‘If you could get him to call me as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. It’s urgent.’
Dempsey replaced the telephone receiver. For a moment he remained still, contemplating his next step. Then his hand moved across to a slim manila file that sat on the table. With a flick of his fingertips he slid it back towards himself. He picked it up and opened the cover. Not for the first time. Or even the twenty-first.
The file contained a single page; hardly worth the binder. Dempsey’s eyes scanned it once more. It contained little information. Certainly nothing he had missed on previous reads. As before, three blocks of text stood out. The first was a name: Sergeant Steven Jones. The second was a location: Credenhill Barracks, Herefordshire, home of 22 SAS. The third was a signature. An indecipherable scrawl that Dempsey would know anywhere. It was the mark of Callum McGregor.
The presence of McGregor’s name had been a shock, but any suspicions it aroused were quickly put to rest. Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley had explained that top-level clearance had been needed to authorise a replacement for his team of sharpshooters. This had to come from the operational commander, and that was Callum McGregor. The explanation made sense. It was confirmed by McGregor himself.
Dempsey closed the binder and slid it back across the table. Back towards a telephone he knew would soon ring. When it did he would want the information close at hand. In the meantime, his eyes darted to a second set of papers. Thicker and well-thumbed. They sat on a bookshelf at the far side of the desk.
The room Henley had assigned to Dempsey within New Scotland Yard was small, little more than a cubbyhole. Dempsey’s own office was much larger but it was in Vauxhall, ten minutes away in typical London traffic. For now Dempsey was working with Henley to track down Sergeant Steven Jones. In the circumstances, ‘close’ beat ‘comfortable’.
Dempsey had so far paid less attention to this larger file than to the single page that remained by the telephone. The information on that sheet had been more important, but nothing could now be done about Steven Jones until Dempsey’s call was returned. This left time to consider Sergeant John Dutton, the man Jones had replaced.
Dutton’s file read like a Boys’ Own special. At thirty-five years of age he was a thirteen-year veteran of the Metropolitan Police. In that time he had done it all. Territorial Support Group. Flying Squad. The Met’s dedicated firearms unit, SO19. And now Counter Terrorism Command.
Henley had described Dutton as his best. It was not an exaggeration.
Dempsey’s mind ticked over as he flicked through Dutton’s file. He focused on what Henley had told him. Dutton had called in sick the previous evening. Not just off-colour but bed-ridden; plagued by crippling stomach cramps and fever. The timing in itself was suspicious. That it should happen to the team leader – the one man who could not be replaced from within – was downright compelling.
A photograph was attached to the top right-hand corner of the first page. Dutton looked just as Dempsey would expect. Rough and ready. A man of action. Further investigation was needed, of course, but Dempsey was already as sure as he could be that Dutton was a patsy. Taken out of the picture and replaced by someone more compliant. Someone who was a traitor: Sergeant Steven Jones.
Dempsey’s eyes flicked back to the first file. He was tempted to pick it up once again. But he knew it would still tell him nothing new. Instead he would wait for the call from Jones’s commanding officer. Then, when he knew more, Dempsey would find out everything else from Jones himself. Face to face.
For just a moment Dempsey pictured himself confronting Sam Regis’ killer. What would be expected of him, in those circumstances? The same as was always expected of him, Dempsey knew. That he would do his duty. Dempsey would be expected to listen to what Jones had to say and to reach his own conclusions. Always efficient. Always professional. But what if this time Dempsey was not? What would happen if, just this once, he allowed his emotions to take over? It would be no pleasure to Dempsey. Violence never was; he had grown to hate that element of his life. But, damn, it would be justified. Sam was . . . had been . . . a friend. Dempsey had few enough of those, and to lose one like this?
It was not something that Dempsey could allow himself to dwell on. So he was happy for his attention to be caught by the small rolling news box in the top corner of his computer screen.
In it was the image of Anthony Haversume.
The politician seemed to be holding a press conference. Dempsey clicked on an icon that enlarged the image and raised the volume:
‘I have nothing but good memories. Good memories of a man who had so much more to do, both personally and politically. It is no secret that Sir Neil and I were sometimes at opposite ends of the political spectrum. But I have never worked with someone for whom I had such unfettered respect. I do not expect to do so again. Sir Neil was a great man, a great statesman and an example of what every aspiring leader should be. A man who made one proud to be British. It is my belief that we have today lost the man who should and would have been our next prime minister. He would have enjoyed my wholehearted support at the very least. But thanks to yet another act of violence, I have lost a dear friend. The nation has lost the leader it deserves. Most of all, a loving family has lost the most wonderful father. To call what occurred today a tragedy isn’t strong enough. I’m afraid that there are no suitable words.’
