by Matt Johnson
‘Started April 1988 and finished May 1990, just four weeks behind schedule,’ Heathcote answered precisely.
‘The people that work here like it?’
‘There have been a few problems. They’ll get used to it soon enough, though.’
The hint of arrogance in Heathcote’s confident explanations gave me a clue to the bitter tone I had heard earlier in Sinclair’s voice. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Heathcote was very intolerant of people whose ideas were at odds with his own.
‘You’re ex-Royalty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I replied. Many people seemed to find the role of a protection officer fascinating. I knew what was coming and I was right. I wondered if my fake smile gave away my real thoughts.
‘What’s it like being that close to Royalty?’
I resisted the temptation to be facetious. ‘You get used to it. They realise you have a job to do so they carry on with their lives as if you weren’t there. They’re normally very easy to get along with and if they have a wobbly you just keep out of their way.’
‘There must be a lot of perks.’
‘Not thinking of putting in for it are you?’
‘No, just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Well, I won’t miss it.’ I emptied my cup and stood. ‘Nice to meet you, David, perhaps you could introduce me to your relief before they go off?’
‘Sure. They’ll gather outside the station office at about two. I’ll see you then.’
At five to two, Heathcote introduced me as the relief’s new Inspector. There were only eight or ten officers going off shift. The rest had prisoners and paperwork.
I noted the way some of the younger ones looked at me and the glances that they exchanged. I guessed what they were thinking. Bit old for this isn’t he?
I wondered if they were right.
Chapter 19
Alma House Flats, Nightingale Estate, Stoke Newington.
No more than ten minutes’ drive from Stoke Newington Police Station, Costello watched closely as Dominic McGlinty put the finishing touches to his latest creation.
A small plywood cigar box lay on the kitchen table in front of Dominic. He wore latex gloves to protect his skin from the toxic effects of the Semtex and to avoid leaving fingerprints. He worked slowly and methodically. The cigar box now had the battery in place and the wiring connected. Next to be fitted was the memo park timer, the gadget motorists use to tell them how long they have left on a parking meter. This would give the volunteer who was to place the bomb time to get away before the device became live.
Micro-switch and resistor in place and he was nearly there. Finally the piéce-de-résistance: the radio receiver that would receive a transmitted signal, complete the circuit and activate the bomb. McGlinty connected the wire to a six-volt lamp and moved to the opposite side of the kitchen.
‘Ready to give it a try?’ said Dominic.
‘Go ahead … make my day,’ Costello laughed.
Dominic switched on the walkie-talkie and pressed the transmit button. The six-volt bulb attached to the time-and-power unit lit up brightly.
Costello grinned. ‘Perfect, just perfect. That’ll give the bastards something to think about. Is the transmitter frequency secure?’
‘As far as I can make it. The runner will be well clear before it goes live and the chances of someone in the area transmitting on the same frequency at that time of the morning are pretty slim.’
‘I hope you’re right, Dominic, we don’t want any more mistakes. This has to kill one man in particular.’
‘I know, I know.’ McGlinty’s fists clenched. ‘For sure, this one’ll be for Seamus.’
Costello headed to the main bedroom. It had been a difficult week. Dominic had taken the death of his brother badly.
When Costello had arrived back at the block of flats after the shootout, Dominic had been hiding in the bushes outside. They had waited for nearly an hour before heading up the stairs to the top floor. All that time, Costello had been mulling over how best to break the news.
In the end, as he had handed a whiskey to Dominic, the look on his face had said it all.
The morning television reports confirmed it. Seamus hadn’t survived.
And neither had the PC who had been following him across the garden fences.
Lucky for me, not so lucky for him, Costello thought.
Chapter 20
My new shift was posted: night duty on the Tuesday.
Starting work at ten o’clock when I would normally be heading off to bed wasn’t a new experience. All officers do shifts for several years, after which most specialise in jobs that work more civilised hours. As a younger man, I hadn’t minded it and had easily handled the effect it had on my sleep patterns. As I drove down the A1 into London, however, I was beginning to question the sanity of a middle-aged Inspector like me going back to this kind of work.
I had spent the day in a leisurely fashion. After a lie-in, I got up at nine, showered and joined Jenny for breakfast. I spent the day watching television and doing some of the little household jobs that I’d been putting off for weeks. The front door had needed some deadbolts, the shower tray had been leaking and the shed door stuck when the weather was damp.
It felt so normal. Up until now I’d had to rush everything. Fit in the odd job here or there. Always on call, never relaxed.
I even found time to play with Becky. If you’ve never seen a grown man on his knees begging a two-year-old girl for a kiss you should have been in our house on that day.
The drive down the A1 was appreciably quieter than in the previous morning’s rush hour. The weather forecast was good. It would be a warm, still night. Rain was expected by the end of the week but not for my first night.
The thought of my first uniform shift in years didn’t excite me. I was too long in the tooth for that. But I did feel a sense of anticipation. Stoke Newington had a reputation as being the busiest police station in the Met, and I was to be in charge, expected to deal with anything that might happen.
