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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Robert Finlay
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Police Inspector Robert Finlay takes on a ruthless criminal gang, as he and his new partner Nina investigate a sex-trafficking ring … the second instalment in the addictive, searingly authentic Robert Finlay series.**NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER**'Nothing is clear-cut in a gripping labyrinthine plot, which – despite thrills and spills aplenty – never falls short of believable' David Young'Terse, tense and vivid writing' Peter James'The magic mix of jeopardy, emotion and action. I could not put it down' Louise Voss____________________Reeling from the attempts on his life and that of his family, Police Inspector Robert Finlay returns to work to discover that any hope of a peaceful existence has been dashed.Assigned to investigate the Eastern European sex-slave industry just as a key witness is murdered. Finlay, along with his new partner Nina Brasov, finds himself facing a ruthless criminal gang, determined to keep control of the traffic of people into the UK. On the home front, Finlay's efforts to protect his wife and child may have been in vain, as an MI5 protection officer uncovers a covert secret service operation that threatens them all…Aided by new allies, he must not only protect his family but save a colleague from an unseen enemy … and a shocking fate.Deadly Game is a stunning, terrifying and eye-opening thriller from one of the most exciting new names in crime fiction.____________________'Utterly compelling and dripping with authenticity. This summer's must-read thriller' J S Law'From the first page to the last, an authentic, magnetic and completely absorbing read' Sir Ranulph Fiennes'A genuine page-turner, very well written, and just flows from one scenario to the next. It is clear the author lived through these times and this is evident in knowledge and description. Excellent' Ian Patrick'It's this normality about Finlay that appealed to me and kept me reading. The believability of the story. The authenticity' Rebecca Bradley'Gripping stuff' New Welsh Review'Finlay's first-person narrative voice is punchy and to the point, and the switching between him and the third person points of view carries the story along smoothly. Mention should be made of the interesting supporting cast that add layers of intrigue into the narrative and compels the reader to look out for these thrillers from Matt Johnson. Highly Recommended' Shots Magazine'This tense, edge-of-the-seat writing will keep fans frantically turning the pages as they race towards the conclusion' Amanda Jennings'A top-notch thriller with a dark heart and an emotional soul' Liz Loves Books'Deadly Game combines spy thriller and police procedural extremely well and should certainly be destined for the shelves of anyone into their conspiracy thrillers' Crime Fiction Lover
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PRAISE FOR MATT JOHNSON
Longlisted for the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger
‘Terse, tense and vivid writing. Matt Johnson is a brilliant new name in the world of thrillers. And he’s going to be a big name’ Peter James
‘Utterly compelling and dripping with authenticity. This summer’s must-read thriller’ J S Law, author of Tenacity
‘From the first page to the last, an authentic, magnetic and completely absorbing read’ Sir Ranulph Fiennes
‘Out of terrible personal circumstances, Matt Johnson has written a barnstormer of a book in Wicked Game – one that fans of Chris Ryan, Andy McNab and Peter James will drool over. His first-hand experience of police work and counter-terrorist operations gives this page-turner a chilling authenticity that few others in the genre can hope to rival. But despite his police pedigree, Johnson also gets inside the terrorists’ heads to give them credible motivation. Nothing is clear-cut in a labyrinthine plot, which is gripping and which – despite thrills and spills aplenty – never falls short of believable. The ending is neatly tied up, but leaves the reader eager to follow lead character Robert Finlay’s further adventures’ David Young, author of Stasi Child
‘The magic mix of jeopardy, emotion and action. I could not put it down’ Louise Voss
‘Matt Johnson shows he’s been there, done it and worn the T-shirt in his first novel. Entertaining and gripping throughout, it is authentic writing at its very best. His ability to overlap reality with the fictional characters, from both a soldier’s and cop’s perspective is uncanny. Top-quality entertainment from a first-class writer’ D.N. Ex-22 SAS Regiment
‘A book by an ex-cop and -soldier has the potential to go wrong and fall flat due to it being all about inside knowledge that is tough to decipher by the public. This book isn’t like that. It is a genuine page-turner, very well written, and just flows from one scenario to the next. It is clear the author lived through these times and this is evident in knowledge and description. Excellent’ Ian Patrick
‘A former SAS officer finds himself a target of a terrorist cell years after he has left the forces, creating a fast-moving storyline. I was so gripped that I could not put it down. I loved the main protagonist, Robert Finlay, but I particularly loved his feisty wife, Jenny. I’ll be looking out for the sequel’ Segnalibro
‘The writing is direct: facts and histories stated, not left for the reader to pick over: there isn’t time to stop and sift the finer aspects of motivation – to do so would only slow the plot. Events cascade, ruthless killers spill into the open, and the agencies who should be tackling them are far less united and coherent than one might expect … You’ll enjoy this book if you’re into thriller and action: even if you think you’re not, the pace of the writing will carry you away. Robert Finlay’s not a man who gives up easily’ Blue Book Balloon
‘From the first page through to the last, the reader is completely hooked and drawn in by the writing and the descriptions; this is such an absorbing and thrilling read. The authenticity of the writing, and the knowledge of what happens in particular situations raises this above other thrillers. Wicked Game really does give you flash, bang, wallop, and, like bullets, no words are wasted, but hit the target every time. Matt Johnson is a new name in thriller writing and with his brilliant writing we have a new star’ Library Thing
‘A real cracker of a book and I have no hesitation to give it five stars. I look forward to reading more books from this gifted writer’ Bookworm
‘Finlay is an older male who is settled down with a wife and child and is feeling his age a little. He’s not some fit, handsome superhero. He’s an ordinary man, who has made career choices that have put him in extraordinary situations, which in turn have led him down a path where he has to face difficult decisions. It’s this normality about Finlay that appealed to me and kept me reading. The believability of the story. The authenticity’ Rebecca Bradley
