by Roger Pearce
‘If the bugs were in here on Sunday they’ll have the lot, for sure,’ said Justin. ‘And there’s something else you have to think about as well, boss.’
Kerr was looking around, as if he might find another microphone Justin had missed. ‘Go on.’
‘Your daughter. They’ll know Gabi stays here.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Kerr sounded as if he had already considered that possibility, but his eyes were still scanning the room. ‘I’ll give that some thought. So you think I’m clear now?’
‘As of this moment completely sterile. I’ll do another sweep in a couple of days.’
‘And they’ll know we found them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Justin. ‘Looks like we just upped the ante.’
Kerr showered, changed into jeans and a white T-shirt and made mugs of ginger and lemon tea. He handed one up to Justin and padded, barefoot, into the living room, checking the late headlines on Sky.
The frenetic pace since the bombings meant Kerr had a late night of catching up ahead of him. Now he set his laptop on the dining-table, with papers and other surveillance photographs scattered around it. Alan Fargo had been examining every detail he could steal about the bombing investigation and checking every hour of the surveillance logs. Kerr would work late into the night, going over the data, checking for anything 1830 might have missed and hunting for new leads.
After a few minutes he heard Justin packing away his tools. ‘All done, boss,’ he called, folding the step-ladder.
‘Cheers, Justin,’ said Kerr, walking over to give him a hand. ‘I owe you a pint.’
Justin pointed up at the camera, buried deep in the plaster cornice. ‘Tape’s on a thirty-six-hour loop,’ he said, picking up his toolbox, ‘and I left a couple of spares in the kitchen. If they risk a return visit we’ll have them.’
When Kerr sat down again there was a message in his inbox with an attachment. The sender was simply ‘A Friend’, the subject ‘VERITAS VOS LIBERAVIT’. Kerr opened the envelope. The attachment was a single colour photograph of a man raping a young woman on a couch. Both bodies were naked, with the man on top holding onto the arm and back of the chair. The attacker was heavily built, in his late forties, and visible only from behind and the left side. The girl, in her mid-teens, was arching her head back in a scream, and tears poured down her face.
In the background, almost out of the picture, there was a narrow black iron fireplace, the type that belonged in a bedroom. The mantelpiece was plain but there were tiles down each side in the shape of a trailing plant Kerr did not recognise, edged in small red diamond shapes.
Searching for identifying marks, Kerr spotted a gold signet ring on the man’s left hand, reflected in a mirror on the facing wall. He zoomed in on the image and could just make out some italicised letters. Squinting at the screen he immediately called Fargo in 1830 and put him on the speaker while he forwarded the email and talked through options around researching names of the great and the bad. ‘I have to know who this guy is, Alan.’
‘I’m looking at it now,’ said Fargo, and Kerr could hear him cursing under his breath. ‘And we need to find out who the hell sent it. I’ll get it out to Justin.’
‘He just left here,’ said Kerr, ‘so he’ll still be on the road back to the workshop.’
Waiting for Fargo to get back to him, Kerr played with the laptop, fruitlessly trying to identify the originator, before conceding it was a job for Justin’s team. Then he wasted fifteen minutes zooming into every fragment of the image, studying each detail of the bodies and surroundings, before the solution hit him like a train and sent him speed-dialling Jack Langton.
Langton was with Melanie in the OP in East Ham. ‘Jack, cast your mind back to our visit to Marston Street, when you had a look upstairs.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m trying to place a photograph. Go to the smallest room.’
‘I’m there. And it’s creepy.’
‘Was there an old sofa-bed?’
‘No. Completely empty, like I said.’
‘How about a fireplace?’ He could almost hear Langton’s brain whirring and, in the background, Melanie’s voice as she spoke quietly into the electronic surveillance log.
‘Yup. With honeysuckle painted on square tiles. They stood out because the room was so bare. There was a mirror too.’
‘That’s my next question.’
‘Fixed to the wall. I remember that because the actual glass was in rubbish condition, you know, kind of mottled with the silver backing coming through. But the frame was ornate, all swirly gold, looked like it deserved better. Oh, and there was a crack in the glass, bottom right, I think. How’s that?’
