The reason for his smile was that the news anchor had now confirmed that not only was Fox dead but so were the two as yet unidentified gunmen who’d helped him escape. Since Crossman knew that Cain had only used one other man in the attack, that meant that he too had to be one of the fatalities.
It had been, Crossman would be the first to admit, a close-run thing, but ultimately the day had been a success. It had always been a major priority to get rid of Fox. The problem was that Fox was cunning, highly intelligent, and he played by his own rules, which meant he couldn’t be trusted. Crossman had therefore decided to concoct a plan to break him out from prison before he opened his mouth to the wrong people. He’d considered having someone try to kill him inside, or indeed paying extra to the man they’d used to attack Fox to actually kill him. But in the end, he’d concluded it was best to play it straight until they had him somewhere where he could be disposed of properly and efficiently.
But now there was no longer any need for such subterfuge. The war was temporarily over, and without anyone left who could point the finger at him, Garth Crossman was, as far as the world was concerned, a victim in all this. It still made him shudder to think how close his wife had come to ruining everything. He would have to be careful that others didn’t discover the secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.
He stood up, poured himself a glass of brandy from the drinks tray, and took a long sip.
It was time to contemplate the next stage of his career.
One Month Later
Eighty-three
I USED MY stick for support as I walked across the park. I’d been out of hospital just over a week, but this was my first time outside on my own. If my doctor knew what I was doing, he’d blow a gasket. According to him, I had to take everything very, very slowly. It was, he claimed, a miracle I’d made it through at all. I’d lost three-quarters of my blood by the time they got me to the hospital and, apparently, had died twice on the operating table, although I don’t remember any out-of-body experiences or seeing a bright light at the end of the tunnel, or any of that kind of thing. In fact, I slept through the whole lot.
The medical people hadn’t wanted me to leave hospital. Apparently, I was only 50 per cent into my recovery and they’d wanted me to remain under observation for another week at least so they could monitor my progress. But, to be honest, I’ve never been one for hospitals, and the one I was in reminded me too much of prison, so I’d exercised my citizen’s rights and walked. Or hobbled at least.
Also, there was something I needed to do. A wrong that needed righting.
The weather was sunny and unseasonably warm, and the world had returned to normal after February’s seismic events. In fact if Cecil and Cain had still been alive, they’d have been mortified to see how little long-term effect all their actions had had. The Shard was being repaired and would soon be back to its former glory; the government might have tottered a little on the day, but it hadn’t fallen; and there’d been no race riots on the streets. In fact, people had pulled together in the face of the barbarity that had been inflicted on them. The whole bloody day had been a colossal waste of lives, including very nearly my own. If Mike Bolt hadn’t found me when he did there’s no way I would have made it, and for that I’d be forever grateful to him.
Around me, the park was bustling with activity. A group of schoolkids were playing a loud, anarchic game of football; people were walking dogs; others just sat soaking up the sun’s rays; young mothers chatted and laughed as they pushed prams; an old couple walked hand in hand. This was what it was all about. Ordinary life.
And yet, in truth, I’d never been able to settle back into it since leaving behind the army, and the two foreign wars I’d fought, all those years ago. The real world – this place of reality TV shows, anti-social behaviour, obesity and obsession with Z-list celebrities and the weather – seemed so utterly meaningless when compared with the things I’d done and seen, and the friends I’d lost or who’d been maimed for life by the RPGs and the roadside bombs. These people enjoying the park in the sunshine knew nothing of what was going on in hellholes like Afghanistan, in their name, or of the sacrifices that were being made every day on their behalf. They didn’t even really know what was going on all around them, of the tide of crime being committed by a vast and ever-growing army of thugs whose activities were only just being kept in check by an overstretched and embattled police force. These people lived in a cocoon.
But, you know, maybe that’s the best way to be. I no longer felt bitter about the way things were. People had been good to me since the events of a month earlier. I’d been treated as a hero in the media – the man who’d infiltrated the terrorist cell and narrowly escaped death when the terrorists had turned on him. Somehow, too, there’d been no mention of the gun battle at the scrapyard with the Albanians, which was being looked at as a separate murder inquiry. The investigating officers from CTC seemed to accept my story that I’d only seen the Stinger after it had been obtained and had no idea where it had come from. A businessman hearing about my plight had offered me the use of his company apartment rent-free for as long as I needed it. Gina and Maddie had visited or spoken to me every day, Gina telling me how proud she was of the part I’d played in trying to stop the missile attack. Incredibly, it turned out she’d been in the Shard when it had been attacked, and had only narrowly escaped death herself. I’d been shocked to the core when I heard that. If anything had happened to her, it would have killed me, given my own involvement in procuring the Stinger.
It wasn’t the only shock I’d received regarding Gina either. It also turned out that she’d been inside the Shard with the man she’d been seeing for the past few months. I can’t tell you how much it hurt when she told me that. It was like a physical blow. At the time, I didn’t say a word. I simply turned round, walked out of my old house, and didn’t stop walking for about two hours afterwards, trying to come to terms with the fact that my marriage was now irreversibly over.
But you know what they say about time and healing, and since then I’ve at least got more used to the idea. The important thing is I’ve still got Maddie, and as long as she continues to stay in my life, nothing else really matters.
There was a bank of three payphones on the pavement just beyond the park. Two of them were Phonecard only but one still took coins, and that was the one I went to. I dialled a number that I knew by heart and waited.
It rang a long time – at least a minute, maybe even two – before it was finally picked up at the other end.
‘Who’s this?’ growled a male voice.
‘I’ve got a message for Nicholas Tyndall.’
‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘Yes you do. You tell him that the man who set up LeShawn Lambden for that robbery a month ago was one of his crack dealers, Alfonse Webber.’
