Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  Forty-eight

  Tuesday, 25 September, 19.38, Bill Ritchie’s house

  Kerr intended to drive straight home from the Fishbowl. Cruising down Finchley Road while Melanie trailed behind, watching his back for any new surveillance, he tried to relax with Magic FM, but the anxiety that had been washing over him since the Blue Global revelation would not let go.

  He pulled in on a double red outside a kebab takeaway near Seven Sisters and switched off the radio. The road was broad, straight and well lit, so he waved Melanie past, confident of spooking any suspicious vehicles. Couples were already queuing outside the cinema farther up the road, tailing back almost level with his car. In his mirror a bus in the designated lane was flashing him as the stationary Alfa forced it into the main carriageway. The driver honked and gave him the finger but Kerr, deep in thought, kept his eyes straight ahead.

  The interpretation of the message Justin had stolen from inside Jibril’s water heater changed everything. He and Alan Fargo now understood the code ‘13 + ED-TA - 4’. The key, buried in the Blue Global, had converted suspicion about another attack involving Ahmed Jibril into a conviction. Every hour counted.

  Three youths were leaving the shop with kebabs, attracted by the noise from the bus and eyeing up Kerr’s illegally parked car. One picked out a soggy piece of tomato and tossed it at the Alfa. They laughed and jeered as it hit with a faint splat and drifted down the windscreen, but Kerr was so absorbed that this, too, scarcely registered.

  He had to balance the protection of his team as they developed their secret investigation with his duty to protect the public from another bombing. If more jihadis attacked before they reached the truth, all his work would count for nothing. Knowing he could have prevented an atrocity, he would carry another burden of guilt for the rest of his life.

  The discovery that morning in the peace and quiet of Dodge’s safe-house also left Kerr feeling even more isolated. He knew his team trusted his judgement; they depended on him, and he had never let them down. Now, sitting quietly in the Alfa, anxiety stirred deep in the pit of his stomach. With every danger sign his team uncovered, he had never been in greater need of someone in authority he could trust. But for him there was no back-up, no higher level of support.

  Through the smeared windscreen Kerr saw that the youths had given up on him, distracted by some shivering jailbait outside the cinema. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. His sense of duty left him no choice. The kids looked round again, startled, as he gunned the engine and squealed a U-turn.

  Bill and Lyn Ritchie lived in Margaret Thatcher’s old constituency of Finchley, north London. Their spacious four-bedroom 1930s semi was in a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac opposite a well-maintained park. The last time Kerr had been there, Ritchie had organised a party for the Special Branch Irish Squad after another Real IRA defeat in London, and the same ancient Merc had been parked on the drive.

  Kerr looked apologetic as Lyn Ritchie opened the door, but her face lit up. ‘John, what a nice surprise. Come in,’ she said, as he kissed her on both cheeks.

  He could hear the TV from the living room. ‘Sorry, Lyn. Is he around?’ he asked, glancing past her down the hall.

  ‘Of course. Bill!’ she called, pushing open the door. ‘It’s John – John Kerr.’

  In baggy green cords, open-necked check shirt and slippers, Ritchie was relaxing in his armchair with a glass of red wine. The decoration was tasteful and contemporary, with fresh wallpaper, a clutch of original watercolours and the kind of cream carpet parents daren’t risk until the kids have moved out. Lyn’s white wine was on a table beside the double sofa and, as Ritchie stood up, Kerr found himself wondering whether they spoke to each other or left it all to the TV.

  There was an awkward moment as Ritchie flicked the mute button and pointed Kerr into Lyn’s place. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  The cushion was still warm as Lyn picked up her own glass and offered him a drink. ‘Red, thanks,’ he said, with a brief smile.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ said Ritchie, as soon as they were alone.

  ‘Sorry to mess up your evening.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ said Ritchie, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘I’m going to. If I’m right, something terrible is about to kick off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. But what I have to say can’t wait any longer.’ Kerr leant forward and placed his own glass carefully on the coffee table. ‘I’ve had my team working on Jibril. Seeing as no one else is.’

