Wicked Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Good. I’ve got the scanner tuned in on the local police radio frequency.’

  ‘Where are we picking up Hewitson?’

  ‘Kentish Town. You follow me on the bike. I’ll put Hewitson in the driving seat, set the timer and then join you. I won’t be telling him that the bomb will go live while he’s still in the car. He’d shit a brick.’

  Both men laughed out loud before Costello continued, ‘After he drives off, we’ll follow a few minutes behind him and put the call in.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Dominic. ‘We’re certain the target is at work tonight?’

  Costello smiled again. ‘He’s on all right. Duty Inspector at Marylebone.’

  Dominic put the first completed bomb into a Harrods carrier bag and followed as Costello led the way to their car.

  As he watched, Dominic placed the bag carefully into the passenger well of the bomb car, an old 205 Peugeot. Both men were old hands but it was good to see that the death of his brother hadn’t had too bad an effect. Costello was pleased with his friend’s work. Many men would have quit. Dominic wasn’t like that.

  Products of the Falls Road council estates, the McGlinty brothers had suffered badly during the period of internment, as had Costello himself. Both their fathers had been seized in the middle of the night and they had all witnessed the effect it had on their mothers. As young men, they had naively believed their fathers to be innocent, planting the seed of anger and resentment that had eventually grown into their full membership of the IRA.

  Dominic had learned his bomb-making skills in Libya at a training camp where he had been teamed up with members of Black September, the Red Army Faction and even ETA, the Basque separatists. Costello’s experience was very similar. In the training camps he had seen not only specialist skills teachers but also administrators, support workers, interpreters and all manner of other roles. He learned then the degree to which terrorism had become an international industry.

  Costello checked his watch. It was a quarter to ten. Time to leave. The local police shifts changed over at ten p.m. At ten minutes before the hour the officers would be heading off duty. The drive to Kentish Town would take twenty minutes, time enough to get the car parked up and handed over to Hewitson before the new shift started to arrive on the street.

  The incident with the lorry had made them both nervous. Dominic in particular was very fidgety as he mounted the bike. Costello nodded at him, serious-faced, and got into the Peugeot.

  Twenty minutes later, Costello parked the car outside the Prince of Wales pub, just off Kentish Town Road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Dominic had pulled up about fifty yards down the street. He kept his helmet on and the visor down. Across his arm, he carried a spare, full-face crash helmet.

  Hewitson had never met Dominic – not even seen him. And all Dominic knew about the man who was to deliver the device was that he was a sympathiser who had been living in London for some twenty years. The less they knew about each other, the less they could reveal if captured.

  Costello, however, knew that Hewitson was more than just a sympathiser. He was a sleeper. The time had come for him to do a little job for ‘the cause’.

  When approached, Hewitson had been enthusiastic. Even when Costello explained the job was a bomb delivery, he hadn’t baulked. In fact, he seemed to be grateful that, at last, the organisation had found a job for him. This was to be his moment of glory, he’d said.

  Costello felt no guilt at conning Hewitson and he suspected that, even if he had known the job wasn’t ‘official’ IRA business, he would have still been up for it. Such cooperation wasn’t always the case. Quite often, sleepers who had been set up in jobs with homes and a nice life would get too cosy and, when the time came, they weren’t too keen on helping. Sometimes they had to be persuaded, on occasions they were given an unpleasant reminder of the debt they owed.

  In Costello’s experience, it was having a family that made sleepers go soft. With Hewitson, there was no such problem. He was single, a bit of a loner and seemed to spend most of his time playing computer games in the bedroom of his terraced house.

  It wasn’t a difficult job, but after what had happened with the lorry, Costello had decided not to risk getting himself arrested. All Hewitson had to do was avoid getting caught, park the Peugeot where he was told, leave it locked and make his way home.

  As Costello waited, Hewitson emerged from the front drive of his house and walked up to the car.

  The Irishman swung the door open. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hewitson’s voice quivered as he climbed into the passenger

  ‘Not nervous are you?’ Costello demanded.

  ‘No.’

  He was lying. Costello knew it. He could see Hewitson’s hands trembling. But it didn’t matter.

  ‘You should be. That bag under your feet contains enough Semtex to blow both of us to kingdom come.’

  Costello waited for the information to sink in. ‘Right,’ he continued, ‘we’ll swap seats and I’ll tell you where to leave the car.’

  After changing position, Costello described the exact place where Hewitson was to park the car bomb.

  ‘The position of the car is vital,’ he explained. ‘There can be no margin for error.’

  ‘I know …’ Hewitson started to reply.

  ‘You don’t know,’ Costello snarled. ‘You know fuck-all. Just do what I tell you and don’t assume anything. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry … I just wanted you to know you can trust me.’

  ‘I better had be able to. You had a look at the street next to Selfridges like I told you?’

  Hewitson nodded. ‘Yesterday … and like you said, I wore a hoodie so none of the cameras would pick me out.’

  ‘Good man … You’re better than most operators I deal with, I’m telling you. Now, when you park the car, I want you to find a space that is about a hundred yards from Oxford Street. It doesn’t need to be exactly a hundred yards, just as close as you can get it; clear?’