‘An action thriller of the highest order that deserves to be read widely. It is hard to believe such an accomplished work is a debut’ Never Imitate
‘Despite having read hundreds of thrillers, it’s rare to find one with this level of authenticity and with some real passion behind the writing … I would describe Wicked Game as a thriller with a heart, and the story behind it and Matt’s own experiences are what makes it beat’ Book Addict Shaun
‘A gripping and quite frantic story of espionage, misplaced loyalties, revenge, retribution and double-crossing. With twists and turns, and red herrings at every corner, Wicked Game is an impressive debut’ Random Things through my Letterbox
‘The case is so intriguing, full of red herrings and twists, highlighting years of service by Finlay and his team, the trail of potential enemies left behind. This is in some ways a spy novel, with tantalising glimpses of M15 and Home Office interference. Above all else, though, Wicked Game is a tense, exciting thriller that presents Finlay’s gigantic effort to keep his family safe, trying to rediscover physical and military skills long put to rest, and facing seemingly insurmountable odds. The ending is stunning!’ For Winter Nights
‘Talk about a kick-ass novel! From the very first page, I was shocked into holding my breath. It reads like an action movie, but with all the bubbling tension in between, some of it so quiet and subtle that Matt lulls you into a sense of false security. Then BANG, he thumps you, shocks you, jolts you into submission, before doing it all again’ The Book Trail
‘This book oozes authenticity … when barely a week goes by without us hearing about terrorist attacks somewhere in the world, on behalf of some cause or other, it reminded me of the thanks and respect these men like Matt Johnson – some of whom pay a heavy toll; some of whom pay the ultimate price – are due from us’ Crime Worm
‘The sheer dogged determination of Robert Finlay provides one hell of an exhilarating ride, as he dodges bullets, explosives, and the shadows of his past, in this Wicked Game of cat and mouse. Expect nothing less than a thrilling journey, where secrets and revenge are delivered with guts and precision and the stakes are as high as they get – Finlay gives new meaning to the SAS motto of “Who dares, wins”’ Little Bookness Lane
‘It’s the first-hand experience of terrible events that really gives Wicked Game an unshakeable feeling of authenticity, which is woven deep into the fabric of the story’ Espresso Coco
‘I’ve always been a fan of thrillers, with the build-up of tension, the action-packed heroics and insane bravery. Wicked Game is a stonkingly accessible British thriller, with its roots firmly set in recent UK history and a strong sense of authenticity running through it’ Northern Crime
‘The story itself is a complex web that the police, security services and Finlay himself are all trying to untangle. It is never clear who can be trusted and what agendas they are trying to move forward, except for Finlay, whose fight for survival we follow most intimately through his own thoughts. The tension takes hold early on and never lets up as the danger gets closer to home and Finlay realises that only he can secure his family’s safety as he is forced to face his past up close and personal’ Live Many Lives
‘Matt Johnson has a very real talent and gift for thriller writing. Wicked Game cracks along at a great pace, with plenty of gripping and original plot twists and turns, and a finale that wouldn’t be out of place in a book with a protagonist called Reacher’ Mumbling about…
‘This is a breathtaking debut novel that will have you on the edge of your seat’ Thrillers, Chillers & Killers
‘Wicked Game builds the tension in an intelligent and emotional way, has many layers to both time, place and sense of character, and is basically a top notch “thriller” that has a dark heart and an emotional soul. It is not a book that will be read and then forgotten – this one will stay with you. Excellent, thought-provoking, clever and beautifully written’ Liz Loves Books
‘With his first-hand real-life experience Johnson has an understanding of what was going on in the minds of his friends, superiors and even terrorists. This is translated into excellent psychological portraits of the main characters. Facts mixed with fiction and unclear boundaries between both are bases for moving authentic narration and brilliant storytelling’ Crime Review
‘Wicked Game is an absolutely brilliant new thriller, and the plot is fast-paced, twisted and exciting. Finlay is a man who is prepared to break all the rules to protect his family, but he is also very human and likable. I can’t praise Matt Johnson and Wicked Game too highly’ Promoting Crime Fiction
‘On every page, tension is carefully built, as a portentous revelation is offered or a memory smothered. Johnson litters his tale with the plotting equivalent of incendiaries: cops we don’t quite trust, a career that came abruptly to an end, a secret needing to be kept … Gripping stuff’ New Welsh Review
‘Matt Johnson delivers characters that feel pain, emotion and fear. There are some pretty sit-on-the-edge-of-your-seat moments because you know certain events are unstoppable and you can’t avoid watching them unfold. A cracking book right to the end’ From Dusk till Dawn
‘Fall headlong into a gripping and absolutely cracking story, featuring an ex-SAS, turned Met police officer, battling for his life … Johnson turns his knowledge into the most fabulous and readable story that just zings along with authenticity and exhilarating attitude. I’m excited to be in at the start of what promises to be a fabulous new series, and honestly can’t wait for the next!’ Love Reading
Deadly Game
Matt Johnson
For Hannah, a special daughter and friend.
And for Harley.
To appreciate harmony, we must know war.
To value freedom, we must know slavery.
To find peace, we must vanquish the Devil at his chosen game.
Contents
Prologue
1999. Romania
The wind can kill.
Relia Stanga recalled her father’s words clearly as she huddled against the stone garden wall for shelter.
Winter was around the corner. The east wind was beginning to turn cold. Soon, she would need to take a chance and wait inside the house for the factory bus to arrive. In a few short weeks the winds from the east would bring snow and then, as Father had warned, it would be certain death to wait in the street for the six o’clock pick-up.
One day, she prayed, summers would no longer be spent cutting and gathering wood to see them through to the following spring. One day, there would be food on the table every single day and she would not have to rely on mother for hand-me-down clothes.
One day … with luck, she would find a new life.
For now, Relia contented herself with wrapping her mother’s woollen coat tight around her slim figure, lifting the collar and making herself as small and as tight as possible.