Kerr studied the photograph again, confirming the detail he had already memorised. ‘Spoken like a true surveillance professional.’
‘So what’s the story?’
‘I think we just found our victim.’ Kerr’s BlackBerry showed an incoming call from Alan Fargo. ‘Let me get back to you.’
‘John, I think we’re onto something here,’ said Fargo, straight away. ‘The marking on the ring was a set of initials: “RGA”. I tried Googling it, then gave up and got into the commissioner’s library for the old copies of Who’s Who. Had to go back a few years but there’s a Ralph Godfrey Attwell QC, born 1929.’
‘Too old . . .’
‘. . . and very dead,’ said Fargo, ‘but he has a son, Robert James, under-secretary of state in the Foreign Office.’
Kerr was suddenly alert. ‘Who wears his father’s signet ring?’
‘I reckon so. Hang on a sec.’ Kerr could hear Fargo shuffling books on his desk. ‘I’ve borrowed the lawyers’ list. Robert James Attwell is also a barrister, left Gray’s Inn on secondment to the Civil Service and stayed. And listen to this, he was in the Ministry of Defence for a while but made his name in the Foreign Office. The man’s a specialist in international law, John.’
Forty
Friday, 21 September, 10.43, New Scotland Yard
On Friday morning, Paula Weatherall sat at her desk behind a thick blue ring binder stuffed with briefing papers. Meetings of the Terrorism Committee of the Association of Chief Police Officers, known as ACPO, took place quarterly, each UK region hosting the meetings in rotation. For Weatherall, the expensive dinner in a local hotel the evening before the meeting, usually after a long drive from London, was always a drag. The toasts, vacuous speeches and male pecking order gave it a cliquey, quasi-Freemasonry feel. A glance at the seating plan warned her to expect an evening of sly politicking and red-faced your-room-or-mine sexual harassment.
Next Wednesday’s meeting in Birmingham, she could tell from the agenda, would be even longer than the dinner. She was less than a third of the way through the papers when Donna buzzed. ‘I said no calls.’
In the outer office Donna had Weatherall on the speaker. She raised her eyebrows and winked at Kerr, on his way to see Bill Ritchie next door. ‘It’s the chairman of the National Crime Agency,’ she replied, as Kerr disappeared into Ritchie’s office. ‘Shall I say you’re too busy?’
Weatherall could tell from the echo that Donna was up to her usual games. ‘Of course not. I’ll take it now . . . Sir Theo. Good morning.’
‘Ms Weatherall, hope you’re well? I’m afraid I’m calling for a favour. You have a chap called John Kerr on your books, a career Special Branch detective chief inspector. Expert in highly sensitive investigations, from what I hear.’
Weatherall shifted in her seat. ‘We’re the SO15 Intelligence Unit now.’
‘Of course,’ said Theo Canning, his voice smooth as velvet. ‘I was wondering if you could bear to lose him to me for a couple of months?’
‘A secondment, you mean?’
‘An integrity issue has raised its delicate head in my Agency and I need a trusted specialist from outside to help me nip it in the bud.’
‘That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.’
‘Just the month, then? Paula, isn’t it?’
‘Really? Something more important than our collective fight against corruption?’
Weatherall could feel her face reddening. She imagined Donna outside, listening to every word. ‘Not exactly, but I have to consider what is right for his career development.’
‘Difficult for an officer who punches so far above his weight, and for that alone I believe this would be a great opportunity all round. He’d be acting superintendent over here, so you could make him substantive on return, if you wanted to. Isn’t that right?’
‘It’s not quite as easy as that,’ Weatherall replied defensively. ‘There are processes, Sir Theo, as I’m sure you appreciate. Dotted-line responsibilities to reassign. Our modernised counter-terrorism arrangements are really quite complex.’
‘But this is an issue you might feel able to revisit?’
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ Weatherall said, cursing herself for sounding so flustered and browbeaten. ‘I’ll speak with HR and get back to you.’
‘That’s really decent of you,’ said Canning, as if giving his consent. ‘Any chance of a decision by close of play today?’
