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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Robert Finlay
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
When the author of a book about secret government operations goes missing – along with his agent, and the manuscript itself – Police Inspector Robert Finlay is thrust into a complex and terrifying investigation. The final instalment in a searingly authentic series.'A taut, knife-edge thriller you won't put down till the last full stop' M R Hall'Matt Johnson's real-life experiences shine through in the vivid plotting and authentic action' Rob Sinclair'Another fast-moving and beautifully detailed page-turner from a master thriller writer' Robert Daws____________________Robert Finlay has finally left his SAS past behind him and is settled into his new career as a detective, but when the author of a book about secret operations goes missing, along with his agent and an explosive new manuscript, it's clear that Finlay's troubles are far from over.With his friend and former colleague, Kevin Jones, in trouble, and police complaints branch gunning for them both, Robert teams up with MI5 agent Toni Fellowes to find out who's behind the growing conspiracy. Their quest soon reveals a plot that goes to the very heart of the UK's security services.End Game, the final part in the critically acclaimed Robert Finlay trilogy, sees our hero in an intricate and terrifyingly fast-paced race to uncover the truth and escape those who'd sooner have him dead than be exposed.____________________'A compelling mix of highly credible detail, tactics, procedures, and all striated into the political games that the intelligence services play. Highly Recommended' Shots Mag'Gripping stuff' New Welsh Review'Matt Johnson is a brilliant new name in the world of thrillers' Peter James'This tense, edge-of-the-seat writing will keep fans frantically turning the pages as they race towards the conclusion' Amanda Jennings'Utterly compelling and dripping with authenticity' J S Law'Five shining gold stars of brilliant' The Quiet Knitter'Nothing is clear-cut in a gripping labyrinthine plot, which – despite thrills and spills aplenty – never falls short of believable' David Young
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PRAISE FOR MATT JOHNSON
Longlisted for the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger
‘From a writer at the top of his game. Johnson is a natural. A taut, knife-edge thriller you won’t put down till the last full stop. Bravo!’ M.R. Hall, author of The Coroner
‘Matt Johnson ups the pace for this third and final instalment in the Robert Finlay trilogy. Tense, edge-of-the-seat writing will keep fans frantically turning the pages as they race towards the conclusion’ Amanda Jennings, author of In Her Wake
‘Matt Johnson’s real-life experiences shine through, with vivid plotting and authentic action’ Rob Sinclair, author Dance with the Enemy
‘Robert Finlay is back and his life is as dangerous as ever. Another fast-moving and beautifully detailed page-turner from master thriller writer, Matt Johnson’ Robert Daws, author of The Poisoned Rock
‘Matt Johnson ticks all the boxes, just like Child, Baldacci and McNab: fast-paced, well plotted, knows his stuff and likeable main characters. An emerging winner’ William Horwood, author of Duncton Wood
‘The mark of any good read is one you look forward to picking up and regret having to put down. Matt Johnson fits the bill in some style’ Chief Superintendent John Sutherland, author of Blue – A Memoir
‘Terse, tense and vivid writing. Matt Johnson is a brilliant new name in the world of thrillers’ 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
‘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
‘The Robert Finlay series is turning into something very exciting; I’ll definitely be reading the next one’ Jacob Reviews Books
‘Deadly Game is a fantastic novel. It is a page-turning thriller but so much more. It really made me think about the world, not just terrorism, but the lengths the secret state will go to … I can’t recommend this book enough and can’t wait until the third instalment’ The Crime Novel Reader
‘For anybody wanting an action-packed, explosive read … Deadly Game should definitely be on their shopping list. In fact, it should be moved to the No.1 spot as that’s where it deserves to be … I just hope there’s more of Robert Finlay to come’ Page Turner’s Nook
‘Whilst we all love a good edge-of-the-seat thriller, the kind of novels Matt writes are more in my ballpark; I want that emotive edge and that sense of genuine involvement. Proving that you can give multiple layers to the crime thriller genre and still not lose the thrill aspect (a thing that is not rare but is not common either), Deadly Game comes highly recommended by me … I simply can’t wait for the next one, to see the bigger picture the author is creating here and because seriously, it’s just a damned fine read. Don’t miss it’ Liz Loves Books