The voice at the other end was silent for a moment. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I was one of the robbers, and the man who gave me the information was Alfonse Webber. He was paid five grand to help me set up the robbery. He told me all about Tyndall’s eleven crackhouses; the vehicles LeShawn used when he was out collecting money; who he travelled with when he was doing a collection. All of it. Check him out.’
‘If you’re lying—’
‘I’m not.’
I put down the phone and limped away, knowing I’d probably sentenced Webber to death. Nicholas Tyndall wasn’t the kind of man to tolerate people trying to ruin his business, especially when they were trusted employees. It was why he’d lasted as long as he had as one of north London’s premier crack dealers. The irony was that Webber, one of the biggest lowlifes I’d ever met, was actually totally innocent of this particular crime. I’d used knowledge about Tyndall gained during my time as a cop to carry out the robbery of LeShawn, and I knew Webber worked in one of his crackhouses, which meant he was easy to set up.
I didn’t feel bad about it. Why should I have done? Webber was a violent, cow
ardly criminal who’d used the very system he cared so little about to put me behind bars.
I looked over at the people in the park going about their daily lives, and felt the sun on my back. My revenge was complete now. The past was the past, and it was time to start thinking about the future.
For the first time in a while it felt good to be alive.
Eighty-four
‘SO, TELL ME. Is the job offer still open?’
‘I don’t remember making one.’
Mike Bolt grinned at Tina across the table. They were sitting in his local pub in Clerkenwell, just down the road from his flat, and he looked to be back to his old self after his recent spell in hospital. The stitches in his head wound were gone now and already his hair was growing back to cover the scar.
‘Do you really want to be part of the team?’ he asked her.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure what my position is at Westminster CID any more.’
In the end, Tina had never actually been arrested for anything, but she’d been on indefinite leave ever since the day of the bombs. Not suspended exactly, because that would have sent the wrong message. As far as the media were concerned, Tina had done everything she could to stop the attacks, and had killed Fox, the individual the Mirror had dubbed ‘The Most Evil Man in the Country’. But she was pretty sure her bosses in the Met would love to be rid of her once again. In the end, she was far too much trouble, and now that she was facing a protracted IPCC investigation over the killings of Fox and one of his would-be rescuers, the longer she stayed on leave the better.
Bolt finished the pint of lager he was drinking. ‘I’m not even sure how long Special Operations are going to be continuing for now,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of winding everything down.’
‘Well, they shouldn’t. There are still people out there who were involved in the attacks. I’m convinced of it.’
‘There may well be, but the leads have completely dried up, and there’s no one left who can help point us in the right direction. We even tried leaning on the girlfriend of Eric Hughes, as you suggested, but she didn’t say a word, and we haven’t got a thing on her, so that’s another dead end.’
He put down his empty glass. Tina finished her own drink, a pint of orange juice and soda water. Outside, the early spring sunshine was fading rapidly as night made its approach. It was at times like this – relaxing with a friend over an early evening drink – that she could really do with a nice glass of Rioja, and she felt a pang of sadness at the thought that she’d never be able to have one again.
She asked Bolt if he fancied another pint.
He shook his head. ‘No. Let’s go back and eat.’
‘What are you cooking me?’
‘Lamb rogan josh. It should be ready’ – he looked at his watch – ‘right about now.’
They got to their feet and headed for the exit, keeping a respectful couple of feet apart. It had been Tina’s idea to meet up. Having spent a reclusive couple of weeks wandering the countryside near her home and hardly seeing anyone, she’d had a real urge to catch up with Mike away from a work setting. The fact was, she was lonely and she missed him. So she’d called him up, and asked if he’d like to go out for a drink one night, steeling herself against the distinct possibility of rejection.
But the conversation had gone really well, and instead of a drink he’d invited her to dinner. She had no idea if he was just being friendly, or whether he wanted something more. And she still didn’t. But she didn’t care either. She just wanted a nice evening in good company, and if something happened, well, she probably wouldn’t say no.
As they passed the bar, Tina looked up at the TV on the wall. It was showing footage of a good-looking older man in an expensive suit talking at a news conference. Tina recognized him instantly. It was Garth Crossman, wealthy businessman and husband of one of the coffee-shop bomb’s victims. He was telling the assembled reporters of his much-publicized plan to form a new independent political party that would campaign on a pro-business, anti-crime platform. ‘Our People First’ was his slogan.
She slowed down to watch it. Crossman sounded passionate as he talked about his dead wife and his desire for her not to have died in vain.
The barman was watching him too, as was a customer sitting on one of the stools. There was something in the way he spoke that grabbed people’s attention.
‘I reckon he’s going to be a real breath of fresh air,’ said the barman, looking at Tina. ‘Better than the rest of that bloody shower in Westminster.’
‘Who knows,’ she said, and turned away to follow Mike out of the door.
But something Fox had said to her just before she’d shot him suddenly crossed her mind, and she stopped.
The next time you hear from us, it’ll be from a place you least expect. You won’t even know we’re there.
Mike turned round. ‘What’s wrong, Tina? Having second thoughts about my curry?’
She remembered something else Fox had said, when they’d first met in the prison interview room. He’d told her that the ultimate aim of The Brotherhood was to get into politics.
Could Garth Crossman be something to do with them?
She dismissed the idea immediately. She was getting paranoid.
‘Course not,’ she answered, smiling at Mike. ‘I’m starving. Come on, let’s go.’
She slipped her arm through his, and they walked out of the door together into the last of the day’s dying light.
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Published by Century, 2013
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Copyright © Simon Kernick, 2013
Simon Kernick has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Century
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