Authors: John Macrae
"No," he went on. "You help 'em all you can. I can't see any problems, can you?"
Conscious of the microphone, I tried to fend him off. "Don't you think it's a bit odd? A criminal investigation being run by the Special Branch and a leading ferret who works for the Coordinator?"
"No." He looked genuinely surprised. "In fact, it makes a lot of sense if they suspect that someone in the security world has gone bent. After all, you wouldn't want Mr Plod coming into a place like this, would you? No, no; it makes a lot of sense to me. We can't have bent spooks. I think they're doing it just right, don't you?"
With a sinking heart I had to agree. As I went out he said again, loudly for the listeners, "I'll wager a toffee apple to Harry Plummer's truncheon it was that idiot Briggs." He pointed to the microphone and grinned at me. "You realise, if it was, that everyone else is in the clear, of course?" I nodded, glumly. "And all our problems are over."
Again, I had to nod. I could hardly tell him the truth, could I? He was a pleased as a puppy with a rubber ball. "No, I think the Home Office are doing this in exactly the right way!" He jangled the spoon again, extra loud. "You give them every support you can, OK?"
"OK, boss, OK." I left.
Bloody boy scouts.
THE
COMBINED INTERROGATION TEAM
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be interrogated?
A
real
interrogation, I mean.
Not the TV programme, in your face shouting, black gloves, cheek-smacking stuff. Real interrogations are much more frightening. It’s much quieter. Much more inside your head. Like some chess game. Even if you’ve got nothing to worry about, a real professional interrogation is scary stuff. Listening for every word, every tone, every nuance in the questioner’s voice, wondering if you’ve tripped yourself up or contradicted yourself? And that’s just if you’re
innocent
. If you really do have something to hide, then all I can say is keep your wits about you and remember your story. Interrogations are as ten
s
e and nerve-racking as a five mile race.
"Well, what a surprise, eh?' Paddy breathed as he sat down heavily in my office. "Sorry to interrupt your day, but there's quite a lot we've got to get through." He patted his pockets, searching for cigarettes. "Now, then, where shall we start ... Harry?"
Plummer scratched his chin. I was sitting behind my desk, with Paddy slumped opposite. Harry Plummer was squashed on the hard chair behind the door. I turned towards him. "I think that we're looking for a list of all your people, first of all ... " he began.
"Mind if I smoke?" mouthed Paddy.
“Well, it’s supposed to be a no smoking area, Paddy. But seeing as how you’re a mate, I’ll bend the rules. Provided Harry here doesn’t nick us.” I opened the window and the traffic noise floated in. “Now, how much detail do you want on this list?”
"Well, we really only want any ex-Special Forces. Marines and Paras perhaps. Your hard men," continued Harry. "You know, your Bull Pen personnel, people like that ... "
"Ashtray?" Paddy shook a match, wreathed in clouds of smoke. Irritated, I passed him one. I don't like smoke; especially in my office. Paddy made a production of putting his brief case on the corner of my desk, and turned it carefully to a different angle. Well, now we all knew where the microphone was, children, didn't we?
"Over how long?" I spoke, abrupt, short.
"Well, the last two years?"
I reached for the intercom to speak to Personnel.
"No," chipped in Paddy. "Let's just start with the last twelve months."
I hesitated, hand in mid-flight. "Well? Which?"
They looked at each other. "Let's start with just the last year, shall we?" repeated Paddy. Harry nodded agreement. I stretched out my hand again, glancing from one to the other. "No, don't bother," said Paddy. "Just tell us what you think, first."
I withdrew my hand. I could feel my temper rising. "Make your mind u
p, Paddy. Do you want to see a
list or not?"
"Sorry." He grinned. "Why don’t we just talk it all through first? Who've you got working for you, on your books these days? I mean, really hard men: people capable of doing Varley."
"You remember," Harry Plummer chipped in, "Varley. The chap who got stabbed with a poker." I swivelled back to face him. "In Kent."
An image of Varley, coughing bright red blood, the poker projecting from his sternum like some obscene spike and him shrieking, 'don't leave me!' popped into my mind. "Varley? Oh, yes," I said, vaguely. "Your ex-SAS bagman, right?"