The wall provided the only protection from where she could see the approach of the bus. Miss the bus, no ride. Miss the ride, no job. Miss the job, go hungry.
Home for Relia was a small village on the north-east edge of Romania, near the border with Moldova. She was now seventeen and had spent the previous day with the men, cutting logs. Huge piles were now stacked in the village stores and in shelters people had built in the yards at the rear of their houses. Most of the harvest had been sold. Father and her brother had left at first light to deliver the last of the summer maize crop. With the income, they would buy salted meats that would be eaten once a week with potatoes and root soup.
On their return from the market, the men would be drunk. It was their release. They would meet friends, gossip, moan about the harvest, play cards and drink. Sorrows would be drowned with home-distilled ţuică. Relia’s father made his own from a family recipe using apples and plums. The women said it was the work of the devil, for the rage it sometimes brought out in the men.
Father was a hard-working man, a good man. But the drink would release his pent-up frustrations and anger. Mother would always bear the brunt of his wrath. The children just kept out of the way. This was the way of men; they had to vent their rage, and using the women stopped them from killing each other. This was the way of things, as it always had been.
But now, Relia had a plan.
Every month or so, the factory would host men from the city. Men from Brasov and Bucharest. Men who wore suits, drove Mercedes cars and talked of incredible adventures.
A friend who was a house servant to the wife of the factory owner told her the men came looking for girls. Relia could barely contain her excitement on learning these girls secured work in places in the city, in kitchens or waiting on tables. They had jobs, proper jobs, and they made enough money to keep some for themselves and send the rest home for their families.
The men would choose the best-looking girls. To each they would give a small, yellow ticket. It was their approval to ride in the warm van on its way to the city – their passport to a better life. The men were due today.
Beneath her worn clothing, Relia was possessed of unusual beauty, and yet they had not noticed her. She was determined that would change. She was slim, pale skinned, and was blessed with shiny, raven-black hair that a woman in the village had recently cut into a neat bob. She had bought a little make-up, and her friend, the servant, had loaned her a dress that would show off her figure. The next time the men came to the factory, Relia was to help serve their drinks.
The bus arrived. It was late, as always, and, as he always did, the driver drove fast to get the workers to the factory by seven o’clock. Relia snoozed on the journey. She didn’t mind the potholes, the tight bends, the heavy braking or the driver swearing. The bus was warm. For nearly forty minutes she could drift into a world where there was no cold, no hunger.
When they arrived at the factory gates, Relia looked across to the owner’s house. On the drive she saw his car – a big four-wheel drive. Then she saw the Mercedes, a black one, and behind it, a black van. The city men had arrived.
She checked her pocket, fearing she may have forgotten the powder and lipstick. It was there. As the factory gate opened, she saw her friend. There was a smile, then a wink. Today was the day. Today she was to have her chance.
The day on the factory line passed slowly. Relia was a glue mixer. The factory made shoes. Leather imported from Mongolia was cut, shaped and stitched together by hand. Relia helped make the adhesive that would bind the upper parts of the shoe to the sole. It was easy work. Day after day she simply poured ingredients into containers in the prescribed measures and mixed them for the correct amount of time and at the right temperature. It was the heat of the glue room that made the job sought after in the winter and hated in the summer.
Due to the constituents of the glue, all the workers in the glue section smelled of fish, a fact that earned them the nickname pesti. Relia knew that as soon as she finished, she would have to sneak over to the owner’s house, use her friend’s bath and clean herself. Only then would she be ready to serve the city men and, hopefully, her freshly scrubbed skin and hair would be perfumed well enough to mask the fishy smell.
During the day, four girls were interviewed by the city men. Three of them were selected for employment, given their tickets and instructed to send messages to their families that they would not be home that night. In fact, they might never be home again. With one exception, Relia could not recall selected girls having ever returned to the villages. Who could blame them? With a new life in the city, money in their purses and, probably, husbands, there was no reason to come back to such a lowly life. Some would write, many would send small amounts of money, but none came back to the poverty of the villages.
The one that had returned had been the wife of one of the city men. She had spoken of having made her fortune, of the bright lights and excitement of the city, of girls marrying American soldiers and of the opportunities available to those willing to leave the villages. As she spoke, she held the young factory girls spellbound. The older women weren’t convinced. ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,’ they would mutter. But the young women wanted their chance and it was them the city men came to see.
That evening, Relia avoided the queue for the homeward-bound bus and crept slowly around the back of the factory. Here, she knew she could find the gate to the owner’s house. It was locked, as always. The owners thought all the workers were thieves.
At the arranged time, six o’clock, her friend Elisabeta was waiting.
Elisabeta unlocked the gate from the inside and the two girls then scurried along the concrete path towards the house. In the half-light from the windows of the house she could see the garden was green and luxurious, nothing like the sun-parched yards of the village. It was the first time she had seen behind the high walls into this secret place. Only the owners and selected house staff were allowed such a privilege. Relia had heard the stories and now, with her own eyes, she could see it was as beautiful as they said. To one side there was even a swing and a fountain.
Relia paused for a moment to stare. It was just like she had seen in the well-thumbed magazines that sometimes appeared in the factory for the workers to look at during their breaks.
Voices came from the house – male voices – laughter.
‘Hurry,’ her friend whispered. ‘We mustn’t be seen here.’
Relia understood. If they were caught, it would be assumed they were stealing. They would be dismissed if they were lucky, jailed if the owner called the police. The politia locale were good men, in the main, but they would always believe a respected factory owner over a poor village girl.
Elisabeta stopped as they reached the small door that led to the servants’ quarters. She pressed a single finger to her lips then gently opened the door.
The first thing that struck Relia was the heat. Even in this part of the house, it was warm and comfortable. In the village they could only afford to heat one room. Here, there were radiators in all the rooms, and even in the corridors.
That evening, Relia enjoyed the longest, hottest bath she had ever experienced. She scrubbed her hands, her feet, her face, all the while sniffing herself to check the smell of fish was fading. She washed her hair four times before she was satisfied the aroma was gone.
