Fifty-eight
It was evening and I was lying in my hospital bed feeling sick, having eaten all the chocolates Tina Boyd brought me, and wondering if she’d say yes if I asked her out for a date, when there was a knock on the door. A second later, the bald, cadaverous figure of Captain Bob appeared. He was dressed in a V-neck angora sweater and sensible slacks, as if he’d just come back from a game of golf, which he probably had.
‘My God, you look different,’ he said, approaching the bed and putting out a bony hand, which I shook reluctantly. ‘What have you done to your hair?’
The last time I’d seen him it was short and light brown, but for the Wolfe infiltration I’d dyed it black, grown it long, and added a pair of mutton-chop sideburns which if they’d been a couple of inches longer would have constituted an Amish beard. ‘A man should always be adventurous with his hair, although I guess you’ve probably forgotten that. Anyway, thanks for coming to check up on me, sir. I’ve only been here nine days.’
‘I’ve been trying to contain the fall-out from your shenanigans,’ he answered gruffly, taking a seat. I noticed that he hadn’t brought a gift, or even a card, but then Captain Bob had never been known for his generosity of spirit. ‘What were you thinking about, Sean?’ he asked, his cut-glass accent heavy with exasperation.
‘You know what I was thinking about. I was trying to get justice for my brother.’
‘Revenge, you mean, because there was nothing just about what you did.’
‘If you’ve come here to lecture me, sir, then you’re wasting your breath.’
‘I haven’t. I came here to see how you were. And to tell you that I’ve spoken up on your behalf to the officers investigating this sorry affair. I’m hopeful that they’re not going to press charges, but I have to be honest, Sean. Your career’s over.’
‘I gathered that.’ I’d always known that this was inevitable, yet I was still taken aback by the finality of his announcement.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying hard to sound like he meant it. ‘There’s something else as well. I’ve been asked to come here to request your resignation from the force. We’ll accept it on the grounds of stress, and you’ll keep your full pension rights. I can promise you it’ll be a lot easier that way.’ His tone was polite, sympathetic even, but there was no mistaking the threat behind the words. They wanted rid of me, and would do whatever it took.
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘That it could get messy.’
Sections of the media might have been portraying me as a hero, but I didn’t think that would stop the bosses in their quest. I was an embarrassment, and I had to go. I could have fought on, but the last few weeks had taken their toll on me, and I’d done what I’d set out to do. Now was the time to withdraw from the battlefield.
‘OK then,’ I said. ‘I resign, if that’s what you want.’
‘I don’t want,’ he answered, ‘but you’ve left us with no choice. You kidnapped a high-profile suspect from police custody, and killed him before he’d even got anywhere near a court.’
‘I also helped break open a major case that led to the unmasking of a corrupt politician,’ I snapped back, stung by his criticism. ‘And there’s more to come as well. Paul Wise, the gangster who was behind all this, is going to get exposed as well.’
Captain Bob narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know?’
‘Tina Boyd’s got a tape of Anthony Gore’s confession in which he mentions Wise.’
As soon as I said this, I regretted it. The last person I needed to tell was an establishment man like Captain Bob.
‘I thought there was no tape,’ he said. ‘That’s what she told her boss.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I got it wrong.’
He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe that for one minute, but chose not to pursue it further. Instead, after a few seconds of tense silence, he got to his feet and said he had to go. ‘You were an excellent operative, Sean, and I enjoyed working with you. You’ll be missed, but you’re doing the right thing.’ He gave my hand a cursory shake, wished me luck, then hurried out of the room as if he was being pursued by a bad smell.
I wondered if I’d now landed Tina in a big pile of trouble. I had little doubt that he’d report what he’d found out to his superiors, and that they’d try to get her to hand over the footage. I needed to let her know that she might be getting a visit so that she could at least take appropriate action. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a number for her.
I was still very tired, and, despite feeling guilty about not trying to make contact, I drifted off into a restless sleep.
