Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos lom-2

by Tom Graham

‘Red Hand something — of course!’ cried Sam. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Red Hand something?’ said Gene, looking unimpressed. ‘So what’s the F stand for?’

  ‘I know what F stands for,’ put in Ray suddenly, sticking his head round the door and winking at Annie. He flapped a sheet of paper onto Gene’s desk. ‘Here you go, Guv. The Deerys’ address. Dowell Road on the other side of town.’

  ‘Nice work, Raymondo,’ said Gene. ‘Right, playmates, let’s start proving to Special Branch that we know how to behave like proper grown-up coppers. Annie, see if you can find out what the letter F stands for. It sounds like a task of about your level. Use Chris’s wooden bricks with the letters on ’em if it helps. Sam, you’re coming with me. We’re going to pop round the Deerys’ place and see if anything’s cooking.’

  ‘Want me to drive, Guv?’ Sam asked.

  Gene looked blankly at him and said, ‘And why the hell would I want you to drive?’

  ‘Well, you know, seeing as you’ve … You’ve had a couple of, um …’

  Sam was going to say something about the Scotch glass on Gene’s desk, then reminded himself that nobody gave a toss about that sort of thing, not here. There was some part of him, some corner of his brain, that would always be 2006, no matter how long he lived in 1973.

  ‘Sorry, Guv. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘I always do,’ said Gene, jangling his car keys and grabbing his coat.

  They sat in the Cortina at the end of Dowell Road. Number 14, the home of Michael and Cait Deery, was a just another unremarkable semidetached among many, with a trim little garden and a Vauxhall Cresta parked in the driveway.

  ‘Are we going in?’ asked Sam.

  Gene flexed his hand on the wheel, making the leather of his driving glove creak ominously.

  ‘Nope, we’re staying put,’ he said. ‘If the Deerys are middlemen in the IRA chain, let’s sit back and observe, just like the Home Office recommended. Sooner or later they’ll lead us to the terrorist cell they’re supplying.’

  ‘Guv, I know you’re not interested in this, but I don’t think what happened yesterday-’

  ‘-was the work of the IRA. I know, Sam. You think it was part of the Pinky Palm Brigade’s campaign against khazis. Maybe it was. Fact remains, our boys across the water have pissed rather too heavily in the hornets’ nest and stirred up trouble. If we can blag an IRA unit by trailing the Deerys, that scores me and my department a handful of much-needed Brownie points.’

  ‘Um, Guv, I didn’t quite follow all that. What did you mean about “pissing in the hornets’ nest”?’

  Gene turned his head and stared at him, and then said, as if speaking to a deaf idiot, ‘Bloody. Sunday. You. Dozy. Pillock.’

  Bloody Sunday. Of course. For Sam, Bloody Sunday was something very much from the past, like the Apollo moon landing or Blue Peter in black and white. But here, in the world of Gene Hunt, it was fresh news, a raw and open wound. In 1972 — only last year — the British Paras opened fire on a civil-rights march in … Belfast, was it? Or Ulster? Or Derry? Damn it, he couldn’t remember. Wherever it had taken place, it had left a dozen or more dead and brought the IRA right out on the offensive. The repercussions of ‘pissing in the hornets’ nest’ would still be reverberating in the far future — even in 2006, when a young detective from CID, recently recovered from a life-threatening accident that had left him in a coma, would inexplicably jump from a rooftop to his death.

  Sam shook these thoughts from his head. He was here now — in 1973 — with a job to do, a duty to fulfil, a life to lead. The future was history. All that mattered was the here and now.

  ‘You know, Sam,’ said Gene, ‘now we’ve got a cosy moment together, just the two of us, I’d like to have a little chat with you about summat.’

  ‘Yes, Guv?’

  ‘I was thinking about what you said the other day in the pub, about the way I handle cases. You said I was irresponsible. You said I treated the job like a game.’

  ‘What I said, Guv … What I meant was that I was brought up with a very different approach to policing than you. I was taught — and I’ve always believed — that the rules of conduct and behaviour laid down for us aren’t there to make our job difficult or give villains the opportunity to get off the hook. Those rules are there because they’re right, and they’re fair, and they stop people getting killed.’

  ‘Go on, Tyler, I’m listening.’

  ‘I know it sounds poncy to you, Guv, but if the police don’t play by the rules what’s the point? We might as well bring back lynch mobs and string fellas up in the street just because they come across as wrong ’uns.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t go for that, then?’