Elisabeta sprayed her sparingly with a body perfume. Relia would have liked a little more but her friend was insistent. The owner’s wife gave it to all the female staff so they wouldn’t carry their body odours into the main rooms. There was one spray-can each per month, and they were expected to make it last.
When Relia saw the dress Elisabeta had prepared for her, she nearly wept. It was thin, silk-like and hugged her figure. Although blue, it was such a dark shade as to almost appear black. The design was sleeveless and reminded Relia of pictures she had seen of film stars like Marilyn Monroe. It was sexy.
The dress was a colour all the household staff wore to serve dinner. But for Relia it had a different purpose. Skin tight, it emphasised her curves and suggested hidden treasures. On this night, it was to lure the city men.
At eight o’clock, the head girl sounded the brass gong in the hallway to signal dinner was prepared. Elisabeta served at table and had arranged that Relia would support her. The girl who normally filled that role had agreed to hide in her room for the evening. Elisabeta was sure her absence would not be noticed, especially when the men saw Relia.
The plan worked. The men fell silent the moment they set eyes on the new girl in the dark-blue dress. Smiling, the owner asked who she was, and while Elisabeta explained, the oldest of the city men beckoned Relia closer. When the owner had grunted his approval, the old man immediately asked Relia if she would take up a chance to be his personal assistant in Brasov.
Relia nodded and then backed away as the men negotiated a price to secure her services. She heard the figure of two thousand lei being argued over, before the owner and the elder city man shook hands. The deal was done. There was much laughter and the men returned to eating and drinking.
That evening, as the chosen girls waited for the city men’s van to be made ready, they wrote letters to their families. The factory owner’s wife had suggested it, and even helped them with the wording.
‘Are you excited?’ one of the girls asked Relia, as the owner’s wife collected their envelopes and left the room.
But Relia didn’t answer. The owner’s wife had left the door ajar and, through the gap, Relia could now see her dropping the little stack of letters into one of the sacks they used for rubbish in the factory.
‘Relia?’ asked her companion, a tiny frown knitting her brow.
Relia shook herself and smiled, but a gnawing sense of worry remained.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Then, trying to sound more certain: ‘Yes, I can’t wait.’
Chapter 1
Metropolitan Police Headquarters, New Scotland Yard, Central London, October 2001
Dawn was breaking over the capital.
Grahamslaw watched the circle of moisture form on the glass. It was early and, despite the double glazing, the cold autumn air had penetrated to the inner surface. His warm breath created a small, clouded patch that grew with every successive exhalation.
Twelve floors down, traffic was starting to build up into unbroken lines. Most were delivery vehicles that, by now, would have completed their allotted tasks and were heading back to their depots. There were one or two private cars, but not many, and very few of those drivers would be heading to the underground car park below the building in which he stood. That was almost exclusively reserved for operational transport and the few luxury cars the Met retained for the exclusive use of the most senior ranks. From the black, box-like shapes discharging heavy grey exhaust fumes, it looked to the anti-terrorist detective like most of the snaking, weaving lines were formed by taxis.
The Anti-Terrorist Commander checked his watch. Ten past six. Toni Fellowes was late, but that wasn’t a real cause for concern. Provided the MI5 officer turned up within the next twenty minutes he would have plenty of time to get to his next meeting. For now, he was determined to enjoy what were probably the only moments of tranquillity he would experience that day.
A noise from the corridor caused him to turn towards the door. Squad members were starting to arrive for work. The skeleton night team would be pleased to see the first arrivals. A quick handover briefing and they would be on their way to their homes and some welcome sleep.
Turning towards the desk – a large, oak affair that had followed him up the ranks and through a plethora of different offices – he cast an eye over the report that lay waiting to be read by Ms Fellowes. Time for one last check through. Swinging his large chair around, he sat and began to read.
Metropolitan Police
To: Director T Dept, MI5
From: Commander SO13, Anti-Terrorist Squad
Cc. Commissioner, Assistant Commissioner ‘SO’
Date: 29th September 2001
Re: Operation Hastings – Executive Summary
Sir,
This interim report deals with the recent attacks on serving police officers in London, their aftermath and the conclusions I have reached through my investigations.
In recent weeks, four Metropolitan police officers and one MI5 officer were killed on duty as a result of terrorist action.
These were:
Inspector Robert Bridges (attached Marylebone Police Station)PC John Evans (attached Hackney Police Station)PC Roderick Skinner (attached Barkingside Police Station)PC Giles Duncan (attached Marylebone Police Station)Nial Monaghan, MI5
Inspector Bridges and PC Duncan were killed as a result of an improvised explosive device (IED) planted by suspects 1, 3 and 4 listed below. PC Skinner was shot dead outside his home address by suspects 1 and 3. PC Evans was shot by suspect 2 during a street check of a suspect vehicle, which, it transpired, was carrying equipment and material intended for use in terror attacks in the capital. Suspect 2 was shot and killed by the armed response crew that responded to this incident.
Attempts were also made by suspects 1 and 3 to murder Inspectors David Heathcote and Robert Finlay, Sergeant Michael Holbrook (all attached Stoke Newington) and PC Kevin Jones (attached Hornchurch).
Results of investigation – summary
Investigations carried out by SO13 determined these murders and attempts were not the result of random attacks on uniformed police officers doing their duty. Early on in the enquiry it was established that Inspectors Bridges and Finlay, and PCs Skinner and Jones all formerly served in the army together as members of 22 Special Air Service Regiment (SAS).
During the course of the attacks, SO13 were able to identify five suspects:
Declan Costello, born Ireland, now deceasedSeamus McGlinty, born Ireland, now deceasedDominic McGlinty, born Ireland, now in custody and remanded at HMP BelmarshMichael Hewitson, born Kentish Town, now in custody and remanded at HMP BelmarshRichard Webb, alias Selahattin Yildrim, born Ireland, now deceased
Enquiries have now established that, following attacks on Inspector Bridges and PC Skinner, an approach was made by MI5 officer, Nial Monaghan, to involve Inspector Finlay and PC Jones in a plan to intercept and terminate the attacks on other former soldiers.
