‘I guess I’m stuck with the Scottish jokes.’
‘For the foreseeable future, yeah. Until we find something else to pick on. Newbie syndrome.’
‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd. He dropped his bag and joined Rose in the queue for food.
‘So, you reckoned the cops was a cushier number?’ asked Rose.
‘I wouldn’t have to sleep in a barracks, and I’d be dealing with real people. The army’s a closed community – you’re either in it or you’re an outsider. I was fed up with the same old faces, day in, day out.’
‘It’s not that different in the Trojans,’ said Rose. ‘We’re tight. Have to be.’
‘But they don’t make you run up and down mountains with a Bergen on your back.’
‘SO19 isn’t a soft touch.’
‘Didn’t mean to suggest it was,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been a cop for seven years, and carrying a gun for most of that time.’
‘I don’t see why you’d want to move south,’ said Rose. ‘The London weighting might be attractive, but property’s still twice the price you’d be paying north of the border.’
‘My dad’s in hospital down here, I wanted to be closer to him.’ They reached the front of the queue. Rose took steak and kidney pie and chips and Shepherd the same. They collected mugs of coffee and headed back to their table.
‘What do we call you?’ asked Rose, as he poured brown sauce over his pie.
‘Up to you. The guys in Glasgow called me Irish.’
Rose frowned. ‘You’re not a Paddy, are you?’
‘Irish Stew. They thought it was funny.’ It was one of the details in his legend that served no other function than to add colour to his cover story.
‘Stu it is, then. I’ll leave it up to the lads to give you a nickname. They call me Rosie in the pub, Sarge or Skipper when we’re on duty.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Cards on the table, Stu. I was hoping to get someone local in our vehicle. Mike Sutherland’s one of the best drivers in the Met and I ride shotgun, so it’s a map man we’re short of.’
‘I’m up to speed,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was born in London, remember.’
‘You’ve been in Scotland for almost a decade and things change,’ said Rose. ‘Last thing I need is for you to take me the wrong way down a one-way system.’
‘My dad was a black-cab driver,’ said Shepherd. More colour. ‘Used to test me on the Knowledge when I was still in short trousers. But we’ve got GPS, right?’
‘Computers don’t always know the quickest way,’ said Rose, ‘and sometimes they crash. If that happens I need someone in the back who knows where they’re going.’
‘Try me,’ said Shepherd.
Rose grinned. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We get a call to Grosvenor Road, which is the quickest way to get there?’
‘I’d guess you mean Grosvenor Road in Pimlico in which case I’d head over Vauxhall Bridge. But there are Grosvenor Roads in Upton Park, Forest Gate, Leyton and Wanstead, so I’d ask first.’
Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘Grantully Road,’ he said.
‘Maida Vale. One way, entrance from Morshead Road. Runs parallel to Paddington recreation ground.’
Rose nodded. ‘Had a suicide there three months ago. Guy blew off his head with a shotgun. Okay, you’re my map man.’ He stabbed at a chunk of steak. ‘Why did you join the Strathclyde cops and not the Met?’
It was a good question, and was also covered in the Stuart Marsden legend. ‘Had a mate in the Paras who was from Glasgow and his dad was a chief inspector. He put in a good word for me.’
‘But you didn’t fancy London?’
Shepherd looked uncomfortable. ‘Long story, Sarge. My mum died when I was a kid and my dad remarried. Turned out to be the stepmother from hell. That’s why I joined the army. When I got out, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible.’
A police officer in black overalls and bulletproof vest walked over to their table carrying a tray. Rose grinned up at him. ‘Hiya, Mike, say hello to our new map man, Stu Marsden. Stu, this is Mike Sutherland. Our driver.’
Sutherland nodded at Shepherd and sat down opposite him. He had a plateful of bacon and sausage and four slices of bread and butter. ‘The Jock, yeah?’ said Sutherland.
‘Nah, he’s not Scottish,’ said Rose. ‘He was just explaining.’
‘Family stuff,’ said Shepherd, ‘but my dad’s on his own now and he’s not doing so well, so I want to be around when he needs me.’
‘And it was easy to transfer to the Met?’ asked Sutherland.