Something jolted me awake. Something that was bothering me. But I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
The digital clock on the wall said it was 9.53 p.m., and I slowly clambered out of bed. I was feeling a lot better, and the consensus among the doctors was that I was making a remarkable recovery. My right leg felt very stiff where I’d taken the bullet, but I could walk on it. I put on my dressing gown, grabbed my crutches, and went hunting for a payphone. I owed Tina. She’d done as much to save my life as I had hers. If she hadn’t turned up at the warehouse when she did, there was no doubt about it, I would have bled to death.
Halfway down the corridor, I stopped.
Dead.
I put a hand against the wall to steady myself, because I suddenly remembered something that Tommy had said in the warehouse during those few minutes I’d questioned him at gunpoint.
And in a sudden rush, I realized what it was that was bothering me.
And how much danger Tina Boyd was now in.
Fifty-nine
Alpha looked down at the Glock 34, with nine-millimetre silencer attached, in his hand. It was a wicked-looking thing that had been supplied to him three years earlier for use in case of emergencies, and as far as he was aware it was untraceable. The current situation was definitely an emergency, but Alpha still had no desire to use the gun. He wasn’t a killer, and never had been. He’d always considered his role within Paul Wise’s secretive organization to be nothing more than an information resource, helping Wise to run his business more smoothly by providing details of police operations against the various illegal arms of his business. But increasingly he was being called upon to perform far more extreme tasks, including the mutilation of a dead woman with a hammer in order to cover up the crime of Wise’s most senior establishment contact.
And now this.
Alpha’s instructions, delivered by Wise himself in his phone call, were simple and uncompromising. Get the tape that Tina Boyd made of Anthony Gore’s confession. Make sure there were no further copies. And then kill her. Wise’s tone had been angry and vindictive when he gave this last instruction. It seemed her actions had clearly riled him, as was proved by the price he was willing to pay for her death: a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, paid into Alpha’s Panamanian bank account within the hour.
Alpha knew he had no choice. He’d wanted to get out of Wise’s employ for a long time now, but it didn’t work like that. Wise had made it known to him that he had enough evidence of Alpha’s involvement in his operations to ruin him if he so chose.
The job had to be done, and it had to be done now.
Taking a deep breath, Robin Samuel-Smith, better known as Captain Bob to his colleagues in CO10, removed the silencer from the Glock, placed both items in the concealed shoulder holster beneath his raincoat, and walked out of the Pimlico apartment that Paul Wise’s blood money had done so much to pay for.
Sixty
I phoned my old colleague at Holborn nick, Simon Tilley, from one of a bank of payphones near the hospital reception, and got him to give me Tina’s address and phone numbers. Tilley had already visited me twice in hospital, so thankfully he didn’t want to talk about my experiences, having heard it all already, but he did seem very interested in knowing why I wanted to contact Tina, assuming it was for romantic reasons. I almost told him about my fears, but I had the feeling he’d think I was certifiable. Instead, I cut him short, telling him I’d call him back in the next couple of days.
I still wasn’t entirely sure myself about my theory. It seemed inconceivable that Captain Bob, the man who’d been my boss for getting on for ten years, could be Alpha, the man who’d set this whole thing up.
Yet it fitted. Tina thought that Alpha was Paul Wise, but he couldn’t be. It had to be someone who knew enough about the police investigation into the Night Creeper to be able to make Roisín O’Neill’s murder look like his work. Although Bob wasn’t a part of the inquiry, he was senior enough to have been privy to the details if he’d chosen to look.
I’d always known that Captain Bob had good contacts in the London underworld. After all, he’d played a major part in getting the contract Jason Slade had taken out on me lifted. And then there was Tommy’s shock in the warehouse when I told him I was an undercover cop. ‘No way,’ he’d said. ‘I had you checked out. Thoroughly.’
Was that because the person checking me out wasn’t Wolfe at all, or Haddock, but a senior handler of undercover officers in CO10, someone whose word could be relied upon – someone like Captain Bob?