Monaghan was known to both Finlay and Jones as their former Commanding Officer at the time these officers were all serving in the SAS in the 1980s. Finlay and Jones were persuaded to assist Monaghan in what they believed to be an attempt to identify those responsible for murdering their former military colleagues and to prevent further murders.
The activities of the suspects and the resulting incidents can be summarised as follows:
1. Street search of lorry by police patrol car led to the unplanned shooting of PC Evans.
2. Planned IED attack targeted and killed Inspector Bridges, with the collateral death of PC Duncan.
3. Planned shooting of PC Skinner.
4. IED attack on a car due to be carrying Inspector Finlay resulted in serious injury to Inspector Heathcote and Sgt Holbrook.
5. IED car bomb attack at home of Inspector Finlay caused injury to Explosives Ordnance Disposal Officer, Rupert Reid.
And following the approach made by Mr Monaghan to Finlay and Jones and their involvement in his plan:
6. Shooting attempt on the life of PC Jones, resulting in serious injury to the officer and the death of Declan Costello.
7. Attempt on the life of Inspector Finlay, together with his wife, resulting in the death of Richard Webb.
8. IED car explosion causing the death of Nial Monaghan.
Result of subsequent enquiries
In attempting to establish a motive for these attacks, several lines of enquiry were pursued, including surveillance of officers Finlay and Jones. It was established that these two officers were making their own efforts to identify the terrorists and were likely to be in possession of relevant information as to motive.
It was further established that Finlay and Jones had secured access to unlawfully held firearms, explosives and equipment in order to pursue their efforts.
With the authority of the Home Secretary, a decision was made to allow Finlay and Jones to continue, under surveillance, in the hope they would lead the enquiry team to the attackers and enable arrests to be made.
Motive
In 1980, while serving with the SAS in Northern Ireland, Robert Finlay was attacked by four armed men. In the resulting firefight, Finlay killed three men, one of whom was the brother of Richard Webb.
It has now been established, beyond reasonable doubt, that the reason for the attack on Inspector Finlay was a result of a personal sense of grievance and a desire for revenge on the part of Richard Webb.
Correspondence found in the possession of Nial Monaghan reveals the attacks on the other former SAS soldiers appear to be due to a desire on Monaghan’s part for revenge, he having formed the belief his wife committed suicide following the revelation of affairs with men serving under Monaghan’s command. Our evidence is that Monaghan and Webb were co-operating on this murderous campaign.
There appears to have been no separate motive in the murders of PCs Evans and Duncan, who appear to have been killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Since the deaths of both Monaghan and Webb, the attacks have ceased. This tends to corroborate the preceding evaluation.
In conclusion
Dominic McGlinty and Michael Hewitson are awaiting trial on charges of conspiracy to murder and to cause explosions.
Following the decision of the Home Secretary to allow Finlay and Jones to operate in an armed unsupervised role, a report was submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service as to whether either officer should be charged with any offence. The decision was made (with Home Secretary and DPP authority) that no criminal action would be taken against either officer.
Inspector Finlay, together with his family, is currently being provided with secure accommodation by MI5 and is expected to return to work soon.
PC Jones has made a good recovery from his injury, has declined the offer of secure accommodation and is also expected to return to full police duties in the near future.
Media interest
While some speculation has appeared in the press with regards to the attacks on Metropolitan officers, no mention has been made or theory attributed to the involvement of former armed services personnel.
The Metropolitan Police Press Bureau has ensured all arrests resulting from this operation have been credited to police enquiries. Deaths of suspects have been attributed to self-inflicted injuries (Webb) and lawful police action.
Full report
My understanding is that Director ‘T’ has tasked MI5 officer Antonia Fellowes to act as support officer to the Finlay family and PC Jones and to complete a final confidential report to the Home Secretary on the activities of Monaghan and Webb.
Respectfully submitted,
William Grahamslaw
Commander, SO13
Anti-Terrorist Squad
Specialist Operations Directorate
New Scotland Yard
Chapter 2
Just as Grahamslaw reached for his pen to sign the report he sensed he had company.
He looked up and saw Toni Fellowes standing in the doorway. ‘May I join you?’ she asked.
Without speaking, the Commander indicated his visitor should use the seat on the other side of the desk. The MI5 officer looked smart and business-like: a dark-blue trouser-suit complemented by matching shoes – low heels, she always wore low heels – and a white blouse. Under her left arm she was carrying a stiff, buff-coloured folder. Given her next port of call would be the Home Office, she gave the appearance of being well prepared.
‘Apologies for my lateness, Commander. Is that the Hastings report?’ Fellowes closed the door behind her and sat down.
‘Hot off the press, you might say. Taken me the best part of a week to finish, it has.’ Grahamslaw quickly signed the final page, tapped the pages together neatly and slid them across the desk. It wasn’t, he mused, a particularly lengthy or complicated report, just that the previous few weeks had easily been the busiest of his police career. Demands on anti-terror policing had increased manyfold since the New York attacks on September 11th. Finding the time to complete a report hadn’t been easy.
As Fellowes flicked through the document, his gaze returned to the window.
He was pleased the Director of Public Prosecutions had seen fit to take no further action against Finlay and Jones. They had faced a situation most would find beyond imagination. Their former Commanding Officer had played a game with the two former soldiers – leading them a merry dance in order to draw them in, mislead and then kill them. That they had managed to turn the tables on him was to their immense credit. What troubled the Commander now was whether there was really a need to continue the investigation. The decision to appoint an MI5 liaison officer to look after both PC Jones and the Finlay family was well founded and Toni Fellowes had handled the responsibility with her usual professionalism. But as to whether there was a point in continuing to dig, he had serious doubts. From his limited experience of the murky world of the men in suits, he had learned that such things were often best left alone.