  Ritchie flushed. ‘Against my direct order. And your assurance.’

  ‘So I lied. But there’s too much at stake here. We’ve been working non-stop on him. And turning up some other things you really need to know about.’

  Lyn returned with a glass of red for Kerr and a refill for Ritchie. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, sensing the atmosphere and closing the door on them.

  ‘Look, what we’re uncovering goes way beyond Ahmed Jibril. What would you say if I told you a clique of our great and good are getting their rocks off at sex parties where they rape girls trafficked from Turkey? Boys, too, probably.’

  ‘I’d say produce your sources.’

  ‘I’m already halfway there,’ he said, driving forward on a roll. ‘They’ve murdered at least one of their victims.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Ritchie punched straight back. ‘You need to get back in line, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Have this for starters.’ Kerr reached into his jacket pocket and held up a copy of the photograph sent to his inbox at home six days earlier. ‘The rapist is a Foreign Office lawyer called Robert Attwell. Alan Fargo identified him for me. He’s a specialist in international law. These days he works directly to the Europe minister. I believe Attwell is being blackmailed.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ said Ritchie, reaching out.

  Kerr slipped the photograph back into his pocket. ‘Someone sent it to me. Anonymously. Would you have believed me if I hadn’t shown you? No?’ He slowly shook his head in dismay. ‘Bill, if you’re holding the lid down on any of this, you have blood on your hands . . .’

  ‘That’s complete crap.’

  ‘. . . you and whoever’s pulling your strings.’

  Kerr expected another verbal punch, but Ritchie seemed to have run out of things to say. An outsider would have said he looked deflated, anxious and tired, but Kerr knew he was still capable of deception, his features honed to a blank canvas by decades of intelligence work. The phone broke into the silence from the hallway as Kerr tried again.

  ‘I have to know what turned you against me, Bill? Or who? Why did Weatherall set the dogs on me?’ He paused, but Ritchie’s expression was unreadable, eyes darting away to the TV screen. ‘Is it Philippa Harrington? She’s been raving to get me pulled back into line, which I presume you know about.’ They stared at each other in silence, the air filled with mistrust. ‘Look, some bad people are doing a number on me. I need back-up.’

  ‘So back off. Do something sensible for a change.’

  ‘Why the great cover-up, Bill?’ Outside in the hallway they heard Lyn laugh as she took the call.

  ‘When I last checked you were my guy running Covert Ops,’ said Ritchie, his eyes drifting to the silent screen again. ‘Why don’t you just get on with the job we pay you for?’

  Kerr’s sixth sense began whispering to him again, so he reached for his wine to break the rhythm and slow things down. The visit to his boss’s house had been impetuous and now he was playing catch-up, calculating how much it was safe to reveal. He took a deep breath. ‘So, have some more. Ahmed Jibril’s safe-house comes up in connection with Syrian state-sponsored terrorism in the eighties. Remember the Hindawi case?’

  ‘What the hell are you getting yourself into?’

  Kerr carefully revealed the linkages his team had made between Jibril’s safe-house and the house in Marston Street, and the role of Julia Bakkour’s law firm in drawing
up the leases for both. He explained Alan Fargo’s clever identification of Omar Taleb, whose number had been found on Jibril’s Sim card, as Syrian Secret Service officer Rashid Hussain. ‘Who buried the microphones in my flat, Bill? If any of this leads back to Hussain, I’m under threat from the hostile agent of a foreign power.’

  ‘I don’t deal in speculation, or have you forgotten everything I ever taught you? How about some concrete evidence?’

  ‘What – so you can check how much I know?’ Kerr sat back in the armchair, crossed his legs and drank his wine, weighing the risk. ‘All right,’ he said, taking a step into the unknown, ‘here’s a name you’ll recognise. How about Claire Grant, Home Office minister? Ahmed Jibril’s visa was signed off in her name, under Home Office cover.’

  This time Ritchie’s reaction was unambiguous. He jolted forward in his armchair. ‘How the hell did you find that out?’