  ‘Would you?’

  Gene thought for a moment, then said, ‘Depends on whose feet end up dangling. I can think of some right naughty boys I wouldn’t shed no tears over.’

  ‘You’re just saying that, Guv. You don’t really believe it. Look, the point I was making is that I don’t want to end up dead, any more than you do, or Chris or Ray or any of us. And, as much as it offends your freewheeling sensibilities, Gene, I think that sticking to the rules — at least, to the spirit of the rules — is the best way of keeping us alive. We’re not here to take undue risks, we’re not here to dish out justice from the end of a gun, and we’re certainly not here to make ourselves feel more like real men.’

  ‘That’s what you think I’m about, is it?’ Gene asked, without sarcasm. He seemed to genuinely want to know. ‘You think I’m trying to prove something?’

  ‘Sometimes, Guv, yes.’

  Gene thought about this, nodded to himself, and said, ‘I was right about you Tyler. You do talk and think a right load of shite.’

  Sam sat back in his seat. He’d tried. He really had.

  ‘Right, boyo, let’s get our minds back on the job,’ said Gene. ‘Keep your eyes fixed on the Deerys’ gaff. Let me know the moment you see anything.’

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Gene, fishing out a folded copy of the Mirror and flicking it open. ‘I want to catch up on me paperwork.’

  He disappeared into the sports pages. Sam shook his head — then his eye was caught by the front page of Gene’s paper.

  TUC CALLS FOR MASS STRIKE ACTION IN PROTEST AGAINST PRICE RISES AND PAY RESTRAINTS — OVER 1.5 MILLION WORKERS CALLED OUT

  MASSIVE DISRUPTION TO RAIL SERVICES DUE TO INDUSTRIAL ACTION — ASLEF CALLS FOR DRIVERS AND STATION STAFF NOT TO CROSS PICKET LINES

  Protests, mass unrests, trains up the spout. Some things don’t ever change, thought Sam. He continued to skim-read:

  CAR PLANTS, COAL MINES, AND SHIPPING YARDS BROUGHT TO A HALT

  FIRE BRIGADE UNIONS THREATEN MASS INDUSTRIAL ACTION

  ARMY ON STANDBY TO MAN FIRE STATIONS

  COUNTRY ON THE BRINK OF CHAOS

  I vaguely remember all this, he thought: the strikes, the power cuts. I was only four years old — it all seemed like a world away from me back then. I never realized just how bad things got.

  HEATH ADMINISTRATION IN CRISIS TALKS WITH UNIONS

  JACK JONES, LEADER OF THE TRANSPORT AND GENERAL WORKERS’ UNION, WARNS THAT GOVERNMENT WOULD BE ‘FOOLISH TO IGNORE NOT ONLY THOSE PROTESTING TODAY BUT THOSE MILLIONS WHO ARE FED UP WITH THE CONTINUING PRICE RISES’

  ‘Stop reading my bloody paper,’ Gene growled from behind his Mirror.

  Sam obediently fixed his attention on the Deerys’ house. Moments later, he saw the front door open.

  ‘Eh up, Guv, we’ve got movement.’

  A young couple were emerging from the door of Number 14. Michael Deery was a nondescript-looking man — dark-haired, clean-shaven, dressed in a checked, wing-collared shirt and corduroys; his wife Cait had hair like a young Cher — very dark and straight — and wore a beige corduroy pinafore dress that made Sam think of Play School presenters.

  ‘They look so ordinary,’ said Sam. ‘Hard to believe they’re gunrunners for the IRA.’
>
  ‘What were you expecting? T-shirts with “Bugger the British” printed across ’em?’

  Together, the Deerys hauled a heavily taped-up package from the house and stowed it in the boot of the Cresta.

  ‘What do you reckon that is, Guv?’

  ‘It’s not meals on wheels, Sammy-boy, I’ll put money on that,’ muttered Gene.

  The Deerys glanced about, got into their car, and reversed out into the road. Gene chucked his paper into the back seat and started the Cortina.

  ‘Don’t make it obvious we’re tailing them,’ said Sam. ‘Keep it low-key.’

  ‘Is that the way it’s done, is it? Oh, thank you for informing me, Samuel, I was just about to put the blue light on and start beeping me horn.’