I turned on the radio and managed to catch the nine o’clock news. The evacuation of civilians from Sierra Leone still dominated. It made me wonder what the boys from the regiment would be up to. I pushed the feelings of envy to one side almost as soon as they appeared. I’d had my time. Let someone else have his or her turn.
Most of the following news reports went in one ear and out the other. The last item, however, concerned a warning from Al Q’aeda of a new jihad against its old enemies in the West. I wondered if international terrorism would ever come to an end. I had my own ideas about the reasons terrorists continued their activities, none of which gave any credence to their many causes.
Stoke Newington was inner-city London at its worst. Officially the most deprived area in the UK, it looked it. The roads were full of potholes and the area looked tired and dirty. That said, the further into town I drove the busier the streets became. The crowds of people hanging around and the level of traffic were what you might expect at nine-thirty in the morning, not nine-thirty at night.
There were a lot of old cars about. It had been a long time since I’d seen a MKIII Ford Escort and here there were many. Young kids drove painted-up cars with blackened windows, sports packs and music systems that deafened everyone within hearing distance. Once in a while a shiny BMW with polished alloy wheels or a Mercedes cabriolet would roar up and overtake at great speed. Drug dealers, I guessed. Or was I guilty of stereotyping?
I pulled the little Citroen up outside the blue automatic gates to the rear yard of the police station. The heavy doors cranked into motion and swung wide open. I pulled slowly into the yard as one of the response cars roared past me, blue lights and siren switching on as it left the yard. The crew looked very young. I laughed at myself. What’s that they say when the policemen start to look like kids?
I managed to find my new office where I changed into uniform and checked my watch. Nine-forty. Time to check the incoming corresponde
nce tray and see what awaited me on my first night.
A look through the envelopes gave me a good indication of what lay ahead. There was an application from one of the shift Sergeants to transfer to traffic duties and several blank annual appraisal forms with a list of officers due reports. Circulations covered various subjects, from the activities of the crime prevention officer to the concerns of the police consultative group.
One envelope was marked personal. I didn’t recognise the handwriting.
It was a good luck letter from the Chief Super and an apology for throwing me into the deep end so soon after my arrival. Nice touch, I thought. I folded the letter and placed it carefully in my locker.
Chapter 21
‘You must be Bob Finlay.’
I turned to see yet another giant-sized policeman standing in the doorway to the office. There must be something about this place, I figured; they like them big.
‘Keith Carter, welcome to Stoke Newington.’
For nearly ten minutes, I listened attentively as the old hand summarised the incidents of the day for the benefit of the new boy. There was a lot to tell.
Carter, I figured, was about the same age as me and had been at Stoke Newington for a number of years. He told me about a minor demonstration that had occurred outside the police station after two Turkish men had been arrested for their involvement in a protection racket. It was thought locally that the demonstrators might reappear during the night and, as a result, the Chief Superintendent had left instructions that he was to be telephoned at home if this happened.
I laughed. That would impress the boss if I needed to ring him on my first night.
With Carter heading off home, I made my way to the parade room for the pre-shift briefing. In the corridor, I met two of the shift Sergeants. One of them, who introduced himself as Mick Holbrook, agreed to lead the briefing and then drive me around the ground so I could get to know the area.
After parade, we headed out into the station yard and climbed into the duty officer’s car. Holbrook explained that he was also quite new to Stoke Newington, having arrived on promotion to Sergeant after spending several years as a traffic cop. He was a Class One advanced driver, which pleased me no end as within minutes of leaving the yard we were backing up one of the response cars on ‘a shout’.
A PC in the control room was on the telephone to a local resident who had provided a description of a man breaking into a house. The address belonged to a TV actress who had been having well-publicised problems with a stalker. As we hurtled closer to the scene, Holbrook steered the car expertly along the narrow streets at speeds that had my foot reaching for an imaginary brake pedal.
The control room operator transmitted the suspect’s description: green anorak with the hood up, blue jeans and white trainers, last seen climbing out of the window of a house with a bag under his arm.
A male voice came over my personal radio.
‘Golf November from Golf Four, we’ve got a suspect stopped in Green Lanes.’ Golf Four was our area response car.
Holbrook took a sharp left into an even narrower street. Ahead, I could see the flashing blue lights of the stationary police car.
As we pulled up, the boy they had stopped was waving his arms at the two PCs as if trying to brush them away. He wore a green anorak, just as had been described on the radio. There was no bag to be seen.
‘Ain’t you pigs got nuttin’ better to do than stop me?’
The kid’s voice and body language were angry, threatening. He glared at the PCs. From what he was wearing it was my guess that the crew had the right man, it was just a question of what he had actually been up to.
I watched as the young PC patiently asked the youth what he had been doing and where he had come from. The PC glanced at me several times while this was going on. I wondered if he was wondering whether I was here to back him up or assess him. The truth was neither. I was learning.
The anorak kid grew more and more impatient and tried to push past the young policemen. One of them took hold of his arm at which point he corkscrewed around and went to sprint past me. I stuck out my right foot and he tripped and crashed to the pavement. Not fancy, but effective.