"That's it. You remember," Harry smiled encouragingly. "I told you he'd
know about it ,” he added unne
cessarily to Paddy.
"Bagman?" Paddy chipped in.
"The chap with the green back-pack," Harry replied.
"Oh, yes," said Paddy. "You told me about him. Sounded a nasty piece of work."
I waited patiently while they finished their own conversation, and both turned back to me. "OK to go on?" I said sarcastically.
"Of course. Sorry, old bean." Paddy grinned. The little room was filling with his smoke.
I tried to collect my thoughts. "Well, now, the Bull Pen's a bit run down at the moment. Andy's still in charge, but he's only got two men. James Bellingham's been sacked and Jonno Briggs is dead. Odd business. Running himself off the road like that. Still, probably saved us all a lot of bother, eh? But you know that."
"Right." Paddy consulted his notebook. Harry Plummer was writing laboriously, policeman style. "The two left are...?"
"Johnny Swallow ... " he scribbled away, "And then there’s Mike Gallichan ... but surely you know this already, Harry? Hell, you've had access to our staff lists for as long as I've known you."
"Yes, that's right. But we need your opinion of who's the likeliest customer." Harry's manner was benign.
Paddy chipped in. "And of course, you'll be able to save us a lot of work. By eliminating them."
"Eliminating them? How do you mean, Paddy?"
"The ones who were away on jobs out of the country at the time: that sort of thing."
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
Plummer pounced from the sidelines. “Why, what did
you
think we meant by eliminating?”
I had been trapped by my guilty knowledge. Tricky thing,
mens rea
. However, I hadn’t made any damaging admission. Play dumb. “I just didn’t know…” I flannel
l
ed.
They exchanged glances.
Paddy continued. “What we need is for you to help us by pointing in the right direction.”
Harry Plummer nodded his agreement. "That's it. Point us in the right direction. Now, who else have we got?"
"Well..."
I racked my brains. "There's Charlie Younger, the PTI. He runs our gym," I explained to Paddy.
"A bit old," said Harry.
"Right build, though," I countered.
"Oh? How d'you mean?" Paddy leaned forward to tap ash. Mentally I cursed. I'd nearly blown it.
"What?"
"How do you mean - 'he's got the right build'? For what?" His gaze was deceptively casual, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Harry Plummer suddenly stiffen slightly, alert.
"For Harry's bagman." I turned to Harry, "He was medium build, wasn't he, Harry ? Isn't that what you said when you talked to Mallalieu and me last year?"
"Did I? I can't remember." He made a play of remembering. "Yes, he was medium build; according to Varley's statements."
"There you are, then. Mind you, I reckon Charlie's a bit grizzled to match the description you gave." I sat back. The moment had passed.
Harry let it go. "Yes; never mind. We'll add him to the list, though." He sounded disappointed.
"Anybody else?" said Paddy.
"Well, there's the support teams. There's a few ex-servicemen there..." But Harry had stopped writing. He looked at Paddy. Harry obviously wasn't really bothered about the operations support teams.
"Anybody else in this company capable of doing this sort of thing?" Paddy was relaxed, but something in his manner had changed.
I shrugged. "Not really. I mean, from what you're saying he seems to be quite a high powered guy." Paddy nodded slowly as I went on, "According to Harry, the guy who did Varley was a break-in artist and a bit of a sadist as well ... as I recall it, anyway."
"Yes." There was a long pause. I was starting to sweat. I could feel it damp on my upper lip and longed to wipe if off. But a professional like Paddy would be on to a sign like that in a flash. I didn't need to sweat. I wasn't in the frame. I remembered a trick from my interrogation courses, years ago, and took out a handkerchief to blow my nose.
Then I sat back and did a body language check. It was all good. All the signs said I was relaxed. Casually I uncrossed my legs and leaned back in the chair. But I knew that Paddy Croft
knew
I’d
done the interrogation course. The mere fact that I was relaxing would make a man like Paddy ask himself why I was relaxing.
I looked at them both staring at me, their eyes unfriendly and calculating. Paddy Croft, one of my oldest mates, looked me straight in the eye, but without a glimmer of real recognition, his face set in a hard, suspicious mask behind the fixed smile. He knew. So did Plummer. And they both knew that I knew, too. I started to sweat again. They couldn't win a session like this - provided I kept my mouth shut. But they could catch a mistake. I could lose. They weren't here to talk about the Firm. I recognized the situation. These bastards were here to interrogate
me
. Shake the tree and see if anything fell out.
