by Matt Johnson
‘Did he get a good look at him?’
‘Good enough.’ Parratt pulled a small notebook from his pocket to read from it. ‘White, mid-thirties, with a head of dark, curly hair. Dark jacket, jeans …’
Grahamslaw interrupted. ‘One of the gunmen was knocked down and then shot dead by the ARV driver. That sounds like him.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Sinclair.
‘Nothing of note. The last thing Manning remembers is lying on his back in the road and the smell of doner kebab.’
‘From the shooter?’
‘From the nearby take-away.’
It was gone eight by the time the two detectives headed towards their base at New Scotland Yard. The bags in the lorry had been removed and made safe by the EXPO; the lorry was on a low loader and on its way to the police pound at Lambeth and SO13 Detectives had started house-to-house enquiries.
Of the remaining gunmen, there was no trace.
They had escaped.
Chapter 17
At six-thirty, my deep slumber was suddenly and rudely disturbed by the alarm clock.
I felt as though I had only just fallen asleep. It couldn’t be time to get up already. I felt around in the darkness, my groping hand finally locating the snooze switch.
I rolled slowly onto my back. I had a few minutes to enjoy some quiet thoughts before the day got going. The sun’s rays were squeezing through the gaps in the curtains and the birds were singing. Somewhere I could hear a cockerel crow. He didn’t know it was only half six in the morning.
There were scraping sounds in the loft above the window. It was mother swallow as she arrived to feed her brood. Many times I had thought to block up their entrance to prevent the mess, but each year as summer came and the swallows appeared in the sky above the cottage, I mellowed. I guessed this was their home as much as ours.
Jenny lay fast asleep beside me. Even in her sleep, she was smiling. Her face had been like that ever since the day of my interview with Hugh Kinnoch and my return home with the news that my transfer request had been approved. Life as a policeman’s wife was hard enough normally, but being married to a guardian of the royal family had become too much of a sacrifice.
Things had started to go wrong when our daughter, Becky was born. I’d been at Balmoral when Jenny had telephoned to tell me her waters had broken. I had made it to Addenbrooke’s maternity with only an hour to spare. Jenny had driven herself to the hospital.
In fact, I would have missed the birth but for a chance conversation being overheard by the Queen Mother. Next thing, this very grateful protection officer was being rushed on to her personal helicopter and flown south in time to make the birth.
It was a girl, and a prettier little child you couldn’t wish to see. From the moment that the midwife handed newborn to father, I knew that my life was about to change. The love I felt was instant and consuming. Bright blue eyes gazed at and scanned the features of only the third human being they had ever seen. We took in each other’s faces and then returned to the eyes. I had a sense of being studied, by a child that saw the past. Then I realised, of course, it was not the child who was gazing into the past, it was me that was looking at the future. Our future.
Less than an hour after Becky was born, I was climbing into that same helicopter on my way back to Scotland.
The experience of nearly missing the birth of our daughter triggered a change in Jenny’s attitude to my work and the impact on our family life. Where she had been fully supportive and happy for us to enjoy the limited time that our jobs allowed us to be together, she became increasingly resentful of my absences.
I understood, even though I handled it badly at times. We argued and then I had to accept the subsequent periods of silence. Jenny had given up her job to become a full-time mother and expected me, not unreasonably, to make similar compromises with my career.
My problem was that I enjoyed the excitement and the prestige that came with being a member of the Royalty Protection Team. I made excuses, put things off. But eventually, two years after Becky’s birth, I came around.
And having made the decision, I was pleased I’d done so. When I showed Jenny my application to return to uniform duty she threw her arms around my neck, squeezing so hard that I actually began to feel faint.
Almost overnight, the rows ended. It was as if a cloud had been lifted from our relationship.
This past weekend, in particular, had been idyllic. My mother had turned up unexpectedly on the Saturday morning, offering to babysit. At least, I thought it was unexpected.
Jenny suggested we pack a picnic and then borrow two horses from a nearby livery yard. I had never been a very good rider but I enjoyed a good hack through the local villages and along the network of bridal paths. Jenny’s family had always owned horses; she had practically been raised on horseback and was on a pony before she could walk. I trotted along behind her taking the chance to admire the way her jodhpurs enhanced her beautiful curves.
The picnic was relaxed. The horses grazed. Jenny produced a bottle of chilled Bordeaux from a wine cooler hidden in her back pack and we sat down on the grass for a good heart-to-heart chat.
She wanted to know about Stoke Newington, having heard on the news about a PC being shot there the previous week. I knew very little about what had happened, only that a couple of cops on patrol had stopped some Irish lads out to plant a lorry bomb and that one PC and one terrorist had been killed.
Our conversation moved onto my thoughts about leaving Royalty Protection. She needed to know that what she wanted was all right with me. It was. Reassured, she cuddled up to me and we fell asleep in the warm sun.
A short while later, I was woken up by the painful sensation of an ear of barley pushed up my left nostril. I sneezed and saw Jenny standing over me.
She leaped onto my chest and sat astride me. ‘I suppose you think it’s time to go home?’ she said, squealing as I pinched the inside of her thigh.