  ‘So it’s true? I’ve touched a nerve, haven’t I, Bill?’ snapped Kerr. ‘Is that expression anger or surprise? Are you furious because I know?’

  ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’

  ‘Or shocked because you don’t? If Jibril is a terrorist, why did he receive the kid-glove treatment? Oh, and you know about the kidnap of the politician’s daughter?’

  ‘I read the paper.’

  ‘Grant is screaming for updates on Sara Danbury every two minutes. But I suppose that’s just another coincidence in your book.’

  Ritchie was wearing his belligerent look, but even if it was genuine it gave away nothing about the extent of his own knowledge. In the hallway outside Kerr heard Lyn finish her call, then clattering in the kitchen as she emptied the dishwasher. Ritchie’s body language left Kerr mystified, the eyes betraying nothing about the clever brain whirring behind them. Was it controlled anger at being confronted in his home, or genuine sorrow at Kerr’s career suicide?

  It was the latter. Ritchie folded his arms. ‘All right. I was going to tell you tomorrow, but you might as well know now. Paula’s offered you up to the National Crime Agency for a month, starting Monday. You report to Theo Canning for a briefing at five tomorrow.’

  ‘A month. Then what?’ Kerr’s BlackBerry was vibrating with Robyn’s name on the screen.

  ‘Do you need to answer that?’ said Ritchie.

  Kerr pressed ‘Ignore’. ‘I said, what happens to me then, Bill?’

  Ritchie sat in silence for a moment. His eyes were flickering to the TV again. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I’m not coming back? Sacked? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Commander’s on her way to Birmingham. It’s out of my hands. She’s transferring you out of SO15.’

  ‘For doing my job? I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Especially from you.’ Kerr’s phone was buzzing again, this time with voicemail and text. He read Robyn’s message: ‘Can’t raise Gabi. Very worried. CALL NOW.’

  Ritchie must have seen the anxiety in Kerr’s face. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s personal,’ said Kerr, already heading for the door. ‘Why should you give a toss?’

  Forty-nine

  Wednesday, 26 September, 13.11, St Benedict’s Independent School for Girls, Berkshire

  When she had first joined St Benedict’s, Pamela Masters would spend the lunch hour overseeing the girls in the refectory, then snatch half an hour in the staff-room before the afternoon bell. When they had given her the home over the shop she had begun to sneak back to the flat for a sandwich and a bowl of soup while glancing at the lunchtime news. Wednesdays were special because she had no afternoon classes. She might drive into Windsor to watch a movie, or spend the extra time preparing something exotic for her evening meal.

  She was still breathless from the climb up the narrow stairs when she flicked on the TV. She froze with shock, but recovered in time to press ‘Record’ on the video. She had caught the end of a news item about the disappearance of Sara Danbury.

  The Home Office minister for police and security was making a statement on behalf of the child’s parents, according to the on-screen text. Eyes glued to the TV, Pamela felt behind her for the footstool and perched on the edge, transfixed by the voice and face of the woman she hated more than anyone in the world. ‘As I have already made clear, the loss of any child is a terrible thing,’ Claire Grant was saying, ‘and each new day Sara is missing brings unimaginable torture for the family. Michael and Selina Danbury will not be giving interviews at this time and are waiting at home for news. As a parliamentary colleague for many years, and as the minister responsible for keeping our communities safe, I want to make it absolutely clear that the police are doing everything possible to return Sara to her family safe and well. You people in the media always deride the so-called Westminster Village,’ she concluded, with a thin smile and a tilt of the head, ‘but at times like this, I like to think it comes into its own.’

  Masters played the video over and over. With each repeat the truth dawned more starkly. ‘You cow,’ she murmured to herself, ‘you perverted fucking murderous bitch.’ She knelt on the floor inches from the screen to examine every tic in Grant’s face, each nuance in the voice. Eventually she hauled herself to her feet, turned off the TV and stared at her shaking hands. She needed a drink. She rushed into the kitchen, but the cupboard was bare. Grabbing her coat and keys, she hurried downstairs.