  ‘I just meant-’

  ‘I know what you meant, Doxon of Dick Green. Now zip your cakehole and let me drive.’

  They followed the Deerys out of Dowell Road and soon found themselves heading west. Gene trailed them from a distance, at times allowing cars to get between the Cresta and the Cortina, but he never lost sight of them. Once, he jumped a red light to ensure that he didn’t lag behind, and, when a man in a sporty MG blared his horn and yelled at him to watch where he was bloody going, Gene replied with a one-handed gesture.

  ‘We’re heading out of town,’ said Sam.

  ‘Open country — moorland — somewhere deserted away from prying eyes,’ growled Gene. ‘It’s a handover, Sammy, you mark my words.’

  ‘But not necessarily a handover with the IRA.’

  ‘You just won’t drop it, will you, Tyler?’

  ‘As a police officer, I’m obliged to inform my superior officer of my feelings about a given case,’ said Sam.

  Gene shot him a sideways glance. ‘You can’t half be an uptight little twonk, Samuel.’

  They were leaving the grey suburbs of the city and approaching a desolate, flat landscape of drab grass and wind-flattened trees.

  ‘There are fewer cars on the road,’ warned Sam. ‘If we’re going to be spotted it’ll be out here. Ease off, Gene.’

  ‘And risk losing them? No way.’

  ‘We’ll lose them anyway if they realize we’re following them.’

  ‘Tyler, I would appreciate it if you stopped addressing me like I was new to policing. I have done this sort of thing before, you know.’

  ‘Guv, if you’re right and they’ve got explosives in that car, they’ll be on red alert for a police tail. Just ease off, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Gene grudgingly pulled over. They watched the Deerys’ car moving away along the road — and then, quite suddenly, after a hundred yards or so, it turned and vanished behind a scrappy knot of trees and did not reappear.

  ‘That’s it,’ breathed Gene. ‘That’s the rendezvous.’

  ‘There’s a white van coming up behind us,’ said Sam.

  Gene sat bolt upright in his seat, his senses tingling, nerve endings crackling.

  ‘That’s the contact,’ he muttered as the van drew closer. ‘I can feel it. I can smell it.’

  And Sam knew, in the marrow of his bones, that Gene was right. The guv was on form. The booze had not dulled him, nor had the sixty Rothmans a day diminished him. He was a racist, sexist, borderline-alcoholic Neanderthal who flagrantly disregarded protocol and basic human rights — but, whatever Gene Hunt was made of, it was the right stuff for a good copper.

  The white van rattled past the parked Cortina. They caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver as he went by.

  ‘See that, Sam? See what he was wearing?’

  ‘I saw, Guv. Little round glasses. Just like the gunman yesterday.’

  As they watched, the white van turned off the road and disappeared into the same copse of trees as the Deerys.

  ‘Still convinced there’s no connection between yesterday’s little shindig and the IRA, Sam?’ Gene asked, firing the ignition and creeping the Cortina stealthily forward.

  ‘To be honest, Guv, no, I’m still not convinced.’

  ‘You should be. We know the Deerys are couriers for the IRA. They don’t ship in guns and bombs just to hand ’em out like Smarties.’

  ‘Still doesn’t explain the red hand on the wall,’ said Sam.

  ‘Bollocks to the red hand on the wall. I want that John-Lennon-faced bastard, Tyler — I want him. He ain’t giving us the slip again, not today he ain’t. I’m gonna have him and his cargo of whiz-bangs safe and sound in my lockup by teatime, ’coz that’s what real coppers do, Sammy-boy, they nick villains — and you can use a red-painted finger to shove the meaning of the mystery F up your word-puzzling, crossword-solving arse, Tyler. Am I communicating my sentiments with sufficient clarity, mm?’

  ‘Sometimes, Guv,’ said Sam, ‘you’re on the cusp of being some sort of poet.’

  ‘Only a poet of justice, Sammy-boy,’ Gene intoned as he edged the Cortina forward. ‘Now, stop talking like a ponce and let’s nick ourselves a murdering IRA scumbag.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HANDOVER

  Gene killed the engine and let the Cortina idle silently to a stop.

  ‘So what’s the plan now?’ whispered Sam.

  ‘We sit here and do the crossword,’ Gene whispered back. ‘What do you think, Tyler you dope? We get over there and cop a gander. Don’t make a sound. Don’t even fart.’