The thing was, because the Wolfe infiltration had been an unofficial job, I’d done everything possible to make sure my bosses didn’t find out about it. I’d used an old ID from when I was temporarily seconded to Soca a couple of years earlier, and because Soca was a wholly separate organization from the Met, Bob wouldn’t have been able to tell that it was an undercover ID. Also, I’d changed my appearance hugely for the job. Not just by growing my hair and adding big sideburns, but also by putting on more than a stone in weight. It was possible that if Bob had been given a photo to look at, and it wasn’t a particularly good shot, he wouldn’t have recognized me.
Having someone like Bob looking out for them would explain why Wolfe and his crew had always remained several steps ahead of law enforcement. And I suspected that if the police dug deeper into their activities, they’d find that the man they bought their drugs from was Paul Wise, one of whose central activities was drug smuggling.
And then there was the way Bob had hurried out of the room when I mentioned the tape.
It all fitted. But it was still just a theory, and one that was so vague and lacking in evidence that it would be laughed out of a police incident room, let alone a court. A part of me wondered whether I was reading too much into it, that everything that had happened over the past days had made me paranoid. It was difficult to believe that my boss was protecting the men he knew were my brother’s killers. Yet there are many cases in this world of men doing terrible things in the pursuit of money, and perhaps Captain Bob, a man for whom the term ‘self-interest’ might have been invented, was one of them.
I tried Tina’s landline. There was no answer, so I left a message, asking her to meet me at my flat and telling her it was urgent. I then tried her mobile, with the same result, and left the same message.
I stepped away from the bank of phones. I had no idea if she was home or not, or whether she was in real and immediate danger, but I wasn’t going to be able to rest until I’d got hold of her, and if I couldn’t do it by phone, I was going to have to turn up in person.
And do what? Stand guard over her, an invalid with a bad leg who’d just discharged himself from hospital, until she handed over the tape to the journalist?
In truth, I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do, but I had to do something, so I limped back to my room, wincing against the continued stiffness in my leg. I had a clean set of clothes I’d got Simon Tilley to bring from home when he’d visited, and I changed into them, careful not to dislodge the bandages that still covered most of my stomach area. I was a long way from fighting strength but, incredibly, neither of the bullets I’d been hit with had damaged any vital organs, and my injuries were healing well, stiff leg aside. In fact, my ribs, two of which had been fractured, had been giving me far more pain, and they ached now as I moved around the room.
The clock on the wall said 10.14. An hour at least, probably more, since Captain Bob had left in such a hurry.
I hurried out the door, hoping I wasn’t too late.
Sixty-one
Tina Boyd was allowing herself to float gently in a mildly drunken haze, largely ignoring the documentary on the TV.
She was bored and restless, wanting to get the meeting with Nick Penny, the
Guardian
journalist, over and done with so that she could wrap this whole thing up and finally put her nemesis in the spotlight.
It had taken her days of thinking to work out what was the best thing to do with the Anthony Gore confession tape. At one point she’d seriously considered handing it over to Mike Bolt to deal with, knowing that he would never cover anything up. But, though she trusted him totally, she’d decided against it. He’d already done her enough favours, and as a result had found himself in plenty of trouble of his own. Far better to give it to an experienced investigative journalist like Penny, who specialized in sniffing out big stories, and who had a strong anti-establishment background. She knew it would mean the end of her career, as there was no way she could avoid the tape being traced back to her, but frankly, at that moment in time, she was past caring.
Tina was currently suspended on full pay, but she wasn’t going to be hanging round the flat for much longer. The days were too long and empty, the opportunities to drink too many. No, as soon as Penny made the contents of the tape public, she’d take a holiday – somewhere warm, exotic, and a long way away – and kick the booze for good.
She yawned and picked up the empty wine bottle, wondering whether to open another, just for a quick nightcap. It was crap stuff, but drinkable, at least. But when she got to her feet, her head spun and her vision blurred for a couple of seconds, which meant it was definitely time for bed.
She tottered off down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom before realizing she hadn’t turned off the TV.