Weatherall heard herself mumble something about not being able to give guarantees, but by now Canning was talking as if it was a done deal. ‘Paula, that’s terrific,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be very much in your debt. Have a lovely weekend. Hope to catch up soon.’ By the time Weatherall had marshalled her thoughts to recover lost ground the line was already dead.
In the adjacent office Kerr’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Policy Unit? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I mean, you are joking, aren’t you?’
Ritchie leant forward. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up in combative mode, anticipating Kerr’s reaction. ‘I tried to warn you but you never switch to ‘Receive’, do you?’
‘Powerpoints, organograms and Excel bloody spreadsheets? Bill, when was I ever Mr Pie Chart? This is a fucking punishment posting.’
‘You said it.’
‘I’ve always been operational, you know that. Front line. Up to my neck in muck and bullets.’
‘And often charging down some dead end of your own making.’
Speechless, Kerr shook his head at the absurdity of what he had just heard. He swallowed hard to control his anger and keep his voice calm and controlled. ‘Meaning Ahmed Jibril?’
‘You’ve caused everyone a massive amount of grief.’
‘Eleven people are dead, Bill, including three of our own. Don’t talk to me about grief until you’ve been to visit the families.’
‘You really are so far up yourself,’ said Ritchie, kicking a chair over towards Kerr. ‘And sit down when I tell you to. You told us you returned Jim Metcalfe’s Dragstone database intact. But you opened it, didn’t you? Copied the info?’
‘Of course I did,’ said Kerr, rapidly calculating how Ritchie knew this and whether he needed to protect Alan Fargo. ‘Collecting relevant intelligence was always our job as Special Branch officers, Bill, or have you forgotten?’ He reversed the chair and sat down, leaning on the backrest. ‘But now you mention it, why the hell were MI5 tasking the Bellies at Paddington Green? Metcalfe couldn’t wait to tell me.’
‘MI5 have the lead and choose the targets. You know that as well as I do.’
Kerr’s BlackBerry buzzed and he quickly checked the text while speaking. It was a meeting request in his calendar from Theo Canning for two o’clock, ‘Somewhere neutral. Please call.’
‘So who gave the order to release Jibril so soon?’
‘I don’t know. But you should never have taken Jibril on,’ said Ritchie, reaching for his pile of paperwork. ‘Discussion over.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, actually,’ said Kerr, pressing ‘Accept’. He hesitated, still unsure how much to reveal. ‘I believe another attack is already planned, and letting Ahmed Jibril loose was a monumental screw-up.’ He searched for some understanding in his boss’s face, but saw only anger. ‘You’ve got to place him under surveillance.’
‘No,’ said Ritchie. ‘I have to follow the rules. Jibril is a free man. Finch let him go.’
‘With MI5 all over him, which stinks.’
‘But is nothing to do with us. And I’m certainly not going head to head with Derek Finch.’
‘Jobsworth bullshit.’
‘Like it or lump it,’ said Ritchie. ‘Finch is head honcho and you’re a chief inspector who needs to wind his neck back in. Paula thinks you’re a maverick and she wants you here where she can keep an eye on you.’
‘Paula?’ asked Kerr, looking quizzical. ‘Very cosy. Do you know what they called her in her last job?’
‘Be very careful . . .’
‘‘‘Tsunami’’. Arrived without warning, fucked everything up and disappeared. Oh, and I’ve been burgled, by the way,’ he said, before Ritchie could react. ‘Followed as well, but not very professionally. Trace comes back to the Anti-corruption Unit. Now why would the rubber-heelers be interested in me?’ Kerr waited a moment, but Ritchie’s expression was unreadable. Reaching into his pocket, he threw one of the microphones on the table. ‘Let’s try this, then. It’s more sophisticated than your standard Metcrap anti-corruption issue, so who else has me in the frame?’ He paused again, watching for Ritchie’s reaction. ‘Is that a look of surprise or guilt, Bill? Why don’t we go and see the commander now, ask “Paula” if she can enlighten both of us? Why can’t you be honest with me?’
Ritchie sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Collect your things. You’ll be working three doors away.’
Kerr regarded Ritchie levelly for a few seconds. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s an order.’