The two PCs were on his back in a second. They handcuffed him quickly as he squirmed and swore at all of us.
Holbrook appeared with a black plastic bin-liner containing a video recorder. ‘Behind a wall over here, guv, probably dumped it when he saw the police car.’
‘Guess he’s not a stalker?’
‘No … just a burglar.’
‘Why the attitude?’ I was curious at the boy’s aggression.
‘Common enough trick round here, guv. They try and frighten young coppers by playing up and threatening to complain. Until the blokes learn the score it often works and they let them go without a proper search. He kicks off, makes a scene and puts the PC off. This time he was the unlucky one.’
‘So they try and frighten their way out of a search?’
‘That’s about the strength of it, there’s a lot of it round ’ere. Just about every drugs arrest results in an allegation of planting. Some of the blokes get pissed off with the constant complaints and don’t bother searching dealers anymore.’
‘But then the dealers win.’
‘Don’t worry, guv. There are a lot of others who won’t be intimidated and who just get on with their job. The wheel will turn one day, the courts will recognise the complaints for what they are. Now we’d better be quick before the woodwork turn out.’
‘The what?’
’The woodwork. That’s what we call it. These kids let rip when they get nicked and all the locals turn out to see what the hollering is. Soon, our lads get surrounded and it’s been known for us to get a hiding.’
The conversation was interrupted as our personal radios again burst into life. ‘Golf November One, can you attend 19 Rectory Road, a sudden death, 179 is on scene and requires advice.’ We were off again.
A few minutes later, I stood quite still as I surveyed the horrific scene. The PC who had asked for the advice opened the windows to try and get rid of the smell. It was a second-floor flat in a tower block and almost devoid of decoration and furniture. In the living room a makeshift miniature hut had been built up from broken cupboards and an upturned settee.
Inside the hut, on an old armchair, the body of a man sat facing an electric fire. His lower torso was naked and only three or four feet from the fire. He appeared to have been dead for some time and the heat had caused his legs to blacken and swell. The worst impact had been on his scrotum, which had swollen like a balloon so the skin had become translucent.
It was difficult to tell if the man was black or white and any guess as to his age was impossible. The stench was indescribable. I had no desire to get too close. Fortunately I was spared as I was called back in by the station Custody Sergeant to deal with a prisoner’s complaint.
We arrived back to a busy charge room.
‘Man in cell A5 guv,’ said the Sergeant Custody Officer as soon as I walked through the door. ‘Alleges he was beaten up at the time of his arrest. I’ve called a doctor to examine him. When you’ve finished that, the night-duty CID wants to see you about a couple of authorities to search some premises.’
The Sergeant was rushed, he had a drink driver on the go and two prostitutes waiting to have their rights explained and be booked in. He thrust a custody record into my hand and disappeared into the charge room. Still a bit stunned from the scene in the flat, I examined the record. It was for the anorak kid I had seen not half an hour earlier.
As I opened the cell door the youth I had seen earlier looked up from the wooden bench. He stood up, sneered and jabbed a finger towards my chest.
‘You the Inspector here?’ It was a snarl more than a question.
I nodded. The lad obviously didn’t recognise me. ‘I’m told you want to make a complaint.’
‘You’re damn right, man.’ The young burglar started to hold his ribs and clic
k his tongue on his teeth. ‘Them police who arrest me, they beat me up, they punch me, they kick me, I going to have their jobs, they got no right to do that, I know I done wrong stealin’ and that, but them got no right to do that to me.’
I pressed the kid. ‘What exactly happened?’
‘Well it like dis. I’m walking down the street when this cop car pull up and these two cops jump on me. One o’ them slap me around ma face and call me a thief. Then two more pull up. I ran ’cos I knew what going to happen and I right. One of them others, he kick me to the ground and then they all jump on me, kicking me an’ punching me. One of them stamp on my head, all the time them chanting thief, thief, thief.’
I was getting a quick education. When I’d heard I was going to Stoke Newington, I’d been aware of its reputation for having a high number of complaints. I’d figured that there was no smoke without fire. But here I was listening to a young man, who I may well have believed if I hadn’t been there myself and seen what actually happened.
As I left the cell area, a young PC from the communications room came up to me. ‘Sir, we’ve got a child abduction; common-law husband separated from the mother for over a year has turned up unexpectedly, beaten mum up and snatched the son.’
Out of curiosity, I checked my watch.
It was eleven p.m. I had been on duty just one hour.
Chapter 22
Costello watched patiently as Dominic pulled two small blocks of Semtex from the hideaway beneath the kitchen sink and taped them securely to separate power units.
The practised skill with which his friend worked bore testament to the number of times he had done the job previously.
Detonators in place, Dominic carefully put the two devices into small cardboard boxes, leaving the tops open to make it easier to set the timers.
‘Have you got the bike ready?’ Costello asked.
‘Yep, the top box on the back of the bike has press stickers all over it. I’ll set the timer for three minutes – it’ll be enough for us to get clear.’