  She kept her car, a maroon Nissan Micra, in an old stable block across the yard from the netball court. She had bought it from the local showroom when she had joined St Benedict’s, a new car for a fresh start in life. It was her pride and joy and she drove it into town every Sunday morning to be hand-washed and valeted in the supermarket car park.

  The town was three miles to the east, reached by a pleasant drive through woodland. It was a bright autumn day and normally Pamela Masters loved the changes that accompanied each season. But today, speeding at a steady fifty-five because she was so agitated, she hardly noticed the leaves starting to turn on the horse chestnuts. The town was little more than a high street of shops and two petrol stations, with a church at one end and a couple of pubs at the other, just before the supermarket. Because it lay on the route to Windsor, traffic was always heavy, and there was a more or less permanent campaign for a bypass.

  Parking bays were set diagonally to the street and she veered into the one remaining space on her side. She locked the car and hurried into the off-licence, only a few paces away. As the air was warm the shopkeeper had wedged the door open, and the explosion hit her as she paid for her litre of vodka. There was a massive bang, which shook the whole shop, then a whistling punctuated by loud cracks, like a giant firework going off. She saw the shopkeeper duck behind the counter, then a flash, and a heatwave blasted straight through the shop. She dashed to the doorway and looked out. Her beloved car was a cube of orange metal engulfed in fire. The upper branches of an adjacent ash tree were alight, and acrid black smoke billowed from the flaming tyres. The fire inside the car was intensifying into a fierce burn as it consumed the velour upholstery and the last of the petrol. People young and old were running to escape the danger, some screaming, all of them terrified.

  Farther up the street she saw lunchtime drinkers drift out of the pub with their pints to enjoy the spectacle in the sunshine. Fucking rubberneckers, she thought. Someone’s just tried to kill me and all you can do is laugh. But then, even as the shopkeeper dialled 999, the rational side of her brain took over. Carrying her vodka in its plastic bag, she walked calmly away from her car to the taxi rank on the other side of the street, next to the bookmaker’s, for a lift back to school. By the time the fire crew arrived from the next town and directed the first hose onto her wreck of a car she was climbing the stairs to her flat again.

  Masters acted quickly. She kept her coat on and rang the receptionist to ask if she could borrow her car for the afternoon, lying that the Micra was being serviced. She took a slug of vodka straight from the bottle and tipped the contents of her
handbag over the floor in search of Melanie’s scribbled mobile number. ‘I have to see you today,’ she demanded, after the beep on Melanie’s voicemail. ‘It’s two-fifteen and I’m driving to Scotland Yard now because this can’t wait a moment longer so you have to be there.’

  Locked into her desk drawer, a brown A4 envelope contained such a terrible reminder of her past that she could not bear to open it. She made a brief second call on her mobile, unlocked the drawer, seized the envelope, and dashed down the stairs to collect the keys to the receptionist’s ancient Ford Fiesta.

  It was her first trip to London by car for years. She had to stop for fuel and forgot about the congestion charge. It took her twenty minutes to find a parking space in Buckingham Gate, and by the time she reached the Yard she was in a permanent hot flush.

  Unkempt in jeans and sweatshirt, hair tied back, Melanie was also under pressure in East Ham, watching for signs of increased activity, a precursor to the second attack the team feared was imminent. Just before Pamela Masters had called, she had been on the phone with Kerr, who had wanted to update her on Gabi. Unable to contact his daughter the previous night, Kerr said he had spent part of the morning tracking down her flatmates. Neither could shed any light on her whereabouts. She often disappeared for a few days, they said, sometimes telling them she was going to his place for a stopover. Neither seemed alarmed, and both assured Kerr she would just turn up. So far as they knew, Gabi had no current boyfriend and was cool about everything.

  Kerr told Melanie he was troubled by the possibility his apartment might have been bugged before his team meeting the Sunday after the bombings. If it had been, the eavesdroppers would know Gabi was his daughter and stayed with him. He told her he had kept this fear from Robyn, but was pressing her to remember any Facebook and Twitter messages Gabi had shown her.