Authors: David Lowe
Hearing the shot fired re-booted Steve’s police training. Pushing his pain to one side he ran over to David who was keeping his eyes firmly on McElvaney. Sensing Steve standing alongside him, moaning from one of the targets lying on the lawn got louder. ‘One of them’s still alive,’ David said to Steve, ‘Go and check and make sure they can’t get us. I’ll get this one down on the floor. Don’t worry, if he doesn’t do as I say, I’ll blow the bastard away.’
While David dealt with McElvaney, Steve walked over to the two men on the lawn. Seeing his weapon that O’Byrne found on him and dropped in panic when he ran off, he picked it up. Seeing the safety catch was still on explained why O’Byrne couldn’t return fire when David opened up on Quinn. Switching the safety catch off, he looked at McCrossan who was rolling slightly on his side clutching his stomach. That, along with his moaning, told Steve he was alive. Noticing McCrossan’s pistol lying a few yards from him, to make sure he couldn’t reach for it Steve kicked it across the lawn away from the Irishman.
Walking quickly over to Quinn, Steve knelt down by his body. Seeing the large exit wound from the front of the skull and a lifeless stare from Quinn’s eyes that were still open, Steve still placed his fingers on the Irishman’s neck. As he suspected, there was no pulse. Seeing his warrant card next to the body he picked it up. With the pain getting worse, Steve put his hand on his ribs as he stood up and started walking over to McCrossan. Looking over to make sure David was alright, seeing McElvaney laying face down on the patio, arms outstretched with David standing over him, he knew his friend was in control. McCrossan was still holding his stomach when he looked up at Steve who started kicking the Irishman’s ribcage shouting, ‘How do you like it, you Irish bastard?’
Hearing the screams coming from McCrossan, without taking his eyes off McElvaney, David shouted over to Steve. ‘Leave him! Let’s get McElvaney sorted first.’
Steve stopped kicking McCrossan. Walking over to assist David he said, ‘I was only checking to see if the fucker’s still alive.’ Standing over McElvaney, Steve put his pistol away in his shoulder holster. Crouching down to search him, the pain in his ribs was getting worse causing Steve to grimace.
Sensing Steve might treat him the same way he had McCrossan, McElvaney said, ‘I told you, I’ll do as you say.’
Pausing for a moment, Steve looked at David and said, ‘I don’t remember giving him permission to speak.’ Looking at the IRA man lying on the patio by the open back door, he could taste blood coming from cuts inside his mouth. Reminding him how close he was to not seeing his wife and child, the officer’s blood chilled once more.
‘Steve! Leave it mate,’ David said sensing his friend was about to lose his temper again, ‘Cuff him and I’ll call for an ambulance for the one that’s still alive.’
Updating the control room of the situation David Hurst kept his gun trained on McElvaney while Steve felt around the back of his trouser belt. Not being in the pouch, he realised one of the targets had also taken his handcuffs. Taking hold of McElvaney’s hands Steve overlapped them and placed them on small of the Irishman’s back. Putting his weight on them, he leant into McElvaney’s back and said to David, ‘The fuckers have taken my cuffs as well, hand me yours.’ With the pistol in his right hand, David Hurst kept it aimed at McElvaney while with his left hand David Hurst took the radio away from his ear and placed it in his coat pocket then reached out to the back of his denim jeans. Undoing the pouch, he released his handcuffs and held them out. His sight permanently fixed on McElvaney, Steve reached out. Feeling for the handcuffs, he took them off David. As he began to put them on the Irishman’s wrists he said, ‘Don’t move or you’ll know about it.’ Once the handcuffs were around the wrists, Steve tightened the handcuff ratchets so tight they dug into McElvaney’s flesh, puncturing his skin. As blood started to trickle from his wrists, McElvaney turned his head and looked at the officer. ‘I told you not to fucking move,’ Steve shouted, punching the IRA man hard in the face. Turning to David he said, ‘You saw him resisting arrest didn’t you?’
‘Too right I did. They never learn do they?’
Helped to his feet by Steve, with blood streaming from his nose, McElvaney glared at the two officers. As David put his pistol back into his shoulder holster, the Irishman said, ‘You English bastards.’
Pointing to David, Steve said, ‘Get it fucking right, he’s half Irish.’