I had seen the glint in her eye and the warmth of her smile. God, she was hot. I knew what she wanted. As she started to unbutton her blouse I saw that she had already removed her bra. Her breasts bobbed over me as she buried my face in her cleavage. The scent of her perfume consumed my senses.
Jenny made love in the same way as she rode, fast and furious. I knew she found the risk of us being disturbed an additional turn-on and I was more than happy to oblige. She practically tore my clothes off in her excitement. We climaxed together, our cries startling the horses.
Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms for nearly an hour. No words were spoken, the closeness of our bodies saying it all. I knew that she was looking forward to seeing more of me. I thanked my lucky stars that I had found her in the first place.
I thought back to how we had met. Our romance had been a real whirlwind. She was only just divorced and I had never been married. We met at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend who specialised in matchmaking. That time she had got it right.
From that first meeting I had been attracted to Jenny’s carefree spirit. Despite having a responsible job with a major London bank, she had a spontaneous, happy-go-lucky attitude to life that seemed to offer me an antidote to the serious side of my nature. Where I was responsible, she was playful. Where I liked to plan, she was impulsive. She made life fun. In turn, she was drawn to aspects of my character that I had thought the least attractive.
As a soldier and policeman I was an adventurer in a glamorous role. It was the kind of image that attracted women, but often they couldn’t stick the reality and police marriages frequently ended in failure. Jenny, it transpired, wasn’t swayed by my flashy profession. She liked me because she saw me as reliable, stable and conscientious.
We were a good match.
I remember the day Jenny read a quote to me from Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. She described me as a classicist, directed toward getting things done properly; and herself as a romanticist, more concerned with enjoying each moment. I neve
r did get around to reading that book.
We met in the November, married in June and by October the following year, we were parents.
Her impulsive side won the day.
Chapter 18
The hot shower reinvigorated my body and brought my thoughts back to the present.
As I emerged I caught the smell of freshly grilled sausages and bacon. Jenny had woken, too. Breakfast was on the go. I strolled into the kitchen.
‘Go and dry yourself. You’ll soak the floor … and put some clothes on.’ Jenny laughed as she caught my naked rump with the tea towel. I disappeared back into the bathroom, sharpish.
I re-emerged, dried and groomed, with a broad grin across my face. Tea and breakfast were laid out on the table.
‘This is the business,’ I rubbed my hands together. ‘Am I going to get this treatment every day before work?’
‘No, you bloody well will not, you cheeky beggar, this is a treat for your first day,’ Jenny retorted, sitting down beside me.
‘Is Becky still asleep?’ I asked. Our daughter’s usual habit was to wake before the local rooster.
Jenny winked at me. ‘Be grateful Robert, at least I get some time alone with you.’
‘Well, you should be seeing a lot more of me now,’ I said, as I tucked into my food. ‘You might even catch me coming home in uniform once in a while.’
‘Is that a promise?’ Jenny gave me that look again and then laughed as I poked the end of a sausage out from between my lips.
She seemed to enjoy making love to me in uniform. There must have been something about it, the feel of the cloth or my appearance, which allowed her to escape into fantasy. She’d told me that she wished she had known me when I had been a soldier.
I did my best to avoid the topic. The more we talked about the army the more I had to lie. I hated lying to Jenny. She was one person I just wished I could tell, but all it would take would be one slip, one careless remark. Then I’d be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
Jenny had told me several times she would have liked to have seen a picture of me in my dress uniform. But, thanks to the temper of an old girlfriend I had very few photographs. I could live with that. But what did make me sad was that Becky would never see them either. Jenny said that she was bound to want to know about my past, what I had done, where I had been. Now, there was very little to show her and even less I could tell her.
‘If it’s all right with you,’ I said. ‘I’ll use your jalopy to drive into London. I wouldn’t want to leave the Audi on some of the streets in Stoke Newington.’
Jenny agreed. She had never really got used to the little 2CV Citroen. The bigger car was comfortable and roomy. I reckon she hoped that I would stick with the idea.
After breakfast I transferred my cleaned and pressed police uniform into a mixture of holdalls and carrier bags and loaded up the car. By eight o’clock, I was on the A1 heading south. At nine-fifteen I was parking in a street behind Stoke Newington Police Station.
I stopped, looked up at the impressive, modern building and paused for a moment. A new chapter in my life was about to begin.
Reflection over, I grabbed my bags, slipped my warrant card over my breast pocket to display the ID and walked into the rear station yard.
At the back door I was let in by a young WPC who directed me up the stairs to the Chief Superintendent’s clerk’s office. I found it easily. At the desk was an old PC scribbling away on some paper. I waited for him to look up.
I had seen the type before. Behind his horn-rimmed half-moon spectacles, he had an air of extreme busyness, intolerance and self-importance. People like this PC thought they ran their divisions. He continued scribbling, hardly seeming to acknowledge my existence. I forced a quiet cough, just enough get his attention.
‘I won’t keep you a moment,’ came the terse reply.
He waited several moments before looking up.
‘Right, what can I do for you?’ he, finally asked.