But as she turned back round, she heard the lock on the apartment’s front door click loudly as it was turned. Then, as she watched, wondering if she was imagining things, the door slowly began to open.
For a moment, Tina froze, unsure what to do, her thought processes slowed by the booze. But the door kept opening inch by inch, and then a gloved hand appeared round it, finally jolting her into action.
Moving as silently as possible in her stockinged feet, she darted into her bedroom. The light was on from earlier and she looked round frantically for her mobile, but couldn’t see it. Nor could she remember where the hell she’d had it last, though she thought it might be back in the lounge. She vaguely remembered hearing it ring earlier, and ignoring it, because she didn’t want to be bothered.
She heard the living-room door being opened, the sound of the TV growing louder. Someone was searching her flat, looking for her. Even in her befuddled state, she knew it had to have something to do with the tape, although how Paul Wise had found out about it was anyone’s guess.
There was no time to think about that now. The most important thing was self-preservation.
She crossed the bedroom floor and opened the old wooden wardrobe that had been here when she bought the apartment. It creaked loudly, and Tina had to resist the bizarre desire to laugh out loud, because as she stepped inside, pushing the coats and suits out of the way and shutting the door behind her, the whole thing reminded her of games of hide and seek at childhood parties.
And then, as she heard footfalls moving stealthily down the hall in the direction of the bedroom, the fear set in again. She pushed through the coats in front of her, burrowing as far back inside as she could, desperately trying to focus on not making a noise.
His footfalls came steadily closer, and the floorboard just inside her bedroom door creaked.
He was in the room.
She held her breath, feeling herself wobbling, trying not to lean too hard against the back of the wardrobe.
The room was silent as she waited, no longer able to hear the intruder. Had he gone?
Then her foot slipped, knocking into a pair of shoes with an audible clack, and Tina froze, clenching her teeth, cursing herself for letting her guard down like this.
The wardrobe door flew open and the coats were yanked aside in one angry movement.
For half a second, Tina stood there face to face with a man in an ill-fitting balaclava and a long raincoat who was holding a pistol with silencer in one gloved hand; then she leaped at him with an angry scream, going for his wrists in an effort to stop him from using the gun.
But the drink had made her movements awkward and uncoordinated and he stepped away easily, punching her in the back of the head as she stumbled past him. She put out a hand to head off a collision with the bedroom wall, before tumbling to the floor.
As she turned round, the gunman loomed over her. ‘The tape. Where is it? Tell me now.’ He hissed the words, clearly trying to disguise his voice. But the accent was educated, possibly upper class. There was an edge of fear in it, too, as if he genuinely didn’t want to be in this position.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, enunciating her words carefully, strangely ashamed at having her private drunkenness exposed as she played for time.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you tell me, I leave now. If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in you and turn this place upside down until I find it. And I
will
find it.’
Tina looked up at him, trying to work out whether he would actually let her go if she gave it to him. She was desperate not to hand it over and see her last chance of bringing Paul Wise to justice disappear, but she also knew that she didn’t want to die.
He held the gun steady. ‘Last chance.’
She swallowed, something stopping her from telling him, even though she knew she was taking a huge risk.
‘Tell me,’ he snarled, and she thought she saw the first hint of doubt in his eyes.
But then he picked up a pillow from the bed, folded it in half and pushed the end of the silencer against it, still pointing the gun at her. Now if he fired, the report would be close to inaudible. Not even the neighbours would hear through the paper-thin walls.
She was about to die in her own home, the last sanctuary she had from the violent world outside. Yet still she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
The gunman took a step closer and leaned down towards her so that the pillow obscured her field of vision. ‘I’m not going to ask again,’ he whispered, a renewed determination in his voice. ‘Where is it?’
The buzzer to the apartment went as someone from outside the building called up, a long, uninterrupted noise, as if the caller was holding his hand down on it.
She had no idea who it was – she never had evening visitors – but it managed to distract the gunman, who momentarily looked away.
Which was when the drink took over and she launched herself upwards at him with an angry yell, ignoring the way her head spun as she went for the gun.