But now, with his report signed, the enquiry was effectively out of his hands.
After her brief flick through the document Fellowes slipped it back into the buff folder.
‘I thought you’d want to read it now … just to check it over, perhaps?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No time. I’m hoping the Security Service contribution will simply be a rubber stamp to your conclusions.’
He smiled, broadly. ‘Let’s hope so, Toni. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happens every week, was it?’
‘It wasn’t. Do you mind if I ask what your plans for Jones and Finlay are, now the Home Secretary has approved the decision not to prosecute?’
‘With Jones it should be fairly straightforward. He’s making a decent recovery from his injuries and he told me he wants nothing more than to get back to being a normal cop. For Finlay, things are more complicated, as you know.’
‘I spoke to his Chief Superintendent.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Grahamslaw, ‘not keen on having him back?’
‘He’s a realist. Finlay is something of a pariah, now. Too many people know both his background and about the attacks on him.’
‘The Met rumour mill always did work quickly.’
‘I spoke to Hereford as well. They’ve had calls – people checking up on him, some of them former members of the regiment who were being nosy.’
‘He won’t be easy to place … and he’s too young to retire.’
‘And his skill set isn’t what you might describe as easily transferrable.’
Grahamslaw shrugged. ‘You sound like you’re building up to something. If it’s a position with the Security Service, I can tell you now, he won’t go for it.’
‘I know. He’s made that more than clear when I’ve talked it over with him. I was thinking of something closer to home.’
‘Here at the Yard, you mean?’
‘Yes, exactly. Easy commute from the safe house and somewhere we can keep an eye on him.’
‘But doing what? He has no detective experience and he’s not the kind of man to slip easily into some kind of administrative role.’
Fellowes paused for a moment. ‘Is it too late in his career to be taught to do detective duty?’
‘Depends what you have in mind. Junior CID courses are normally for DCs … but I’m sure I could swing something, if needed.’
‘How about your new trafficking squad? It’s undermanned and underfunded.’
‘Max Youldon’s team, you mean?’
‘That’s right. I thought he might do well working with Nina Brasov.’
Grahamslaw pondered the idea. ‘It might work. Brasov is damn good … Finlay would learn a lot from her. She’s been doing some undercover work lately that takes her away from the office, though.’
‘I could have a word at the Home Office, if that would help?’
‘To what end?’
‘Your budget. A little help with the cost of running the squad.’
‘You’re suggesting, if I put Finlay on that squad, the Whitehall mandarins might be more sympathetic to our requests for more funding?’ The Commander laughed. ‘I’m not so green as I am cabbage-looking, you know.’
Fellowes smiled, her expression open and betraying no guile.
He returned her gaze, maintaining a friendly exterior, but he wasn’t fooled. It was his guess Toni Fellowes was using him to help get Finlay placed so she could concentrate on the work that would have been building up in the aftermath of 9/11.
‘OK, I agree,’ Grahamslaw said. He grinned, almost imperceptibly, and this time to himself. He hoped Finlay would prove agreeable to the offer. The first step would be to get him up to the Yard to talk about it. And if a little plan he had in mind proved successful, that might happen sooner rather than later.
Chapter 3
MI5 safe house, West London
The transition from the disturbed world of my subconscious to self-awareness was brutal.
As I woke, I found the bed beneath me was wet, soaked in sweat, my skin dripping. Although I was hot, I shivered, my heart pounding, my chest heaving with huge, deep breaths.
My senses returned, and with them awareness … familiarity. I recognised where I was. Home.
Our new home. And I was alone.
I’d been dreaming again, one of a number of disturbing nightmares that now regularly troubled my sleep and ended with me waking, like this, gripped by panic. And although the scenes varied, they were always very similar. Sometimes I would be fighting with my fellow policemen, desperate to alert them to some form of danger. In other scenarios, the strength in my limbs would be overcome by gravity and the unnatural, weighty resistance of the air around me. Time and again, these dreams would feature people from my past – ghostly memories returning to haunt me. Most nights I would lie on a bath towel in anticipation of the moment when my dreams would wake me. It helped to absorb the sweat and saved on bed sheets.
I lay quietly for a few moments, waiting for my body to wind down from its imaginary exercise. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, allowed me to pick out the now familiar window of our bedroom. I say ours, although it was no longer shared.
Jenny had recently taken to sleeping in the spare room. Twice, while asleep beside her, I had struck out and hurt her. I hated sleeping alone, we both did. But, for the sake of our health and her safety, it became unavoidable.
We were now resident in West London. Home was a big, Edwardian place in a quiet side street. It had four bedrooms – all with high ceilings and decorative plasterwork – and a wonderful modern kitchen and living room. Jenny loved it. It came fully furnished, so the bulk of our furniture had been put into storage. All there was for us to do was look after the garden and keep the place fairly tidy. As I whiled away the days thinking about what had happened and deciding on when to return to work, I found the distraction of that garden very therapeutic.
For the first three weeks in our new home, a combined team from MI5 and Special Branch had kept guard. While it was in some ways uncomfortable – you could never relax, knowing someone was the other side of the door – it did give me an interesting insight into how the Royal Family and senior politicians must feel to have people like me shadowing their every move. The Royals seemed used to it; we found it a struggle.
Jenny and I had been debriefed by an efficient yet considerate MI5 officer called Toni Fellowes. Toni had been appointed as our family liaison officer and had now become something of a friend. She and Jenny seemed to get on particularly well.
As Toni and I got to know each other, we had, inevitably, compared backgrounds. She was also ex-services, having been a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, seconded to the Special Boat Squadron, before her skills with language and computers had seen her recruited by the Security Service.
