Julia Greaves sat opposite her computer screen in her office, divided from the mayhem that was the offices of the London Today newspaper by glass partition walls. She was typing in a very desultory way, cowed a little by the overbearing presence of her editor, Elliot Grant hovering behind her, holding a sheet of paper in his hand.
Grant sighed despondently as he read out, referring in passing to the paper. ‘The UK could face austerity until 2018 – duh. Jules, this is borderline cat stuck up a tree, babe.’ His new sigh was one of desperation.
Julia shrugged her shoulders, on the defensive. ‘Elliot, Marcus is on the NHS cover-up, Natalie’s on the tube strike and other than that, London’s quiet.’
‘What about these murders? You were coming in your panties the other day.’
‘Hit a brick wall on it, nothing on-going,’ she hated to admit.
‘Thought you had a new lead?’
‘I did. Just waiting to get a bit more substance on it.’
‘Well don’t wait. Abi is already sniffing to snatch it from you. Whatever you’re sitting on, let’s be having it – publish and be damned.’
When Grant left, she sat back and mulled it over for a few minutes, marshalling her thoughts. Then she went for old glory, typing furiously, pen in mouth, adjusting and scribbling notes on her pad at the same time. Doing exactly what a hack does.
***
Spencer Holland picked up the first edition of London Today from his local newsagent before piling back into his car and heading back to the nick.
The traffic was mind-bogglingly slow and at the third set of lights he reached which were on red – and certain that some bastard up in the traffic control centre was having a laugh at his expense – he picked up the paper and glanced with disinterest at the headline.
“JUSTICE OR TERRORISM? VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN!”
The words were big, bold, and as effective as a ‘V’ sign jerked up into Holland’s face.
He fired the paper across the car in a burst of rage.
‘Bitch.’
He tried desperately to compose himself, but failed miserably. He vented his fury on the steering wheel, pounding the crap out of it whilst screaming, ‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’
His tirade could be heard from the footpath and several pedestrians gawped at him, then walked swiftly on.
Just another nut job out of control in London.
***
Not too far away in another area of London, Big Ben struck four – in time with each punch Holland delivered to his steering wheel.
But in that area, the capital was being its usual stereotypical self without any hint of irony or self-awareness. It just was London, in some respects a relic of a bygone age. Black cabs, open-topped red tour buses passing the Cenotaph, the fast-sinking sun striking the intricately built walls of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben pushing towards the darkening sky. The roads were crammed with traffic, the pavements with scurrying people, all walking far too quickly, each on their own solitary journey, living their blocked lives. All that was missing was the bowler hat brigade and pinstriped suits on city types, walking across Westminster Bridge.
This stereotype could be followed into the offices of power somewhere deep in Whitehall, where some of the corridors still had polished teak panels and sturdy doors with shining brass handles, Almost frozen in a time that once existed, but was now just preserved for posterity.
At the end of a long, wide corridor sat Chief Superintendent Dennis Walsh alongside his ultimate boss, Commissioner Shields, a thickset, stern man with intelligent eyes and an air of confidence about him.
Both were in full uniform, looked smart.
They sat in silence.
They had been summoned.
A door opened silently on well-oiled hinges at the far end of the corridor and a man in a sombre suit approached the two officers. His name was Carter. He was in his late fifties, had a military bearing, his steel grey hair cut short, matching the colour of his eyes.
His approach seemed to last forever, like some sort of optical illusion.
Finally, he reached the two officers and extended his hand to Shields, recognisable instantly by the ‘bird shit’ on his uniform, a crown above a Bath star (or pip) above crossed tipstaves on his epaulettes, the man in absolute charge of the Metropolitan Police … sort of. Carter said, ‘Commissioner Shields, I presume.’
They shook hands and Shields said yes.
Carter then shook hands with Walsh in a more offhand manner. His insignia was a single crown above a Bath star and he was lower in rank.
‘I’m Chief Superintendent Walsh,’ Walsh said quickly and Carter nodded.
‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
Carter turned and headed back down the corridor, more quickly than his previous journey in the opposite direction.
‘I didn’t get your name,’ Shields said.
‘Carter.’
‘Would that be Mister Carter?’
‘It would be Chief of Staff Carter,’ he said briskly, and Shields then knew they were here to be put firmly in their place. He had been to such encounters before. He had always fought his corner and sometimes he’d won and sometimes he’d backed off gracefully. It was the nature of the game, which was inevitably intertwined with politics and the needs of other agencies. You didn’t get to be the highest ranking cop in the country without knowing when to retreat, attack or compromise.
They arrived at the door Carter had emerged from, which opened to reveal a very spacious and plush office with a single, oval shaped, oak table at its centre. Bulletproof windows overlooked Whitehall below.
Three stern looking men sat at the table, all much the same age, fifties.