  Gene slipped silently out of the Cortina, and Sam followed him, crouching low as they made their way to the knot of trees up ahead. Through the branches they could make out the side of the white van, parked just off the road; closer still, they began to make out voices.

  ‘We want proof you haven’t done anything.’ It was a male voice, the accent richly Northern Irish. Surely it was Michael Deery.

  ‘Because if you have done something, you’ll regret it, you bastard — I swear to God, you’ll regret it.’ Female. Irish. That was Cait.

  A very different voice replied, ‘The trouble with you types is that you’re too used to getting your own way. You think you can intimidate everyone. Well — not me. Not us.’

  This third voice was English — very English. It had the tones of a middle-class Southerner, not the usual voice of an IRA hitman. Sam and Gene, crouching unseen amid the trees, exchanged a glance, then crept closer.

  ‘I’m not making threats, Cowper,’ Michael said. His voice was tight and constrained, as if he were speaking through gritted teeth. Barely suppressed violence crackled from him. ‘I’m not threatening ya, I’m tellin’ ya. If you bastards do anything — anything at all — we’ll be after you, you hear? And not just you. We’ll be after your kids. We’ll be after your families. We’ll dig up your parents’ bloody graves and desecrate them an’ all. We’ll rip your stinkin’, filthy houses down with all you bastards inside ’em, and burn ’em to ashes, and bury ’em under lime. Everything you are, everything you hold dear, will be blown to pieces — by us — by me.’

  ‘I find all that most fanciful,’ laughed Cowper. ‘But, really, you can keep your hair on, both of you. We haven’t done anything untoward. Not a thing. Not yet, we haven’t.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Cait suddenly cried out.

  ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’ve kept our side of the bargain. We want proof you ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘I don’t have any proof,’ said Cowper.

  ‘Then get proof!’ spat Cait.

  Cowper sighed, theatrically, and said in a weary voice, ‘We appear to be going round in tedious circles. I can’t offer you any proof of anything. I can only offer you my word. And that, I know, means nothing to you. But really — why would we damage our prize asset when it’s paying such dividends for us? We are very happy with the situation at present and see no reason to change it. So, if you’ll be so kind, shall we get on to the business at hand? I’d like to see the goods. I take it they’re in the boot of your car?’

  ‘You get nothing from us until we get proof you ain’t done nothing.’

  Hiding b
ehind a tree, Sam peered out. He could see the Deerys standing by the open boot of their car, Cowper positioned across from them, his shoulder resting against the side of his van, round glasses glinting. Even from a distance, Sam could feel the air between Cowper and the Deerys fizzing with animosity. Hatred seemed to spark like electricity from Cait Deery’s icy, glaring eyes; Michael Deery’s jaw muscles were tensing convulsively, his hands balling into tight fists, as if he were about to spring forward and beat the living crap out of the Englishman at any moment. But Cowper was relaxed, half-smiling, a man very much in control, showing not the least sign of being alarmed or threatened. Sam examined him closely. He was young, with fair hair that reached the collar of his denim jacket; his face was lean, intelligent, made more studious by the round-lensed glasses that perched high on his narrow nose.

  Cowper … Cowper …

  Sam was turning the name over and over in his mind, seeing if he could place it. But it meant nothing to him.

  ‘My patience is wearing perilously thin,’ Cowper said, and a hard edge had crept into his tone. He glared at Cait and Michael in turn. ‘In fact, I’m starting to suspect some sort of subterfuge.’

  ‘We just want to know the-’

  ‘I know full well what you want. And you know full well my answer. Why can’t you understand the situation? You have no bargaining power over us. None whatsoever. You will comply with the terms of our arrangement, and you will do so without argument or complaint. Now, if you don’t hand over what’s ours, I’ll report back that you’re failing to cooperate. You know what’ll happen. And you don’t want that to happen, do you? Of course not. So let’s get on with the business of the day, shall we? I trust you’ve brought the merchandise with you. Would you be so kind as to let me take a peek, please?’

  After a tense pause, the Deerys leant into the boot of their car and together hauled out the package.

  ‘I want to see inside,’ said Cowper mildly.

  ‘It’s what you asked for,’ said Michael.

  ‘I’m sure it is. But no harm to make sure.’

  ‘You think we’d risk anything?’ snapped Cait. ‘You’d think we’d be so stupid?’