  ‘Absolutely … I just can’t believe this is actually happening. I never thought I would ever get the call.’

  Satisfied that his instructions were understood, Costello opened the top of the bag containing the bomb and set the timer.

  ‘It’s very small,’ said Hewitson.

  ‘It’s big enough,’ Costello scoffed ‘You’ve got an hour before it goes live. After that it’s set off by radio control. At this time of night, the journey should take you about thirty minutes, so you’ll be well away before there’s any danger, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Hewitson answered.

  ‘Right, now don’t break the speed limit or do anything to get yourself noticed. If something does happen you’re on your own.’

  As Costello climbed out of the car, he noticed Hewitson gripping the steering wheel tightly. He smiled to himself. The poor bastard was petrified.

  A long time ago he had been in a similar position. He remembered it well, the dry mouth, the sweat, and the fear that the bomb would go off prematurely. For the first time, probably in his life, Hewitson was face to face with death. His heart would be racing. In some ways, Costello envied him. Once the job was done, the adrenaline rush would leave him with a sense of elation he had never experienced before.

  Just like a drug though, the first time was always the best. After that, to professionals like Costello, it soon became all too routine.

  Costello and McGlinty watched from the opposite side of Oxford Street as Hewitson walked away from the parked Peugeot. His job was done. Exactly as ordered.

  Costello broke the silence. ‘Right, that’s it. Find a shop doorway to wait in. Make sure you’re not seen. I’m off to make a telephone call.’

  As public telephones were becoming less easy to find in central London, Costello had picked up a second-hand mobile into which he had inserted an unregistered SIM card. It would be untraceable.

  He called Marylebone Police Station on its direct line. A male voice answered.<
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  As soon as Costello mentioned the words ‘car bomb’ and ‘the IRA’, the officer became very flustered.

  It was a situation that Costello had experienced before. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew that the longer the police officer could keep him talking, the more likely it would be that the call would be recorded or traced.

  ‘Can you tell me if there is an official code … like a recognised word or something?’ the PC asked.

  Costello took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m only going to say this once more. This is the IRA. There’s a bomb in a blue Peugeot outside Selfridges. You have one hour.’

  ‘The codeword … how do I know this isn’t a hoax?’

  Costello was prepared for this. And he’d been present when enough bomb threats were planned to know at least some of the code-words used.

  ‘Thatcher,’ he said. ‘The codeword is Thatcher.’

  He ended the call.

  As he walked back to where Dominic was waiting with the motorbike, Costello listened intently to the scanner. It wasn’t long before the call produced the desired result: a radio transmission was made to ‘Delta Mike One’, who confirmed he would be setting up a forward control point at Portland Square.

  Ten minutes later, as the two Irishmen watched from a discreet distance, the street containing the Peugeot was cordoned off with blue-and-white tape. In the surrounding area, PCs were posted at strategic points to keep the public away.

  ‘OK, Dom,’ said Costello as he put the scanner back in his jacket pocket. ‘Our man is in Portland Square. Make sure you get the bike close to him and if any of the cops ask, say you’re from the press.’

  Dominic, started the motorbike, kicked it into gear and moved off.

  Costello started walking. It was only a short distance to the point from which he could watch his plan unfold.

  He saw Dominic reach the blue tape, stop the bike and climb off.

  A PC approached, just as it appeared that Dominic was pulling the safety plug from the top box on the rear of the motorcycle. There was a brief conversation, Dominic gave the PC a thumbs-up and then waved as he walked away from the taped barrier.

  It was the signal. The bomb was in place.

  Costello waited for Dominic to get clear.

  From his pocket, he produced a small set of binoculars. A figure in a flat cap approached the PC who had just spoken to Dominic. He pointed at the motorcycle.

  Costello focussed his magnified view on the new officer. He seemed to be giving orders, acting as if he were in charge. Surely it was the target: he was the only officer wearing a hat. But in the glare of the street lights, Costello struggled to see any rank insignia.

  He muttered under his breath. ‘Come on … come on.’

  Then, as the man turned, he saw the confirmation he needed. The epaulettes on the officer’s jacket bore the two silver pips of an Inspector.

  Costello pulled back into a doorway, flicked the metal safety catch from the transmitter in his inside pocket and pressed the ‘fire’ button.

  The bike exploded.

  A sound and pressure wave roared around the corner of the buildings. Costello ducked instinctively as windows along the street shattered.

  A few moments later, car alarms screamed into life as debris crashed down into the street.

  ‘Job done,’ Costello muttered quietly.

  Five minutes later, as two men in hoodies hurriedly descended the stairs at Marble Arch tube station, the first ambulance raced past on its way to the carnage.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Selfridges?’ said Grahamslaw, croakily.

  ‘A car bomb and a second device in a motorcycle,’ said Parratt.

  ‘So that’s what the two escapees from Stoke Newington were up to,’ said Grahamslaw.

  For the second time in a week the phone had interrupted a decent night’s sleep. This time it was Mick Parratt. He was already at Marylebone Police Station.

  ‘Any casualties?’ Grahamslaw asked, sitting up in bed.

