by Matt Johnson
Then, in March 1988, in the very area that I had been working in Northern Ireland, two soldiers were dragged from their car and murdered by a mob. Like me, the soldiers had been in plain clothes and with only sidearms for personal protection. They suffered the exact fate I had done everything to avoid, the fate I stared at in my nightmares, and that I only escaped by waking up.
At the time, the news footage of the murder was transmitted, I was a Sergeant manning the front desk at Barnet Police Station and just ending my shift. I drove home in a state of shock. That night and for several months following, my sleep was again interrupted and disturbed. Alcohol provided a partial solution, but at a cost. A developing relationship with a nurse from the St Pancras Hospital failed when she moved out of the flat we had only just started to rent. She said I needed help. I thought I just needed a drink.
Now, that was behind me. With a new home, a wonderful wife and a new child, it was beginning to look like my memories could remain just that, memories. Since meeting Jenny, I had hardly touched alcohol and had developed such a positive, forward-looking attitude to life that my army experiences seemed almost to be those of another person. I had my family to thank for that.
As I pulled into the driveway of our cottage, the sun was rising. Grey-blue sky was gently giving way to a golden glow. I switched off the car engine and sat for several minutes staring out over the fields. A faint mist clung wistfully to the valley, but a gentle wind was carrying it away. As the flashbacks and sense of foreboding passed, my heart rate and breathing slowed. Within a few moments, all was back to normal.
I crept as quietly as possible up the old creaky stairs to the bedroom, anxious not to awaken Becky. Jenny hardly registered my presence as I cuddled up to her, stroked her hair and kissed her gently on her exposed shoulder.
Sleep arrived even before my head touched the pillow.
The nightmares stayed away.
Chapter 25
The bed felt warm and so very comfortable.
It was a great feeling, sleeping after a night shift. No pressure to meet the deadline set by an alarm clock, just sleep until your body says enough. Or, that is, until your wife brings you a brew.
I eased myself up the bed, plumped up the pillows and sat up. Jenny passed the tea into my outstretched hand. The first sip was always the best. Hot liquid eased down my throat.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘Three o’clock, your bath’s ready.’ Jenny sat down on the end of the bed.
‘Am I gonna get this treatment every day?’
Jenny smiled. But it was a half-smile. I sensed she had something on her mind.
‘Where’s Becky?’
‘She’s sleeping. How was your first night shift then?’
‘Busy, very busy. There was a bomb went off in central London. Has it been on the news?’
‘Yes.’ Jenny’s voice dropped. I was right. All was not well.
‘The lad who relieved me this morning heard something about a cop being killed. Was he right?’ I asked.
‘You haven’t heard then?’ Jenny seemed surprised.
‘Details were sketchy.’
‘It’s been on every news channel for most of the day. There were two policemen killed. One was an Inspector.’
The tea didn’t taste so good any more. Now I understood the reason for Jenny’s subdued tone. She worried about me when I was at work. Most coppers’ partners did. Hearing of the death of another Inspector only made things worse. It made me realise once again how much I meant to her.
‘Did they give a name?’
‘I didn’t recognise it. He was about the same age as you, wife and grown-up kids. It’s them I feel most sorry for.’
Jenny moved up the bed and hugged me. I held her tight as we sat for a moment in silence.
I had a quick shower and put on a bathrobe. As I came down the stairs, the TV news was just starting.
I sat quietly, transfixed by the scene of devastation. After what seemed an age, the commentator came to naming one of the policemen. I knew the face as soon as it came on screen. As the newsman read out the name, my stomach tensed as though I had been punched.
The dead man was Bob Bridges. Inspector Bob Bridges.
I knew him as Sergeant ‘Bomber’ Bridges, ex Royal Green Jackets, ex ‘B’ Squadron 22 SAS.
I sat in a state of numbed shock as the news droned on. Although I’d known Bomber well, I had hardly seen him in the preceding twenty years. He’d been one of the window entry team at the Iranian Embassy siege. He was pictured in all the papers and even had Maggie Thatcher sign his assault plan at the post-op drink.
Not long after the embassy, Bomber left the army. Rumours at the time placed him abroad on a covert operation for MI6. I had bumped into him once during a flight stop-over in Cyprus when I was on my way to a job in the Far-East. We only had time to share a quick beer before parting. Bomber was on his way back to the UK. He and a couple of others were escorting a coffin. I presumed it was a body but I didn’t ask and Bomber didn’t seem minded to tell.
Later, I heard that he had joined the Met. That story was confirmed when we crossed paths one morning in the canteen at New Scotland Yard. We were both Sergeants at the time and about to spend the day at the Notting Hill Carnival. We shook hands, had a quick chat and then went our separate ways. After that we bumped into each other a couple of times and, although we exchanged pleasantries, we never became true friends.
The phone rang. It broke the trance.
Jenny came out of the kitchen. ‘That’ll probably be for you. I forgot to say – someone phoned earlier.’
Jenny looked down at me as I turned away from the television screen. Seeing the stunned look on my face, she frowned, then her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. ‘You knew that Inspector didn’t you?’