Dempsey nodded to himself. He agreed with every word. Matthewson had been a great man. One of the few statesmen Dempsey could bear. His death was a loss to the nation and, according to what he had just heard, a personal loss to the man on screen. Dempsey had not known that Matthewson and Haversume were friends. Why would he? But there could now be no doubt that they were. Haversume’s eyes had started to well with the first hint of tears. It caused him to pause.
Dempsey sat back to hear what Haversume would say next. He expected it would be another condemnation of William Davies’ government and its failure to deal with the fresh wave of Irish terrorism. Every time Haversume had spoken in recent months had been on that subject. They were not views that Dempsey shared. His life experiences were real. Raw.
They told him that compromise was rarely less desirable than murder.
It was hard now for Dempsey to recall a life before this. For two decades he had lived with extreme violence and death. His time in the SAS – and beyond – had been dedicated to both. And from the very beginning he had been good. Very, very good. But time and experience can change a man. And now, in his mid-thirties, Dempsey was sure that he could happily live the rest of his years without firing another bullet or throwing another punch.
William Davies seemed to have similar ambitions, only his extended to a far larger scale. Davies had risked his political future to bring institutionalised violence to an end, at least in Ulster. Those efforts may have failed but Dempsey respected Davies for making them. He also respected Haversume. Haversume had taken a stand on principle. Whether Dempsey agreed with his beliefs or not, he appreciated what a rare strength that was in a politician.
The press conference continued. But Dempsey would not get the chance to listen. He clicked away from the news screen – silencing the audio feed – the instant his telephone began to ring. It had time to chirp only once before the receiver was at his ear.
‘Joe Dempsey.’
‘Major Dempsey. This is Major General Arthur West, Director Special Forces. I understand you’ve been trying to contact me.’
West’s voice was clipped. Matter-of-fact.
‘I have, sir. I’m trying to locate one of your men. Sergeant Steven Jones.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that. What do you need to know, Major?’
‘For now I just want to know where he is. Jones didn’t wait to be debriefed this afternoon. Given what happened, it’s a process we need to complete.’
‘I’ve been told that. That he didn’t wait, I mean.’
A little emotion now began to colour West’s voice. It carried more than a hint of disappointment.
‘I can only apologise. I don’t need to tell you what a highly unusual course of conduct this is, Major. It concerns me.’
West’s honesty was blunt. Dempsey knew why. The major general would have been less forthcoming if not speaking to a fellow SAS officer. Dempsey was now firmly ensconced within the DDS, but no soldier ever really leaves the regiment.
‘I understand, sir. And you’ll understand why I’m keen to speak to him. Failure to attend for debriefing is not usual procedure. I can’t think he’d avoid questioning just because of a bullet going where it shouldn’t.’
Dempsey’s comment was intentionally flippant. He could not reveal an emotional attachment to Sam Regis. Important though their friendship had been to him, the investigation came first. Everything else had to be suppressed.
‘I agree. He has some serious questions to answer. But as to his whereabouts, I’m afraid I can be of little help. He should have been back in Credenhill over an hour ago.’
‘But he isn’t?’
‘No. We’ve tried to contact him but have not succeeded. But I am confident that he’ll be back within hours, Major. Despite the black mark of today he is an absolute professional.’
‘He wouldn’t be the first one of those to turn over, sir.’
Dempsey knew what he was talking about. Knew from bitter experience.
‘You’ll find that times have changed since the era of Sergeant Turner, Major. Our psychologists are alive to these issues.’
‘People can always slip through the cracks. Sir.’
Silence followed Dempsey’s last comment. Both men knew who they were referring to. And neither was likely to agree with the other’s point of view.
West moved the discussion on.
‘The only question then, Major, is what you want done with Sergeant Jones when he finally turns up?’
‘I’d like him separated from all contact with others and placed in a holding area. To await my own arrival. I’ll conduct the debriefing myself, along with Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley of the Metropolitan Police who had command of the unit to which Sergeant Jones had been seconded.’
‘I understand, Major. Continuity in debriefing is obviously preferable. We will await your arrival.’
Dempsey had feared that West would find his request irregular. After all, Credenhill was full of experienced officers well qualified to carry out the debriefing exercise. That fear was misplaced. West was obviously keen to cooperate. Which encouraged Dempsey to push his luck ever further.
‘There is one other thing, sir. Could you send me Sergeant Jones’s file? It’ll help me to prepare his debrief as we travel.’
‘Consider it done. I’ll have it emailed immediately.’