Having gained her trust, and become easier with her company, I probed Toni for information on Richard Webb, the man who had tried to kill us. Toni appreciated that, even though Monaghan was dead, I still had questions outstanding: Had Webb been acting alone or were there others? Was there a cell that might still have me as a target? And what about Monaghan, my old boss? What part had he played in the conspiracy to kill my former colleagues? Was he actually MI5?
It was early days, though. Toni was helpful but what she could tell me was limited. She made no promises but explained that initial analysis by SO13 suggested Webb had been acting outside any terrorist command structure in order to pursue his own deadly agenda. Monaghan really had been MI5, it was just his wife’s affairs had eaten away at him to such an extent, he decided upon revenge. He had got it into his mind that his late wife had been sleeping around and, as a result, he had decided to deal with all her supposed lovers. The two men had then linked up to pursue their deadly agenda. Monaghan had needed a team to take on the attacks; Webb wanted to find me. Now, with both of them dead, Toni explained the threat to my family had almost certainly disappeared.
I remembered her words exactly, so important were they to me and my family. It may have been something or nothing, but Toni’s use of the word ‘almost’ troubled me greatly.
And the dreams continued.
Chapter 4
I was now awake and alert. Experience had taught me a return to sleep would be impossible. I lay still and, as I often did these days, I worried about the future.
In the period since the attacks, I’d been doing a lot of thinking: about how I could get back to work, what role I could find, that kind of thing. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.
A meeting with Bob Sinclair, my Chief Superintendent at Stoke Newington, hadn’t gone well. It might have best been described as a ‘full and frank’ discussion. He pulled no punches and, as reasonably as he could, he explained to me I had become something of a problem.
To his mind, the best thing for me was a move away from the frontline to an office job at Scotland Yard, maybe as a staff officer to one of the senior ranks. Intelligence work was also a possibility. He did his best to put a positive spin on my predicament, explaining there were a myriad of non-operational jobs in the Met – projects and departments where you could spend a whole career moving from one role to another, never wearing a uniform or going on the streets again. He was sure I would find something to suit me.
I saw his point: colleagues thinking of me as a bullet magnet wouldn’t exactly make me sought-after on any shifts. So, even though I didn’t like what he was saying, I understood it. A job sat behind a desk didn’t appeal to me, though. It suited some; the kind that liked to be tied to a career structure and a pension but had lost the taste for front-line policing. As one desk job came to an end, they would simply apply for another. We called such people ‘plastics’. In time, they were policemen in name only. No way was I going to become a plastic.
Having spent the afternoon in the garden, I was still turning these questions over in my mind as I left home late that night to drive the familiar route back into the Hertfordshire countryside. It had now been some time since we had moved away from our old home and I needed to return to collect a few items I was anxious should remain secret.
In a hide concealed within the old oak tree at the end of the garden of our cottage, lay an Armalite rifle and a Heckler & Koch MP5. Disassembled but complete, they needed to be moved somewhere more secure before somebody found them and I ended up in even more difficulty.
In the aftermath of the firefight in which Richard Webb had tried to kill us, the Anti-Terrorist forensic people had seized my old pistol, the Beretta trophy weapon I had kept since my time in Northern Ireland. I had been sad to see it go; it was like parting with an old friend.
A lot of the guys from Hereford had trophy weapons they were supposed to hand in to the Quartermaster but had ‘forgotten’ to do so. Small arms and ammunition, knives and other weapons would be dropped by both enemy and friendly combatants during skirmishes. It was said that, during the Gulf War, more small arms seized from enemy soldiers were secretly brought into the UK by returning soldiers than there were weapons taken into the war in the first place. Stories like that have a habit of becoming exaggerated, but I wondered if some might be true.
I approached the cottage from the north, across the fields behind the back garden. I didn’t expect the place to still be under surveillance – human or electronic – but I wasn’t about to take any chances. To protect my clothes, I’d pulled on an old RAF boiler suit I had picked up in an army surplus store. Cheap and cheerful, it didn’t exactly flatter my figure, but it would do the job. I was planning a long crawl through the fields and hedges to reach the garden of our former home.
Progress across the fields was slow. There was only a little light from a half-moon, and, for much of the time, I had to feel my way. I made best use of the firm areas adjacent to the hedges and the additional cover this also provided. At about four hundred yards short of my target, I started to belly crawl. Within a very short distance, I was breathing hard and my elbows were starting to bruise. I had known it wasn’t going to be easy and promised myself that soon I would start making an effort to get fit again. It was months since I had done any running and my lack of fitness made hard work of what should have been a simple job.
I lost count of the number of times I stopped to gain my breath. Eventually, after about an hour, I reached the end of the garden and sat back against the old oak tree. Here, I was well hidden and able to rest, my heart rate dropping gradually as I recovered from the exertion. I waited for several minutes, listening and watching. All was quiet.
Hidden by the trees surrounding me, I eased myself to my feet and quickly located the loose bark that concealed the hide. In the dark, I had to feel for what lay within. I was careful, moving very slowly, cautious for any sign things were not as I had left them many weeks previously.
I’d wrapped the component parts in oiled paper. Five small packages contained bolt carriers, stocks, grips, magazines; and then a final box held the two firing mechanisms. There was some body armour, a veil, gas mask and fire-resistant coveralls. With everything safely stored in my bag, I was just about to replace the bark when my hand touched something unexpected.
It was paper. An envelope.
For a few moments, I stood immobile, my arm still inside the tree trunk, contemplating the implications of what I held in my hand. Certainly, the envelope wasn’t mine. Jenny knew about the hide but she hadn’t mentioned anything.
At first, I thought it had to be some kind of trap, or somehow linked to the attempt to kill me. But that just didn’t make sense. It would have been much easier to set up a wire to trigger an IED the moment I removed the bark. No, it was a sealed envelope, pure and simple. Inside, there would be a message. What it said and from whom it came would have to wait until I got back to the car and had a chance to read it.