The telephone rang for a few seconds more, ignored by both of us, then stopped.
I heaved a sigh. ‘He was in the army with me, one of my Sergeants. We bumped into each other several times before I went to Royalty. I didn’t even know he’d made Inspector. I can’t help wondering what his wife and kids are going to do.’ I felt my eyes starting to fill up.
Jenny knelt and once again wrapped her arms around me.
‘Who was it that phoned?’ I asked at last.
‘Said his name was Monaghan. And that you two go back a long way.’
‘He was Bob Bridges’ commanding officer – mine, too. Did he leave a number?’
‘No, he said he was at work and would call back later.’
I wasn’t too surprised that Monaghan had been in touch. He was now with MI5, transferring there from the army rather than retiring. He would want to talk about Bridges.
It was six-thirty before he called again. When I picked up the phone I immediately recognised the educated voice with its gentle Irish accent.
Even though we hadn’t spoken in nearly two decades, there was no ‘how are you’ or similar preamble. Monaghan came straight to the point. As I’d anticipated, he wanted to know if I had heard the news about Bob Bridges.
I told him I had seen the news report on television. He filled me in on exactly what had happened.
‘The way you describe it, boss,’ I replied, ‘it sounds like a secondary device.’
‘That’s my assessment. The random selection of a rendezvous point and the placing of the motorcycle bomb, probably afterwards, suggest that police were the target.’
‘It’s worrying.’
‘Do you think Bob Bridges could have been a specific target?’
‘Is that likely?’ I asked.
Monaghan’s brief silence showed how concerned he was. ‘I wouldn’t have said so, but now I’m not sure. That’s why I phoned you. Can we meet? … Soon, preferably.’
‘I heard you were running the ROSE office now.’
‘You heard right. Where did that come from?’
‘One of the lads I’m still in touch with. He mentioned it a while ago. I’ll be going to the fun
eral, if that is soon enough?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
The call ended as abruptly as it had begun. A quick goodbye, but no pleasantries. It was typical of Monaghan.
‘What was that all about?’ Jenny asked as I put the phone down.
‘He wanted to know if I would be going to the funeral.’
‘Will you?’
‘Yes, I expect so. There will be a lot of people there. Bridges was well liked.’
‘So, what was that about a secondary device? What’s one of those?’
‘Monaghan thinks that the bombers might have been targeting the police. The primary device draws in the emergency services and the second device targets us.’
‘That’s awful … disgusting.’ Jenny seemed to mull over the idea before asking, ‘And what is the ROSE office?’
ROSE was an acronym for a branch of MI5: ‘Rehabilitation of Service Expertise’ was what it stood for. What it did was relocate specialist military personnel who were at risk from terrorists or enemy Security Services. They also looked after retired MI5 and MI6 officers whose secret knowledge would have been of use to foreign countries. Another of their jobs was to take care of former SAS soldiers who wished their past lives to remain a secret. ROSE looked after me.
But Jenny wasn’t aware of that part of my history, so, detesting, as always, that I couldn’t tell her the whole truth, I gave her a sanitised version of what ROSE did, making sure I left out the references to military intelligence and Special Forces.
Later that evening, we talked at length about terrorists, bombings and what my new role would involve. Jenny was adamant that she didn’t want me to end up like Bob Bridges, even if it meant a return to the job I had been doing before.
I did my best to reassure her. She seemed to accept my rapidly thought-through explanation that no terrorist in his right mind was going to pick an area such as Stoke Newington when there were far more high-profile targets in central London.
I just hoped I was right.
Chapter 26
Two days later, Monaghan phoned again, this time in the afternoon. He wanted to meet that very evening.
There was something about the urgency for the meeting and the tone of his voice that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Something was wrong.
We arranged to meet at Monaghan’s members club at seven. I told Jenny that we were discussing the arrangements for Bomber’s funeral.
At quarter to seven, I was exiting Leicester Square tube station and heading along Gerrard Street. I was early.
I’d memorised Monaghan’s directions: ‘Second turning left, thirty yards on left, down stairs to an oak door, number 6A.’ I found 6A easily. There was no nameplate, no bell, nothing at all to hint at what lay within.
The door was answered by a muscular man dressed in black dress trousers and shoes with white shirt, maroon waistcoat and black tie. I recognised the type: ex-military, senior NCO probably. This was the right place. The doorman politely asked my business.
‘My name is Finlay, Mr M is expecting me.’ I used the introduction that Monaghan had insisted upon. It sounded a bit James Bond, but the doorman didn’t bat an eyelid. The door was opened wide.
‘Come in, sir, Mr M is in the upstairs bar. I will show you through.’
As the heavy door closed firmly behind us, I followed the doorman along a dimly lit corridor towards some stairs. It was hard not to be impressed at the luxury of the surroundings. Carpet that felt like thick velvet, ornate brass fittings, walnut and leather upholstered seats. The faint smell of expensive tobacco in the air only served to reinforce the feeling of wealth and comfort. If this was the old man’s club, I mused, he was certainly doing all right for himself.