‘I’d been asking for a move and the SO19 vacancy came up.’
‘You must have friends in high places. There’s a long waiting list for ARV slots.’ Sutherland stabbed a sausage and bit off the end.
‘I was lucky.’
‘Just don’t get me lost.’
‘He’s fine,’ said Rose.‘His dad was a black-cab driver.’
‘Funny, he doesn’t look black,’ said Sutherland.
Rose flashed Sutherland a tight smile. ‘PC Sutherland is one of the least PC of our officers. We try to keep him in the car as much as possible.’
Kerr got the early-morning flight to Heathrow and took a taxi to the Kings Road. He had made a phone call the previous evening and Alex Knight was expecting him. He told the taxi driver to wait.
‘The meter’s at sixty quid already,’ said the man.
Kerr pointed at the black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser’s. ‘I’ll be in there ten minutes at most. Then we’re straight back to the airport.’
The driver beamed at the thought of a double fare.
Kerr got out and walked along the pavement to the black door. A small brass plaque read ‘Alex Knight Security’ beside a bell button and a small grille. He pressed the button and was buzzed in. He took the stairs two at a time and when he reached the top Knight’s secretary had the door open for him. ‘Charlie, we can FedEx orders, you know,’ she said.
Kerr kissed the striking brunette’s cheek. ‘Just wanted to see you, love.’
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said, and opened Knight’s office door.
He looked up from his computer terminal and grinned boyishly, stood up and shook hands with Kerr. He was several inches taller than Kerr, but stick-thin with square-framed spectacles perched high on his nose. ‘We do deliver,’ he said.
‘Yeah, Sarah said, but I wanted you to talk me through the gear.’
Knight waved him to a seat. He pulled a cardboard box from one of his desk drawers and pushed it across the desk. ‘This is the kit you wanted. The transmitter’s linked to a GPS so you get position information accurate to six metres.’
Kerr opened the box. Inside he found a small metal cylinder with a three-inch wire protruding from one end and a hand-held GPS unit.
‘There’s an on–off switch on the transmitter. Best bet is to connect it to the car’s electrical circuit. Then it’ll run and run. If you can connect its aerial to the car aerial, you’re laughing.’
‘Won’t have time for that,’ Kerr said. ‘Best we’ll be able to do is get it under a seat.’
‘You’ll have about twelve hours, then. Maybe a few more. But once the battery starts to go, the strength of the signal drops.’
‘That’ll be enough,’ said Kerr. ‘What’s the range?’
‘Unlimited for the locator. The transmitter connects to the nearest satellite and the GPS unit logs on to the signal. You’ll only lose the signal if either unit is underground or in a shielded area. But the voice transmitter is good for about two hundred metres, line of sight. Less in a built-up area.’
Knight showed Kerr how to switch on the GPS unit. A map of Central London flickered on the screen. He flicked the switch and a couple of seconds later a red dot appeared on the Kings Road. ‘The switch there gives you the voice. It’s a neat bit of kit.’
‘Two gizmos in one. Just what I need,’ said Charlie.
‘It’s from my mate in Kiev. Based on a
KGB model.’
Kerr repacked the equipment and gave Knight an envelope filled with fifty-pound notes. ‘Fancy lunch?’ asked Knight.
Kerr stood up. ‘I’ve got to dash, mate. Mountains to climb, rivers to cross. Next time.’ He hurried outside and got back into the cab. Now he had everything he needed to get his claws into the mysterious Mr Nelson.
After lunch, Rose took Shepherd to the armoury where a lanky sergeant with receding hair issued him with a Glock, four magazines and a box of ammunition. The gun would be Shepherd’s while he was based at Tango 99, the call sign for the Leman Street headquarters, but when he wasn’t on duty it would stay in the armoury. The MP5s were a different matter: they were assigned to the ARV rather than to individual officers.
Rose and Shepherd went down to the range where they donned ear-protectors. Rose watched as Shepherd fired several dozen shots at targets ten metres away. Shepherd checked the grouping, altered the sights and fired another two dozen shots. All were in the centre ring of the bullseye.