I sat down and looked at the envelope, weighed it in my hand and sniffed it. It appeared to be white, and seemed to only contain paper, maybe one sheet. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell if there was anything written on it or even whether it was addressed to me.
I slipped it into my thigh pocket and made sure the Velcro tab was secure. Having found the mysterious note, I didn’t plan to lose it.
One thing was certain. The hide was compromised and whoever left the note had guessed I would be back to recover my kit. The writer wanted to make a point. And if that was the case, then I figured they wouldn’t be watching the fields looking for me. I hoped my assumption was correct as, after just fifty yards crawling away from the garden on my stomach, I tired of the effort. I stood up, picked up my things and walked quickly back towards my car. I was done with scrabbling about in the dirt.
I checked the car and then stashed the disassembled weapons and kit safely in the boot. The envelope sat on the passenger seat, calling to me to open it.
For several miles I kept a close eye on my rearview mirror. Finally, convinced I wasn’t being followed, I pulled over and switched on the interior light.
The envelope had just one word on it, ‘Finlay’, handwritten, in biro. I didn’t recognise the handwriting.
My hands were shaking as I peeled it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside.
When you are ready, call me.
It was signed Bill G.
Grahamslaw.
From the moment I had appeared on Commander Grahamslaw’s radar, he had been telling me my days as a uniformed cop were numbered. Resist it as much as I tried, I couldn’t dispute his logic.
I took a deep breath and thought. My next step would be crucial. Telephoning Grahamslaw wouldn’t be enough. I would go to see him. But first, I had another little job to take care of.
The next spot I would choose to hide my kit best not be known to anyone, especially not the Commander of the Met Anti-Terrorist Squad.
I had just the place.
Chapter 5
Toni Fellowes hated the journey in to work.
Every working day, she would make the ten-minute walk to North Harrow tube station to join the other commuters. Ignoring her fellow travellers, she would bury her head in a book to try and remove herself from the discomfort of the journey. Toni enjoyed reading, it took her to dream places away from the confines of her routine. But sometimes she wasn’t really paying attention to the words on the page; instead she was thinking, planning.
Not that there was really much point in planning. Without exception, her ideas had been dashed on the altar of reality. Every crowded and uncomfortable tube ride seemed to serve as a reminder of her failure to convert thought into action. With Christmas not far away she knew, once again, she would most likely start a new year in the same line of work. Yet, she would still promise herself that her situation was only temporary.
It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the challenge of working for the Security Service; it was more a case of needing a new challenge, or a change … something to stop the routine.
Things had been very different nine years previously – on 23rd November 1992 to be precise, the day she had first been approached to join MI5. At the time, having only just passed out from Dartmouth as a Royal Navy officer, an ability with languages had seen her assigned as a temporary Liaison Officer to the SBS, the Special Boat Service.
At the time, the SBS had been working on an operation with the Met firearms branch to ambush a large drugs shipment that was being brought into London on a three-hundred-ton, South-American-registered supply vessel labelled ‘Foxtrot Five’. As the crew were known to be Spanish speaking, Toni had been brought on to the operation to help the SBS take control of the ship’s bridge.
In the event, when the assault on the ship took place, the whole crew were absent ashore. They were picked up by local police and Toni’s translation skills were never utilised. But she had experienced the adrenalin rush of the assault; she had been able, albeit temporarily, to wear the kit of the ‘men in black’ and – most notably – she had succeeded in getting noticed by MI5.
Two weeks after returning to Plymouth, her Commanding Officer had called her into his office with the news she had been selected for an interview in London. The CO had immediately surmised it was with one or other of the intelligence services and warned her what to expect. He was aware that MI5, in particular, was looking to recruit candidates from red-brick universities rather than the Oxbridge officer class it had traditionally focussed on. Toni had read modern languages at Sussex. Fluent in French and Spanish, and with a working knowledge of Russian, in the opinion of the CO, she was ideal MI5 material.
The first interview took place in a nondescript office block behind Tottenham Court Road in London. Much to her amusement, the taxi driver who picked her up at Paddington recognised the address and even wished her luck if she became a spy.
Inside, the offices were austere, bland; the magnolia emulsion that decorated the walls peeling and in need of repair. There was just the one interviewer, Kate – a tall woman in her late thirties who looked to be dressed more for a day’s shopping in Harrods than conducting interviews. Kate was the typical Roedean type, the kind Toni had seen many times in Brighton while she had been at university. For an hour, they had talked about Toni’s school life, her reasons for joining the navy and about all manner of other subjects, including her opinions on political matters and terrorism. Several times during the interview Kate unexpectedly switched languages – using both Spanish and Russian. Toni’s responses in the former were fluent, in the latter, slow but correct.
At the end of the interview Kate pushed a form across the desk and asked Toni to sign it. The heading read Official Secrets Act. After completing this formality, they undertook a short tour of the building. Most doors were closed but those rooms Kate showed Toni around were, without exception, cluttered and untidy. Her guide apologised for the conditions and was at pains to stress it was the nature of the work that was interesting and not the cramped working environment which, apparently, had always left a lot to be desired.
Toni was enthralled by the whole experience. The secrecy, the kudos, the very thought of knowing she might become an MI5 officer, all excited her.
During the following week back in Plymouth, she repeatedly checked her correspondence tray for any indication as to the result of the interview. One day, a brown envelope appeared. She had been invited to sit the Civil Service Selection Board; she would undertake a two-day series of tests, which involved verbal and numerical reasoning, written and management exercises, and, finally, interviews with another MI5 officer and a psychologist.
A month after the brown envelope arrived, Toni heard from her parents that they had just been visited by a ‘very nice man’ who had asked a lot of questions about her school life and political interests. It was part of the vetting process. Two weeks later, Toni attended the selection test. The interview went well and, a little under four months from the day she had boarded the ‘Foxtrot Five’, she walked into the MI5 training office in Grosvenor Street, Mayfair with five other successful candidates to start the Security Service induction course.