We reached the first floor, where the doorman walked through into a large bar area. To my left, I could see another unattended bar with large smoking-chairs grouped in fours around small drinks tables. As we crossed the room I noticed two ancient gentlemen look over at me from their seats at the far end. But no sooner had they glanced at me than their faces turned to each other once again. In this type of place people knew to keep themselves to themselves.
Smoke trails rising from the far sides of high chair backs indicated the presence of at least two other occupants. Distracted by taking in all the Victorian luxury, I almost walked into the back of the doorman, who had stopped next to a chair where Nial Monaghan was sat waiting.
He was reading the paper. It was a familiar sight. Except for the spectacles and grey temples, he looked exactly as he had when I last saw him in the officers’ mess at Hereford. Tall and well built, he was an extremely handsome man, and an elegant dresser. I remembered him telling me that his suits were hand-made for him by a Dublin-based tailor. He had lost none of his smartness and, if anything, his chiselled features had improved with age.
He looked up. ‘It’s been a long time Finlay, give Jenkins here your order and have a seat.’
I ordered tea and settled into the plush leather chair opposite my old boss. The leather creaked as the air squeezed out from the seams. Monaghan folded his newspaper tidily, placing it gently on the chair next to him. His movements were slow, precise.
After a pause he spoke. ‘I suppose you are wondering why I have asked for this meeting?’
I wasn’t in the mood for games. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was straight out of a Frederick Forsyth novel.
‘Well I’m here and I’m all ears.’ My impatience was betrayed by a sharp note of sarcasm in my voice.
Monaghan ignored my jibe and gestured around with his hands. ‘Do you like the club?’
‘It’s very comfortable. Not really my thing, but OK, I suppose. It must cost you an arm and a leg.’ I wondered why he was delaying.
After a short pause, Monaghan smiled and removed his spectacles. He closed them and, with the same gentle precision with which he had folded the newspaper, placed them gently in his inside pocket. ‘Not really; membership comes with the job I do.’
I felt those hairs on my neck rise again. ‘And what might that be?’
‘I am now with the Home Office, attached to MI5.’
‘Yes, I know. The ROSE office. We discussed it on the telephone.’
‘Yes, of course. So we did.’
‘Would this meeting have something to do with that?’ I reached forward to pour the tea that Jenkins had placed on the table beside me.
Monaghan waited until the doorman had moved out of earshot. ‘I will come to the point. We have reason to believe that Bridges’ death wasn’t bad luck. It was an assassination.’
‘Who are “we”?’ I asked.
‘My department.’ Monaghan took a deep breath. ‘Did you hear about the break-in to the Northern Ireland Special Branch office?’
I hadn’t. I shook my head and kept silent, my body tensed as the feeling of foreboding I had experienced after the Selfridges bombing returned.
‘There was a lot of speculation in the press,’ Monaghan continued, ‘– about what was stolen, who did the job, what was going to happen.’
I had started to sweat. The room felt stuffy. I managed an answer. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like what I’m about to hear.’
‘I don’t know who did it but I … I mean we … we know what was stolen.’
‘What?’
‘Copies of ROSE files.’
A pit formed in my stomach. ‘Copies, what do you mean copies? Those files are top secret. They’re supposed to be in Hereford aren’t they? What the fuck were copies doing in Ireland?’
I noticed Monaghan’s hands were shaking as he continued. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Finlay. This is as hard for me as it is for you. We only found out because one file was left behind; if that had gone we wouldn’t have even known what had been taken.’
‘What was on it?’
‘Quite a lot. Relocation details, jobs … yours included.’
‘Mine!’ I stood up as I shouted. The gentlemen in the corner turned again to look at me.
I sat down and lowered my voice. ‘You’re telling me someone has stolen copies of files that tell them how to find me? You’re telling me that Bob Bridges was killed by these people and I’m on their list of targets, too?’
‘I’m telling you…’ He paused. ‘I’m telling you to calm down, Finlay. Because, if I’m right, I am a target as well.’
My heart was pounding. Fear had got the better of me. This was worse than any nightmare. I had to know how great the risk was.
‘Calm down? For Christ’s sake. You’re telling me I might be a target for an IRA hit squad and you’re telling me to calm down?’
‘I’m just saying that we need to address this problem rationally.’
I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. ‘Ok, tell me what you know. How did the files come to be in Ireland?’
‘That, I don’t know. It’s being looked into, I assure you. The only good news I have is that the files only contain names and jobs. There is no information to reveal your home address, place of work, that kind of thing.’
‘Small relief. So how did the IRA find Bomber?’
‘We don’t know that, either. But … well, I considered it prudent to warn you of the possibility. A lot of the others from the regiment have moved on from the employment that ROSE sorted for them, so they would be harder to find. There’s only a few, like you, who are still in the same line of work.’
‘So that’s the reason you came to me?’ I asked.
Monaghan drew breath. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and he scratched at his ear. ‘Not … entirely. The others will be told, of course. There’s no way we can avoid it. I came to you first because we will need someone to do a rather special job, something that would not have any official sanction.’
I’d heard that expression in a previous life. No official sanction meant a ‘black op’. The kind of deniable operation that the intelligence services wanted doing but weren’t prepared to admit to.
