Kelso leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face anxious. That’s the information I was given, Frank.’

  ‘Who’s your grass? What’s his name?’

  ‘He’s not a grass. Just a loose mouth. He doesn’t know I’m a cop.’

  ‘You know how this is going to make me look, don’t you, boy? A prize pillock.’

  Kelso’s body stiffened in rising anger.

  ‘The AC’s been on at me twice this morning already,’ Cook went on. ‘One copper dead – and a Squad driver at that – two villains collared, and that’s it. The rest clean away.’

  ‘But I gave you names . . .’

  ‘Yes, and we’ve brought four of them in. The trouble is, no one’s saying much.’

  ‘You’ve got Mancello?’

  ‘We’ve got him. His brief’ll have him out in five minutes when he hears about it.’

  ‘You haven’t nicked him?’

  ‘On what charge? He’s got an alibi just like the last time. Guess what?’ Cook nodded patiently as Kelso raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s right. In his cab, running a fare. Two witnesses again. We’re holding him on sus.’

  ‘What about the villain who did the shooting? He’ll talk to save himself.’

  ‘Are you kidding? He’s a lifer now. Automatic. No amount of talking’s going to help him. In fact it could make life in stir very unpleasant for him if he did.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Yeah, Christ. You’re going to have to give us some more names. Like who mentioned the job in the first place.’

  ‘It’ll blow my cover.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, it looks like you’ll be on a different beat soon.’

  Kelso sat back in the chair. ‘You’re pulling me out?’ He shook his head in disbelief. He had worked for a long time to get himself accepted by certain members of London’s criminal fraternity. They generally thought of him as a small-time goby, a fixer, an arranger. Nothing big, just a junior-league go-between, a messenger. If they had ever learned his true identity, his torso, minus arms, legs and head, would have been found floating in the Thames. Unless, of course, they fed it to pigs instead.

  Cook’s tone changed; he seemed almost resigned. ‘Look, Jim, you’ve done a good job over the past six months or so, but your use on the streets is coming to an end. It’s a long time, you know; I think you’ve stretched your luck to the limit.’

  ‘That’s not why you want to pull me out, though, is it?’

  Cook took a cigarette from the pack lying open on his desk. He lit it and pushed the pack towards Kelso, who shook his head.

  The DI exhaled a heavy stream of smoke. ‘I’ve been going through your file, Jim. It doesn’t read too good.’

  Kelso shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Oh, you’ve done your job well enough,’ his senior officer reassured him. ‘In fact, your undercover work has been excellent, couldn’t be better. But I think you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘You’d better spell it out.’

  ‘Right. Certain jobs over the past few years have turned nasty when you’ve been on them.’

  ‘Come on, Frank, you can’t blame . . .’

  ‘Hold on, hold on. No one’s putting any blame on you. I’m just pointing out certain facts. Four months ago, the blag on the jewellery shop in Hatton Garden. You got us the tip-off, just like yesterday. And the car you were chasing the villains in crashed into a bus stop, killing a civilian.’

  ‘I wasn’t driving, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were. Just listen, will you?’

  Kelso reached for the cigarettes on the desk and pushed one into his mouth. He forgot to light it.

  ‘A few months before that, on the warehouse job. We went in after thieves helping themselves to electrical gear, loading up the company’s own lorry to get the stuff away in. You were going over the rooftops with a couple of other detectives. Detective Sergeant Allan went through the skylight, broke his back.’

  Kelso opened his mouth to protest, but Cook held up a hand. ‘I know – not your fault. Course it wasn’t, nobody’s saying it was.’

  Kelso started searching for his matches.

  ‘Then ther
e was the night you were on obo in Notting Hill Gate.’

  Kelso stopped searching. ‘Ah, come on, Frank . . .’

  ‘All you had to do was watch the comings and goings of certain dubious individuals in the house opposite. What happened? The house you and Georgie Fenner were in burnt down. It’d read like a fucking comedy script if it wasn’t so serious. Fenner had third degree burns all over his body. He’d have died if you hadn’t got him out of there.’

  ‘I still think we were sussed. Somebody started that fire deliberately.’

  ‘If they did, we couldn’t find any evidence of arson afterwards. There were kids living in the flats downstairs, Jim. They could have all gone up in smoke.’

  Kelso yanked the unlit cigarette from his mouth. ‘What’s all this leading up to, Frank?’

  Cook ignored the insubordination in the DC’s tone. ‘There are plenty of other incidents I could mention, going right back to when you were on the beat. There’s even that business with your girlfriend.’

  Kelso avoided the senior officer’s gaze. He found his matches and lit the cigarette.

  ‘So what I’m trying to say is this: You’ve got a reputation, Jim; you’re bad news. I’ve got to regard my men as a team and, frankly, you don’t fit in too well. Why the fuck do you think you’ve been put on undercover work? The men are a bit lairy of you, Jim. As it happens, you work better on your own. You’re a loner, you don’t conform to organization.’

  ‘Then why take me off undercover?’

  ‘I didn’t say I was.’

  Kelso looked puzzled.

  ‘The Drugs Squad are short-handed. You’re going over to them.’

  ‘Drugs? What the hell do I know . . .’

  ‘No arguments, son. That’s it, you’re going over. I’ve already spoken to their DCS; he’ll be glad to take you. Starting from Monday next you’re on a new team. Good luck.’

  Kelso knew there was nothing he could say; the decision had been made and it was final. He walked to the door and looked back when Cook spoke. ‘Give the name of your informant to McDermott, Jim; he’ll be no good to you now.’