He noted the number of shots fired in the range log, then Rose took him up to the locker room where they changed into their working gear. Shepherd loaded his three clips with 9mm ammunition and slotted them into the nylon holders on his belt. He slid his Swiss Army knife into his trouser pocket.
Rose cast a professional eye over Shepherd’s equipment. ‘Not too far behind the times north of the border, then?’
‘Aye, it was a great relief to us all when they stopped us using flintlocks, the noo,’ said Shepherd, in an over-the-top Scottish accent.
Rose grinned. ‘Come on, let’s get you fixed up with a radio.’ He took Shepherd along a corridor to an office with ‘COMMS’ on the door. There was a rack of radios in chargers. Rose took one for himself and signed the log with his name and the number of the unit. Shepherd followed his example, then fitted the radio into the holder on his belt. He threaded the wiring spaghetti under his vest, clipped on the microphone and put on the black plastic earpiece.
Rose talked him through the local frequencies, then they went back to the armoury. Sutherland was waiting for them. Shepherd returned his unused Glock ammunition to the sergeant and signed for the bullets he’d fired. The sergeant issued them with two MP5s, both with retractable stocks, and ammunition. More ARV crews arrived to collect their weaponry, and Rose, Shepherd and Sutherland went out to the car park.
As they left the building, Shepherd’s radio crackled. ‘MP to all Trojan units, intruders at the Houses of Parliament. Possible Operation Rolvenden.’ MP was the call sign of New Scotland Yard’s control centre: Operation Rolvenden was the call sign for a terrorist incident.
Rose confirmed over the radio that they were en route from Leman Street. ‘There’s luck for you, Stu,’ he said. ‘First day on the job and we get a bloody terrorist incident. We’ll be calling you Jonah next.’
They got to their car, a Vauxhall Omega, white with a red fluorescent strip down the sides and a three-letter identifier on the roof. Shepherd got into the back and put his carbine into the metal carrier in the centre of the rear seat. Sutherland climbed into the front and fastened his seatbelt. ‘You know where the Houses of Parliament are, I suppose,’ said Sutherland. ‘I wouldn’t want to get lost, your first day and all.’
‘If you need directions, just ask,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’d have thought a top driver like you would have known where the mother of all parliaments was.’ Rose gave Shepherd his carbine, climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.
Over the main radio more call signs came in from cars heading towards the incident. Two Trojan units were on the way, but Shepherd wasn’t sure how effective armed police would be against suicide bombers. The black metal gate rattled back and Sutherland edged the car out into East Tenter Street, which ran behind the Leman Street building.
‘You’re up to speed on the six Cs?’ asked Rose. The ARV accelerated as Sutherland turned on to Mansell Street and headed south, towards the Thames.
Shepherd couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. The six Cs were on a card given to all police officers, explaining how to deal with a suicide bomber. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Confirm, cover, contact, civilians, colleagues, check.’
It was something of a joke among serving officers, a case of stating the obvious if ever there was one. Confirm – the location and description of a suspect. Cover – withdraw fifty yards from the suspect to a point where it is possible to maintain visual contact. Contact – your supervisor and request more police assistance. Civilians – direct to a place of safety but not if this is likely to compromise or further endanger the public or other officers. Colleagues – prevent other officers coming into the danger area. Check – for further suspects or devices.
‘We’ll probably be going with the six Ss,’ said Rose. ‘See the bugger’s got a bomb, shit yourself, say a prayer, shoot him dead, stand by your mates and say nothing.’
‘Definitely,’ said Sutherland, hitting the blues and twos and accelerating past a double-decker bus. He tapped co-ordinates into the onboard computer.
‘We were on a course a few weeks back,’ said Rose. ‘How to spot a suicide bomber in a crowd. Signs of sweating, mumbling and possibly praying.’
‘And ten kilos of Semtex strapped to their chest is always a bad sign,’ said Sutherland. ‘Who writes that shit? Some graduate entrant who’s spent his whole career sitting behind a desk?’
Rose ignored the interruption.‘Well,the good news is that any blast from a suicide bomber is only lethal within about thirty feet. Severe injuries up to fifty yards. And beyond a hundred and fifty yards you’re safe as houses.’
‘And this is good news because . . . ?’ asked Shepherd.