‘You going to discipline me?’ said Kerr, standing to retrieve the bug and holding it in Ritchie’s face. ‘No, of course not. So tell Paula thanks for the thought but I need to get this sorted first. Seeing as my own boss isn’t interested.’
Forty-one
Friday, 21 September, 13.51, Victoria Embankment Gardens
When Kerr called back to arrange their meeting away from the office, Theo Canning suggested Victoria Embankment Gardens, a quiet stretch of green alongside the Thames. He returned a missed call from Melanie as soon as he surfaced from the Tube. ‘Anne Harris just rang me from the lab because she couldn’t get hold of you. The DNA trace from Marston Street is Tania’s. Will you let Karl know or do you want me to?’
‘I’ll handle it,’ said Kerr, checking up and down the Strand for surveillance, ‘and I’m telling you to go home. Have a long weekend.’
‘I’m taking Justin to have another crack at Pamela Masters tomorrow, remember?’
‘Jack can do that. Stay home and play with the kids. Rob must be worried about you.’
‘Rob doesn’t know, and don’t you breathe a word.’
To reach the gardens, Kerr took a short-cut past the old Water Gate, built in 1626 as a triumphal entrance to the Thames but now a long way from the river’s edge. He found Theo Canning sitting alone beneath a statue of William Tyndale, most workers having returned to the office after their lunch break. The gardens lay within striding distance of the Inns of Court and a pinstriped barrister was studying a brief, absently twining the red tape around his fingers, robe bag on the bench beside him.
Canning stood as Kerr reached him, eager to be on the move. ‘You look knackered,’ he said, as they strolled around the path. ‘Been overdoing it?’
‘Only at work, unfortunately,’ laughed Kerr.
‘We both need to get out more, my friend,’ said Canning, ‘and you know why I wanted to see you.’
‘Yes, and with all the shit I’m taking, your offer is becoming irresistible.’ Kerr made it sound light, but meant every word. Theo Canning was the only senior person Kerr trusted, and the man with the authority and the desire to re-energise his career. He was transforming the National Crime Agency into a new, level playing field, o
ffering real opportunities to someone untainted by the stale politics and infighting that had mired the early years of its predecessor, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Who knew what they might be capable of achieving? ‘Also, I believe you have some problems in-house.’
Canning’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? So let’s have it. Tell me all.’
Kerr had already briefed his team about Robyn’s sex-trafficking allegations. Now he broke the news to Canning, without disclosing her identity. But it was her claim that a corrupt undercover officer was infiltrating girls into the UK under the cover of his Agency that stopped Canning in his tracks. ‘HMG conniving in the trafficking of sex workers? Aided and abetted by someone in my own organisation?’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, it beggars belief.’
They had reached the east gate alongside the Savoy, where a woman in a burkha and stilettos watched over her two children circling the path on plastic tricycles. They stood aside as the kids careered past their ankles. ‘We have to close this down quickly, Theo, no matter who’s involved.’
From the safety of his plinth, the statue of Robbie Burns glared down on a rough sleeper. ‘This is another hangover from the past. The sort of thing I was telling you about. Fuck, it’s all I need on top of everything else,’ said Canning as they accelerated through the tramp’s stench, ‘but I’m going to investigate it.’ Angry eyes fuelled by heavy-duty lager, the wino was shouting after them now, calling them a pair of bastards. Canning ignored the ranting and stopped to face Kerr. ‘You’ve just told me I may have another big corruption problem inside my organisation. If this story has legs, John, I need you more than ever. I called Paula What’s-her-name to ask if she would release you but she hasn’t rung back yet.’
The children had run back to their mother and Kerr watched the tramp struggle to focus on them. ‘Like I say, Theo, I’m giving it serious thought. Let’s wait and see what she says first.’
‘Of course. But in the meantime I really need to progress this.’ They wandered back towards the Water Gate and Embankment station. ‘I checked on Joe Allenby over at Vauxhall Cross, by the way, as promised. Turns out he’s resigned. Very sudden, but it happens over there a lot, these days. They’re all very tight-lipped about it. Perhaps they bollocked him for passing you the Jibril stuff on the side and he told them to poke it. I’ll try and get some more out of them.’