‘Inspector Finlay. I have an appointment to see your chief super at ten. I’ve come a little early to give me a chance to stash my kit.’
The clerk PC stood quickly, his spectacles falling onto the desk. ‘I’m sorry, sir, didn’t realise who you were, you being in plain clothes an’ all. You must be the Inspector from Royalty?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I found it hard to contain my pleasure at his embarrassment. I had no doubt that my treatment would have been quite different had I been a fellow PC.
‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you where your office and locker are. Mr Sinclair is in his office. He’s got Special Branch and the anti-terrorist mob with him, discussing last week’s shooting. Bad business, that.’
He picked up my bags and we headed down the corridor.
‘I read about it – the PC that was wounded, how is he?’ I asked.
‘Looks like he’s gonna be OK. One of those amazing stories: the bullet hit his whistle. If it hadn’t, it would have gone through his heart.’
‘And what about the PC who was killed, was he married?’
‘No, thank God. His parents took it bad, mind. Poor bugger.’
I followed the clerk into a small office on the second floor. There were stains on the walls where notice-boards had once hung. The solitary steel locker hung open, a desk and chair stood pushed into the corner. It was pretty seedy.
The clerk obviously sensed my reaction.
‘I left it as it is – I thought you’d like to arrange things to your taste.’ He rubbed the back of his neck.
‘It’ll do.’ I shrugged off my blazer and hung it on the locker door. ‘Will Mr Sinclair still be available to see me at ten?’
‘I should think so, he’s arranged for the early-turn Inspector to show you around.’
‘Any idea what he’s got lined up for me?’
‘It’s more than my job’s worth to say. If you could be in my office for about five to, I’ll tell him you’re here.’
I shut the door behind the clerk and turned to survey my new workplace. It wasn’t too bad an office, in fact. The walls were bare, but a white board here, a plant there, the desk and chair moved, the locker in the corner, and it would be fine. Not a bad start; after all, there weren’t many stations in the Met that had the space to allow inspectors their own office.
I unpacked my bags and put on my uniform. I hadn’t worn it for several years but, thankfully, it still fitted perfectly. At my age, I was getting used to the fact that some of my clothing, particularly trousers, seemed to shrink in the wardrobe.
I was back in the clerk’s office with five minutes to spare.
He gave an approving nod on seeing my freshly ironed tunic. ‘That’s better, sir. Now there’s no mistaking who you are.’ He managed a half-smile. ‘Mr Sinclair said to take you straight in as soon as you arrived.’
I followed the clerk into the Chief Superintendent’s office where I was greeted by a giant of a man who stood fully six foot six. I felt dwarfed as he stepped from behind an oak desk.
‘Ian Sinclair. You must be Bob Finlay.’ He extended an open hand to greet me. It felt like David meeting Goliath.
We chatted for over an hour. I warmed to the Chief Super immediately. He was a down-to-earth Scot, straight-talking and sincere. Both his ears were notched and scarred as if his head had been regularly crushed in a rugby scrum. Far from making him ugly, the look only served to complement his warm and benevolent nature.
I learned that I was to take charge of the shift that had lost the PC the previous week. They were early turn that day. Their current Inspector, David Heathcote, was part of an accelerated promotion course and would be taking over as Personnel Inspector to widen his experience.
I detected a note of bitterness in Sinclair’s voice when he mentioned Heathcote’s name, but it was no more than that. Sinclair didn’t seem the type to make his personal feelings known to others.
Our conversation wandered on to other subjects: local problems; the hi
story of the building; mutual acquaintances; but finally Sinclair steered the conversation on to the army. He was curious about my military career and why it had come so quickly to an end.
I gave him the pat story, describing how I had been unfortunate enough to be hit by a sniper’s bullet while on patrol with the Royal Artillery in Northern Ireland. I’d told it so many times it may as well have been true. Sinclair accepted it without question. Not only was it plausible, a check on my police record would confirm it: the file contained no mention of the SAS.
I returned to my office and had just finished unpacking my bags when there was a knock at the door. A fresh-faced young Inspector stood before me.
‘Bob Finlay, I presume.’ The young lad held out his hand.
‘Yes, but you have me at a disadvantage.’
I immediately regretted my choice of words. Did I sound too formal? Perhaps the Royalty posting had made me slightly pompous. I’d have to watch that.
‘David Heathcote,’ said the young Inspector. ‘I’ve come to show you around, introduce you to the key people, that type of thing.’
Introductions over, I followed Heathcote through the door and along the corridor. I struggled to keep up with him. He was a small man with a bustling walk. He obviously knew the inside of the police station like the back of his hand and in no time at all I had lost my bearings. I recalled that there were three floors and a basement, the CID office and the canteen, all of them, as well as the stairways and corridors between, filled with people. This was a busier division than I had ever worked on before, and by the time we reached the PCs’ writing room I was totally confused. Next to my enthusiastic, newly promoted peer, I felt very middle aged.
Tour concluded, we adjourned to the canteen. I bought the teas and sat down opposite my guide.
‘Nice building; everything new?’ I asked.