Rose jerked his thumb at the gun-holder. ‘Because those little beauties are dead accurate up to a hundred yards, which is as close as we’re gonna get to any ragheads on a mission.’
‘Er, Sarge, ragheads is on the list of terms likely to cause offence,’ said Sutherland. ‘IC Six, please. Or camel jockeys.’
They roared alongside the Thames, the London Eye in the distance. As they headed for Westminster Bridge they spotted the honey-coloured Big Ben tower next to the Houses of Parliament. ‘See anything?’ asked Rose.
Shepherd had binoculars to his eyes but the west side of the tower seemed clear. ‘Nothing yet, Sarge.’
Rose clicked his radio mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, any update on Operation Rolvenden at the Houses of Parliament?’
‘Negative, Trojan Five Six Nine.’
‘Be handy to know if they were IC Six or not.’
‘Trojan Five Six Nine, soon as we know, you’ll know. If the info is not suitable for RT transmission we’ll call direct on the car phone.’
‘Who’s in charge at the scene?’ asked Rose.
‘Chief Inspector Owen. But Assistant Commissioner Hannant is en route.’
‘Well, if Owen’s on the case we can all relax and go home,’ said Sutherland, sarcastically.
Rose flashed him a withering look. Banter was all well and good between colleagues, but not when there was an open mike in the vehicle. It was a well known fact that assistant commissioners had had their sense of humour surgically removed and the AC would be monitoring all radio traffic. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine is three minutes away,’ said Rose.
‘You’ll be the first ARV on the scene,’ said the MP controller. ‘Report to Chief Inspector Owen on arrival.’
Rose replaced the mike.
‘You know Owen?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Couldn’t make a decision to save his life,’ said Sutherland. ‘Ask him if he takes sugar in his tea and he reaches for a manual.’
‘He’s graduate entry, accelerated promotion,’ said Rose. ‘Not thirty, but tipped as a potential chief constable. That means everything he does has a political dimension to it. He’s more concerned with not making mistakes than he is with catching villains. The crack in his arse is from sitting on too many fences. Hannant’s a good copper, though. Let’s hope he gets
there soon.’
They were driving along Victoria Embankment when Shepherd saw the first of the three figures on the tower. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘Just below the clock face.’ He could make out a figure in a blue anorak with the hood up and a bulky pack on his back. Not necessarily a he, Shepherd corrected himself. There were as many women as men prepared to blow themselves to kingdom come.
Shepherd scanned down the tower. Two more figures were some way below the first. ‘I see all three,’ he said. ‘They’re carrying backpacks.’
‘Shit,’ said Rose. ‘Backpacks mean a bigger bang. You can put thirty kilos of high explosive in a backpack with ball-bearings or nails and that’s the equivalent of a car bomb.’
Traffic was heavy but the siren and flashing lights carved a way through for the ARV. They reached Westminster Bridge and Sutherland swung right. A traffic patrol car, its blue light flashing, had parked across the bridge and two uniformed constables were turning back southbound traffic.
Rose clicked on his radio. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, I see crowds all around College Green. Isn’t someone moving them out of the area?’
‘Trojan Five Six Nine, we have units evacuating the Houses of Parliament.’
‘That’s fine, but the threat’s outside.’
Sutherland brought the car to a halt.
‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine is at the scene,’ said Rose, into his mike. ‘Break out the guns, Stu.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Shepherd unlocked the metal case between the two rear seats, handed one of the MP5s to Rose, then slotted a magazine into the second weapon. He climbed out of the car. All around people were staring up at the clock tower. A group of Japanese tourists was snapping away with digital cameras. Mothers with babies in pushchairs were watching the climbers, shading their eyes with their hands. Workmen in overalls were shouting catcalls up at the three, daring them to jump.
‘This is bloody madness,’ said Rose. ‘Why aren’t these people being moved out of the way? Where the hell’s Owen?’
Shepherd let the gun hang on its nylon swing as he scanned the clock tower through his binoculars. He focused on the climber second from the top. He had turned and was watching the crowds. Shepherd got a glimpse of his face. ‘Looks like an Arab,’ he said.
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 22