Leaning into David’s face, McElvaney said, ‘If you can kill an Irishman, you’ve no Irish blood in you. You’re a dead man and that’s no threat.’ Then emphasising each word, he chillingly whispered into David’s ear, ‘that’s a fucking promise.’
Chapter Two
Warwick Lane, London,
17.10 hours, Wednesday,
27
th
June, present day
Peter Hurst entered the Trafalgar Arms pub in Warwick Lane, close to the Old Bailey courts in London. On seeing his twin brother, David Hurst got out of his seat and walking over to him said, ‘Peter over here, I’m glad you could make it.’ His trial adjourned for the day and carrying his bag containing his barrister’s wig and gown, Peter Hurst decided not to go straight back to his chambers. With the case David’s counter-terrorism team were involved in having come to an end, he sent his twin a text message telling him to join him in the pub. Inseparable as children, with David living and working in the north-west of England and Peter living in London, as adults they rarely got the opportunity to see each other. Unable to hide the joy at seeing his brother, smiling broadly, David said, ‘Let’s get a drink first, then I’ll introduce you to the team.’
Now a detective sergeant in Greater Manchester Police’s Special Branch Counter-Terrorism Unit, David’s detective inspector, George Byrne, MI5’s northern region senior intelligence officer, Craig MacDonald and MI5 police liaison officer, Debbie Heron had already joined David and his team in the Georgian built pub. Celebrating the conviction of two Al Qaeda terrorists they arrested during an operation several months earlier, the group were sitting on the bench seats in the rear of the room the original frosted glass said was the “Lounge”.
As they walked to the bar Peter said, ‘You all seem happy. I assume it was a positive result?’
‘One got three life sentences to run concurrently with a recommendation to serve a minimum of thirty years, the other got fifteen years, so I’d definitely call that a good result.’
‘Seeing how there were no other trials from the Manchester area running at the Old Bailey, were you part of that terrorist case that’s been in the news the last couple of weeks?’
‘Yes,’ David said after ordering the drinks.
‘How come your squad got involved with terrorists? Was there a drugs link?’
‘Something like that. We only had a minor role in the case,’ David said dismissively, hoping Peter would change the subject. Only telling his family he was a detective in a CID department he never told them he investigated terrorist crimes.
‘Still, that’s some result and just as well seeing how it was such a high profile case. There are hordes of news reporters camped out on the Old Bailey’s steps getting ready for the six o’clock bulletins,’ Peter said looking behind him. ‘I can see Steve Adams and George Byrne, but the one I’m looking forward to meeting is Debbie. I’m keen to meet the woman that’s turned my big brother’s head. Where is she?’
‘I’m right here,’ a female voice said next to him. Peter turned to see a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a dark suit, with well groomed dark shoulder length hair. Used to making accurate first impressions of the many clients he met, while admiring her soft facial features betraying a comfortable upbringing, there was something about her he could not put his finger on. Clearly a confident person, there was something in her eyes exuding the similar unnerving look his brother had. Holding out her hand she said, ‘You must be Peter. It’s nice to finally meet you.’
‘You too Debbie,’ Peter said. Shaking hands with her, he continued looking her up and down. Having only images of Debbie based on her voice from brief telephone conversations when he rang David’s flat in Ancoats, Manchester, he wondered how a privately educated ambassador’s daughter could end up with his brother raised in one of the poorest areas of Liverpool.
Seeing him eye her up and down, Debbie said, ‘Well, am I what you imagined me to be?’
Embarrassed at being caught staring at her, he said, ‘Oh no.’ Gathering his composure, he added, ‘I was thinking how you look too much of a lady to be with that brother of mine.’
‘I heard that,’ David said passing him a pint of bitter. ‘Here you are love,’ he said passing Debbie a glass of red wine. As Peter went to take a sip, his brother patted him forcefully on his back saying, ‘Get that down your neck.’
Causing Peter to spill his beer, he began wiping his tie and turned to Debbie. ‘It’s certainly not his manners that you see in him.’
Compared to David, she noticed Peter’s Liverpool accent had softened to a point of non-existence. That was not the only difference. Being non-identical twins, apart from having fair hair to Peter’s dark hair, David was a good five inches taller and Debbie reckoned he was around twenty pounds heavier than Peter. ‘He can be well mannered when he wants to be. He’s just showing off in front of that lot over there,’ Debbie said looking over towards the rest of David’s team, who were getting louder the more they drank.