Shields hesitated and Walsh glanced at him, both wondering, ‘What the fuck?’
Carter circumnavigated the table and gestured for the two officers to take seats opposite the three men, with a ‘Please.’
They sat, both feeling this was going to like a very tough promotion board.
The man in the middle of the trio was clearly the leader. He was very finely suited, and even before he opened his mouth, Shields and Walsh knew that he owned this space. They didn’t know his name, nor did he offer it up. They didn’t know which government department he represented.
His name was actually Rooker.
His initial opening was conciliatory and without sarcasm. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, gentlemen. You will have to forgive our somewhat hasty pace on this matter, but we must get straight to the point without preamble.’
Laid in front of him was a brown military file, stapled to the outside cover of which was a passport-sized photograph of Jimmy Vickers.
Rooker pushed the file across the wide table, Walsh rotated it so he and Shields could see it.
‘Jimmy Vickers – he’s a suspect in a series of murders,’ Walsh said.
Rooker and the man to his right shared a glance. Then Rooker said to the police officers, ‘At no point can this man be taken into police custody. Is that understood?’
Shields had had enough. His patience was gone already. He looked at the file and Jimmy’s photograph, then up at Rooker. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with the cloak and dagger stuff here and start over,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m Commissioner Shields from the Metropolitan Police, the head of the Met Police, actually – and you are?’
‘The man who makes sure you and the rest of this exquisite country are safe every second of every day,’ Rooker said frostily, avoiding the answer.
Carter stepped in, hoping to clear the air of the obvious tension. ‘We feel somewhat embarrassed that this individual has slipped our grasp, but I assure you, Commissioner, he belongs to us. Your man heading up this investigation will report his progress on the hour and you will report to us. Is that clear?’
Walsh nodded, but Shields still wasn’t happy. He had been dragged away from a huge backlog of work to appear in this office and he was not going to be dictated about operational issues by people he didn’t even know what jobs they did, or what authority they operated under. He knew it would no doubt override anything he had, but he still wasn’t happy. He wanted to know. This had to be a two way street, or no deal. He could be just as obstinate as anyone.
‘Just throw us a bone here, guys,’ he said. ‘Not much to ask, is it?’
The three men on the panel glanced at each other and came to a silent agreement.
Opposite them, Walsh had opened Jimmy’s file.
Rooker pursed his lips and said, ‘He works for a unit within the confines of our military infrastructure that benefits from a certain character profile, shall we say?’
‘SAS?’ Shields asked.
Carter shot a look at Rooker: beware.
‘He is a problem that you don’t want on your streets, a problem that only we can deal with – and we need him back where he belongs.’
***
Everyone else was asked to leave, and when they’d gone Rooker stood by the net curtains looking down on Whitehall. Shields stood alongside him, troubled.
‘I need to know who this Jimmy Vickers is.’
Rooker sighed, knowing that he had to tell because it was imperative the Met were on side with this. He took a moment to compose his words.
‘Not a word of this leaves the room,’ he warned. Shields nodded.
Rooker announced, ‘7/7 could have been averted. Went down to the wire. We were trying to get information out of this greasy Abdullah up until an hour before the attacks. We pressed him and we pressed hard. But could we get him to talk?’ Rooker shook his head, answering his own rhetorical question. Distantly he said, ‘We lost London that day … our capital won’t fall again, not like that. After 7/7 a programme was commissioned that would grant the means to extract information from terror suspects using whatever means possible, and anywhere in the world. Enhanced Information Extraction Techniques, EIET. You may have heard whispers of it – or not. It would give certain soldiers privileges to get the information we need to protect this country. Fast, efficient and brutal, and there is only one military unit you give that sort of power to.’
‘SAS,’ Shields guessed again.
Rooker neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead, he said, ‘Vickers’s character profile appeared perfect for the role … and it was … but with recent events that included the death of his parents, it’s safe to say he’s gone…’ Rooker searched for the appropriate word.
‘Mad?’ Shields chose for him.
‘Rogue,’ Rooker corrected him. ‘Jimmy Vickers is not mad. Far from it.’
‘If this law, or programme was passed, and I presume in secret at the highest levels, then why was Vickers arrested by your authorities in the first place?’ Shields queried.
‘Went too far. A dead prisoner is a dead prisoner, especially in a hospital. Goes without saying that is frowned upon … but he holds some vital intelligence in his head that we need – urgently.’
‘But it’s okay to chop off fingers and stick needles in testicles?’
‘That,’ Rooker said sadly, ‘is war, my friend.’
***
Holland’s phone rang over the speakers in his car. Before answering, he checked the caller ID: Chief Superintendent Walsh. Still fuming, Holland chilled and attempted cheerfulness. ‘Sir, how the hell are you?’
‘Spencer – have you seen the freakin’ newspaper?’ Walsh blasted.
Immediately on guard, Holland lied smoothly, ‘What newspaper is that?’