  The phone went quiet.

  ‘Mick? You there?’

  ‘I’m here guv … there’s two. More of our lads. The night-duty Inspector from Marylebone and one of his PCs.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. Standing next to the secondary device when it went off. Never had a chance. We’d cleared the area by the time the main device in the car went off.’

  ‘Fuck it …’

  ‘You might say that, yes.’ Parratt sounded subdued.

  ‘Next of kin?’ asked Grahamslaw.

  ‘The Inspector lives in Enfield. Wife and kid. PC is single with parents down in Devon, somewhere.’

  ‘OK, Mick. Get the local duty officer from Enfield to call me. I’ll go and do the death message with him.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, guv. I can handle it.’

  Grahamslaw knew his Superintendent was right but gauged from the tone of his voice that the death of three police officers in a week had got to him. He would do the death message himself. There were times when responsibility came with command. This was one of them.

  ‘No. I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘And best get the chief from the Devon force on the phone as well. He’ll want to arrange a visit to the PC’s parents.’

  The drive to Enfield took Grahamslaw a little under an hour. Mick Parratt called him in the car and filled him in on the details of the bombing.

  A coded bomb threat had been called into Marylebone a few minutes before the explosion. Parratt had managed to interview the call handler. The PC reported that a male, Irish voice had given the codeword ‘Thatcher’ and had warned of a device planted in a blue Peugeot outside Selfridges.

  The Sergeant in the police control room had checked the code with Special Branch. It hadn’t been recognised but, as was normal procedure, the Duty Inspector had attended the scene. The car had been located, a cordon set up and the explosives disposal officer called out.

  With the exception of the duty officer and one PC, all the police officers were safely around the corner when a secondary device had been triggered. It had been contained in a motorcycle. The Peugeot had exploded about twenty minutes later.

  The casualties had been named as Inspector Robert Bridges and PC Giles Duncan.

  Grahamslaw found the news of a second bomb especially disturbing. Traps laid for the emergency services were commonplace in Northern Ireland. On the mainland, the tactic was virtually unheard of. It was a worrying development.

  It was getting light as Grahamslaw arrived at the agreed rendezvous point in Enfield. The local duty officer was unable to attend and had, instead, sent a uniform Sergeant and a WPC to assist with the death message. They were waiting at the end of a street of terraced houses.

  The WPC led the way to the door. As the Sergeant knocked, he turned to Grahamslaw. ‘This has got to be the worst job in the world, guv,’ he said, rapping on the door for a second time.

  A few seconds later, the hallway light went on and a female figure could be seen descending the stairs.

  Grahamslaw took a deep breath. This was not a day that any of them would care to remember.

  Chapter 24

  I’d just sat down to write up the young burglar’s complaint when the first transmission came over my personal radio about the explosion in central London.

  There had been a lot of reports in the press about a new terror campaign. It looked like they might be right. Sitting at a desk in Stoke Newington, there was little I could do except hope that no one had been hurt.

  The remainder of the night passed off relatively quietly, one highlight being a foot chase when an eagle-eyed PC spotted some burglars as they climbed over the roof of a chemist. They had arms full of barbiturates, which they had been hoping to sell.

  Very little information came through about the bomb. There were rumours that a police officer had been killed but no confirmation. At six o’clock I handed over to Dave Heathcote. He’d heard about the explosion on the early-morning news. Yes, he said, it was being reported
that a policeman had been killed.

  Driving home that morning, I felt deeply troubled. The sense of foreboding, a feeling that something was going to go wrong, was rolling around somewhere in my chest, pressing on my stomach and reaching up into my throat. What Heathcote had said about the victim being a cop had acted as a catalyst, a trigger that brought back unpleasant memories. I had to work hard at clearing my mind of pictures of torn and mutilated bodies, the victims of bomb blasts. They were flashbacks – sights I had seen; sights that no one ought to see. Their horror never left me.

  Combat fatigue it used to be called, although in recent times it had been given more up-to-date labels. For me, it had taken the form of dreams. They started just a week after that firefight near Castlederg, twenty years before.

  At first, there was just one dream that repeated several times over the course of a week. I was driving the Rover with the pursuers behind me. The Rover would lose power, I would coast to a stop and open the car door to run. Then, as I started to move, the air around me would take on a resistant quality that rendered movement virtually impossible. The harder I tried to move, the heavier my body felt. Within a moment the terrorists were on me. Blind panic gripped me, raw fear. This was it. They were about to kill me. And then I would wake up.

  The point in the dream at which I became conscious was always the same and for a few seconds those last moments seemed perfectly real. I would be soaked in sweat and my heart would be racing. Then, as I lay still, the sweat would start to evaporate and I would begin to shiver. My skin would become cold and clammy.

  After the third repetition of the dream, I started to place a towel on the bed sheet to absorb the sweat. Other dreams followed, but the theme was always similar and always ended with a violent, sweat-soaked awakening. Quality sleep, once something I had taken for granted, became a hopeless challenge.

  Over the following weeks, the nightmares faded. Eventually they become a rarity. Just occasionally something would trigger a return. I learned to live with them.