‘How come he’s not unveiled you to the family yet?’ Peter asked, surreptitiously taking in every one of Debbie’s features knowing his mother and sister would want to know every minor detail.
‘Every time we plan to go over to Liverpool or come down here to meet you something’s cropped up at work, so it’s been really difficult to arrange anything. A job’s coming up where I’m assisting David’s team, so hopefully I’ll finally get to meet your parents. You work with Craig MacDonald’s brother, Alistair don’t you?’ Debbie asked changing the subject.
‘Yes. We share the same office at chambers, but not for much longer. I got some good news this morning, but I think I should tell our David first. Would you excuse me for a moment?’
‘Of course,’ Debbie said turning to David who was talking to one of his team, ‘David, Peter’s got something to tell you.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re pregnant,’ David said laughing, ‘Seriously, it’s good news I hope?’
‘I received a letter from the Lord Chancellor’s office this morning. I’m now Peter Hurst QC.’
Hugging Peter with spontaneous delight, David said, ‘That’s great news. Have you told Mum and Dad yet?’
‘Yes, I rang them as soon as I heard. I’ve told our Siobhan as well. I tried to contact you, but you must have already been in court as your mobile went straight onto voicemail. Siobhan’s organising a do for me in Liverpool this weekend. Now your trial’s over, I’d love it if you and Debbie were there.’
David looked over at George and shouted, ‘Boss, my little brother heard this morning he’s now Queen’s Council. The family are having a celebration this weekend. I take it you’ll let me have the weekend off?’
Sitting in the far corner surrounded by David’s team, George was unable to get up. Raising his glass to Peter, due to the raucous chatter of the officers, he was forced to shout over, ‘Congratulations Peter, from what David tells me it’s well deserved.’ He looked at David and added, ‘Of course you can have the weekend off.’
Forcing his way through the legs of his seated colleagues, spilling his drink as he did so, Steve Adams made his way to Peter and said, ‘That’s another cause for a celebration. I’ll get some shorts in. Davey, give us a hand.’ Ignoring the conventional protocol of waiting politely to be served, they forced their way through the predominantly dark suited clientele to the front of the bar. Dismissing the murmurs of mild protest, Steve took money out of his trouser pocket and leant over the bar to attract the attention of the bar staff who were struggling to serve the large numbers of customers. ‘I think they’ve had an unexpected rush on, there’s only two serving. I wonder where everyone’s suddenly come from,’ he said trying to catch the eye of the staff.
David looked at his watch and said, ‘It’s nearly half five so I’m assuming they’ve come here after work.’ As he spoke, his eye was attracted to a small man with a stocky build in his forties standing by the doorway of the public bar on the opposite side of the partition of the lounge area. Having no drink in his hand, he didn’t appear to be with anyone else in the pub. Walking a few paces to his left, then turning round and walking a few paces back to the door looking all around him, he was acting as if he wanted to be noticed. As the man looked up at the ceiling David recognised the man’s face. For a moment he struggled to remember where he knew him from.
‘What’s Peter drinking,’ Steve asked David, who did not reply. Noticing his friend’s eyes transfixed on someone in the public bar, he looked over. Seeing the same man, Steve recognised him instantly. The gates of his episodic memory opened as memories of that autumn night in 1996 came flooding back. Once more he smelt the dampness of that night as the fear he felt when Quinn, McCrossan and O’Byrne stood in front of him returned. Prominent in his mind was Quinn’s gun barrel pointing at him. Unable to take his eyes off the man he shouted out, ‘It’s McCrossan!’
Hearing his name, McCrossan looked over at David and Steve. Raising his right fore and middle fingers to his eyes, he then pointed at the officers. Having got their attention, he quickly sidled out of the doorway of the pub back onto the street.
Grabbing David’s jacket, Steve said, ‘The bastard’s been watching us. Come on!’ Pushing his friend towards the partition door separating the two bar areas, Steve began forcing his way through the crowded pub towards the bar opposite. Barging their way through the customers, not caring if they caused them to spill their drinks, all they wanted to do was get their hands on McCrossan. As the two officers came out of the doorway onto the pavement, they saw him running down Warwick Lane in the direction of the River Thames. Because of his diminutive height, they struggled to keep sight of the Irishman running through the sea of people making their way home from work.