‘Do not fuck with me … we’ve got a real big problem. No questions, but from now on I want you to report to me on the hour regarding this Jimmy Vickers thing.’
‘Yes sir,’ Holland frowned.
‘You corner him, you call it in. You don’t get brave. You wrap this up, and you wrap it up now, you hear me?’
Fuck me, stressed or what? Holland thought. ‘Yes, sir, but I think we should…’
‘On the hour,’ Walsh snapped and hung up, no explanation given.
Before Holland even had the chance to curse, the phone rang again. ‘What?’
***
How he escaped he would never know, but Rob’s survival instinct kicked in the instant he took the bullet in the leg and then Vickers found himself unable to keep him held upright. Rob dropped like a brick as the bullets flew and the shootout raged between the two factions.
Unable to believe the barrage of rounds missed him, Rob half-crawled, half-dragged himself out of the flat and down the corridor, where he scuttled on his hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood behind him from the wound in the lower leg which in those initial moments just felt numb.
He reached the door that was the emergency exit, reached up for the release bar and fell through into a narrow landing at the top of the stairs, then pitched headlong down the concrete steps, coming to an untidy heap at the first turn of the steps. Dazed, hurt, he fell down the next set of steps, and did not stop going. To do so, he knew, would have been fatal.
He stood up, tried his weight on his leg, at which point the numbness turned to agony. The leg gave way under him and he fell down the next set of steps with a scream of pain and hit the next landing so hard the impact drove all his breath out of him.
Gasping and now in indescribable pain – which radiated up from the bullet wound – Rob pushed himself on.
This time, he sat on the top step of the next set and thudded down on his arse, like he was tobogganing, each drop onto his bony bottom jarring his body and he was forced to clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle his own cries.
Eventually he made it to the bottom of the stairwell, having left an easy to follow trail of blood.
Then he limped out into the night, hobbling and holding himself upright against walls and railings, forcing himself to keep moving instead of acquiescing to the overpowering urge just to curl up and give in, die. He knew that distance and time were his allies in this retreat and the more he had of both, the more chance he had of living. And, maybe, revenge.
Finally, he had to stop. Weakness pervaded his system. The adrenaline rush that had helped him so far had gone. He was exhausted and in agonising pain.
He staggered into an alley and lifted the lid of an industrial size wheelie bin. He clambered over the edge and dropped into the foetid bed of rotting food, bin bags and general waste inside. He didn’t care. He had to rest. There was nothing left in him and he drifted into a hazy state, somewhere on the cusp of consciousness and oblivion.
Next thing he knew he was experiencing a strange, rising sensation, a sway of movement; the sound of diesel motors, a sudden stop, tilt, jerk and then he was falling into a morass of overpowering stench. Strangely it felt good and Rob wondered if this was what death was like. Had he died? If he had, it wasn’t so bad. It was soft and squishy. Maybe the disgusting odour meant he had gone to hell.
It was the harsh Cockney voice that made him realise he was still very much in the land of the living, when the bin man shouted, ‘Stop the motor, mate, stop the motor. We got a fuckin’ body in this one.’
***
Holland abandoned his car in the yellow hatch markings reserved for ambulances only outside the A&E department. A paramedic sliding a trolley back inside an ambulance turned to remonstrate.
‘Oi – ambulances only.’
‘I’m a cop and the car stays here.’ Holland flashed his warrant card and strode past the open-mouthed paramedic and called back over his shoulder, ‘And if anyone touches it, I’ll snap their fuckin’ heads off.’
And then he was gone. He was annoyed briefly as the sliding doors hesitated for a moment too long for him before opening and allowing him through into the casualty department.
The unit, as ever, was heaving. A scrolling LED message board informed patients of a ‘3 Hour Wait’ followed by a smiley face.
Holland pushed through to the reception desk, still flashing his ID.
He had to wait an irritating two minutes before the doctor came to see him and then led him through the A&E ward which was divided up into a series of curtained cubicles.
As he walked, the doctor explained, ‘Gunshot wound to lower right leg but not serious. The bullet has basically nicked the muscle, sort of gouged a line through it, but you think he’d been shot in the chest from the way he’s complaining about it. Here…’
The doctor yanked back a curtain.
A very sorry looking Rob looked up through puppy eyes at Holland. His leg was wrapped in a bandage. A nurse stood next to him, easing a drip into the vein in the back of his right hand.
‘Leave us,’ Holland ordered the medical staff. The nurse glanced at the doctor, who nodded. The nurse taped the needle in place, adjusted the flow on the drip and left, scowling at Holland, who ignored her, entered the cubicle and closed the curtain.
The two men eyed each other.
‘We need to talk,’ Holland said.
‘About what?’ Rob snarled sourly.
‘You and me,’ Holland smiled, ‘have the same goal.’
++++