"Does
anyone
else in the firm have those sort of skills?" Paddy persisted. "I mean, housebreaking like on the Varley job... what do you people call it ... CME?"
"Covert Methods of Entry."
"That's it." He turned to Harry. "Anybody else qualified?"
I had to say something. There comes a point in security interviews at which silence is damning. That's what distinguishes a security interview from a proper interrogation. I couldn't just sit on my hands
parroting
, 'I can't answer that question' over and over again like on the resistance to interrogation course. They both knew that I was CME qualified. I had to speak, or it would look suspicious. I spoke. "Well, I've done the CME course, too."
"Have you?" said Paddy, wide-eyed with surprise. Harry Plummer nodded at him and made a play of consulting the note book. Their double act was good, I had to admit, considering that I'd told them nothing they hadn't already checked on. "You never told me that."
"Well, it's not something we talk about, Paddy. Any more than you would ever talk about the details of an operational submarine patrol." That was a kick in the crutch. Paddy Croft had confided details of operational nuclear submarine patrol targets to me many times over his beer, years ago. At the time, we hadn't thought of it as insecure gossip. It wasn't tittle-tattle: we were mates, so professional confidences didn't matter. But they might balance things out now. "Anyway, I'm sure that Harry knows that I was CME trained."
Paddy nodded slowly, acknowledging that the gloves were off. "I see." The submarine remark had thrown him. I followed my advantage. "Hell,
I
could be the guy that you’re looking for, in theory, if it's just SAS or qualifications from the
Fort
you're after."
"Yes," said Paddy. "With your background, I suppose you could."
Sensing the frosty atmosphere, Harry looked from one to the other, head cocked.
"Mind you, whoever did this sort of stuff would have to be a real nutter," I countered.
"How do you mean?" Paddy's manner stayed breezy, but eye was still cold.
"Well, it's all so stupid. Don't you agree, Harry?" Harry made non-commit
t
al noises. He was waiting for Paddy to take the lead. I kept the initiative. "Do you know who I think did it?" I leaned forward and Paddy copied me. " I mean, really, my honest opinion?"
I looked at them both, slowly drawing the moment out; "Briggs. I reckon it must have been Briggs."
A bellow of laughter came from Paddy. "Briggs? Jonno Briggs? You must be joking."
"Why?"
"Well, for a start, he was six foot three at least. And big with it. And blond-haired. Never! Never"
"Was six foot three. He's dead." Harry wasn't laughing.
"Yes, of course." Paddy's derision disappeared as he sobered up. "No, the one who did this wasn't a blond ex-stuntman who's conveniently dead. He's alive for a start and he's medium build, about six foot, sharp blue eyes with a strong Scottish accent."
"That doesn't fit any of our people. None of them match that description. Swallow’s shorter than me and Mike Gallichan’s got a Yorkshire accent. We've got some Welsh people, though," I mused helpfully, "What about the other firms?"
"We'll have to see." Paddy stared at me. "But none of them are in the same league as you."
"Me?"
"You, plural: your firm."
"Anyway, he could have put on the accent." Harry's comment marked a pause in the discussion. It was like the pause between boxing rounds. If they'd won a surprise knockdown in the first round, I'd stayed ahead on points in the second.
I had to keep that advantage, but could blow it by saying too much.
I
was walking a tightrope between the pose of the innocent striving to help, and making a fatal slip or admission that could let them in. But how much did they suspect and how much did they really know? I had to find out.
The thing about interrogation is that it's best done slowly and carefully. Unless you’ve only got ten minutes to discover a bomb and you’ve collared the terrorist who actually planted it. Then it’s no rules stuff – “the greater good”, etcetera. . But normal interrogation is not like that. It's really all about co-operation. Because you can get anyone to talk: that's easy. Just shove a red-hot poker up their backside; they'll say anything, even if it's just a lot of noise. But interrogation is more than just getting someone to say
something.
It's all about finding the truth - discovering what really happened, seeking the facts.