West was being as helpful as possible. He clearly did not want Jones’s failure to reflect upon his regiment. He continued.
‘I look forward to meeting you in a few hours, Major. I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s unfortunate that we’ll be meeting in these circumstances.’
‘It is, sir. Thanks for all your help. I’ll see you in a few hours.’
Dempsey placed the receiver down. He glanced towards his computer monitor. Haversume’s speech had ended. It did not matter. Dempsey could not have concentrated on it anyway, not after West’s call.
His mind was racing. West was concerned by Jones’s failure to remain for debriefing. That much was clear. And he seemed just as unhappy that the sergeant had yet to return to barracks. All of this told Dempsey that he was on the right track.
Dempsey sat in silence for several minutes. Every scenario, explanation and excuse raced through his mind. He analysed them all. Strengths and weaknesses were identified. Probabilities assessed. Everything Dempsey had learned in the last twelve hours was compared, contrasted and compartmentalised with a speed that few could match. There was a reason Dempsey was as good as he was, and it was not wholly physical.
Finally, Dempsey turned to his computer and opened his email. West had been true to his word. Waiting for Dempsey was a one-line email with Jones’s personnel file attached.
Dempsey opened the attachment and pressed ‘print’. It took a full five minutes, and what emerged from the printer was a very different proposition from the one-pager Henley had provided.
Dempsey secured the papers within a ringbinder, then began to read. He had seen countless files of this type. Each a soldier’s life, condensed into sound bites and statistics. Cold but necessary, they combined to provide a complete record of twentieth- and twenty-first-century warfare.
Dempsey flicked from page to page. He knew what to look for.
The file was impressive. Jones had spent eight years in the SAS. Which meant he overlapped with Dempsey’s own service. Wondering if their paths may have crossed, Dempsey turned back to the file photograph. It was not a face he remembered.
In those eight years Jones had seen service across the globe. The file recorded many examples of medal-winning conduct in well-known war zones. That was to be expected. It also detailed his more discreet activities, in situations that would never make the news. The inclusion of this sensitive material confirmed what Dempsey already suspected: Major General West was holding nothing back.
Dempsey read for five more minutes: longer than it would usually take, but Jones had seen a lot of action. Finally, he closed the file and set it down ahead of him. His eyes settled on the grainy military photograph. Looking but not seeing. Dempsey’s mind was elsewhere. It was fixated on one burning question: why would Jones turn his back on his country? There was nothing in the file to hint at a traitor. But what other explanation was there? Unlikely as treachery was, that a professional like Jones would leave the scene before debriefing and then not make contact with his barracks was even more so.
No. Traitor it had to be.
Dempsey had seen it before.
Twenty minutes later Dempsey strode into Alex Henley’s office. It was a bigger room than the cupboard he had been given, but still small for such a senior officer. Space was obviously at a premium in New Scotland Yard.
Dempsey threw the file down onto the desk. Henley’s eyes followed it, then looked back for an explanation. He did not get one.
‘Get your coat. We’re leaving in ten minutes.’
If Henley was surprised, he did not show it. He just smiled and shook his head. Dempsey’s intensity seemed to amuse him.
‘Do you mind if I ask where we’re going?’
‘Herefordshire. Credenhill Barracks. Your shooter should be getting back there any minute. You and I are going to debrief him.’
‘You’re not serious? You want us to travel to the other side of the country for a debriefing that officers there could do?’
‘No one else debriefs him.’ Dempsey’s voice invited no argument. ‘He’s got a lot of serious questions to answer. You were his commanding officer. You should be there too.’
Dempsey’s tone was all it took. It was clear he would not be accepting ‘no’ for an answer. This was going to happen, whether Henley liked it or not.
Henley got to his feet, reached for his dark raincoat and pulled it over his pristine uniform.
‘You first, Major.’
Henley indicated towards the office door. Dempsey looked over Henley’s shoulder, towards the desk.
‘Don’t forget his file.’
Henley followed Dempsey’s gaze and looked down at the manila envelope in front of him. It seemed to confuse him.
‘Whose file?’ Henley asked.
‘The file I just gave you. It’s Sergeant Jones’s military jacket. His personnel records. We need it for his debrief.’
Henley’s eyes returned once again to the file. He picked it up. First he looked at the photograph, then he flicked briefly through its pages.
‘You’re sure this is Steven Jones’s file?’
Henley’s voice was uncertain. He seemed doubtful.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Because I met Sergeant Jones today, Major.’
Henley held up the closed binder and tapped the photograph with his finger.
‘And this isn’t him.’