‘I can’t recommend this book enough. I think this is a PERFECT read for thriller fans. It has lots of thrilling moments but it also has lots of emotion at its core. Robert is desperately trying to protect his beloved family, he is suffering with PTSD and he is assigned to investigate the horrendous world of sex trafficking. There is so much going on in this book. I loved it. You’ll see when you read it. Just the first chapter is enough to break your heart’ Ronnie Turner
‘Finlay desperately fought to save a colleague. But by the end of the book it felt like there had been a real shift in direction, particularly from where we first met Finlay and Jones, just weeks before, in Wicked Game. There is the promise of so many secrets yet to be revealed; of a story which is not ready to let the reader go just yet, and I for one can’t wait to read more. A tension-filled and heroic deep-sea-diving five stars from me’ Jen Meds Book Reviews
‘I couldn’t put it down! If anything, it slowed down my reading so I could really take in what was happening and as a result I was constantly being pulled further and further into this murky world where it is difficult to trust anyone. A brilliant, credible thriller with a tight, multi-layered, tension-filled plot that comes together brilliantly’ Have Books Will Read
‘Dealing with some extremely hard-hitting subjects, Deadly Game is not for the faint-hearted, but for those who can stomach the grittiest subjects in crime, this is definitely a book you need to add to your TBR pile, and you need to do it now!’ Emma the Little Book Worm
‘Johnson’s writing style is tight, sharp and full of authenticity, based on his own personal history as a police officer. Finlay as a character was well developed and easily likable and the secondary characters were also richly developed, adding fantastic depth. The scariest part of the plot, for me, is that the sex-trade industry is really happening and the scenes with these poor young women were heartbreaking, shocking and harrowing’ Novel Gossip
‘Matt Johnson is an incredible writer, he writes such real, compelling books that deal with incredibly difficult subjects’ Girls v Books
‘Never dull and full of tension, I’m looking forward to the next instalment of Robert’s story. In short: a nail-biting thriller and some great characters and serious issues’ Books, Life & Everything
‘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-22SAS Regiment
‘The human element of the book appealed to me the most – Finlay’s reaction to events as opposed to gun-toting action; the horrific nature of human trafficking and the ripple effect of PTSD were all true to life and are what attracted me to this book. My head was spinning by the end of it and my paranoia levels were sky-high! This book is going to knock your socks off, blow your mind and have you reeling!’ Chapter in My Life
‘The plot in this book is absolutely five shining gold stars of brilliant, it really is. There is so much tension and suspense curled around the plot that the reader almost needs reminders to keep breathing. The complexities of the plot make this such a thrilling read, and quite terrifyingly realistic (in a good way!)’ The Quiet Knitter
‘I was quite blown away. As ever, you get the impression Johnson has been there, done it, and got the T-shirt – or scars! – to prove it. Again, there’s no technical overload … Johnson makes a great hero, easygoing and funny. And wife Jenny’s there again, with solid support. Can you tell I enjoyed it?’ Crime Worm
‘Johnson has created a gritty and current novel dealing with, sadly, very real issues. It is disturbing yet credible and has a real intelligence behind it. Days after finishing the book I still find myself worrying about one of the characters, demonstrating just how immersed you become in this book. I eagerly anticipate the next book in the series. Highly recommended, Deadly Game is tense, topical, exciting and gripping. More than just a detective novel, it really packs a punch and leaves you breathless!’ Bloomin’ Brilliant Books
‘Having read both Wicked Game and Deadly Game I’ve found that the former was more action-packed whilst the latter was more suspenseful. Both are strong, credible thrillers. Through both darkly-lit novels, Finlay’s character shines’ Book Drunk
‘This intelligent plot is amazingly well constructed with multiple layers. It doesn’t just show the dark and disturbing world of criminals but also the games people in government and secret services play … Just like the first book, Deadly Game is gripping, compelling, authentic and highly realistic. It’s a nail-biting ride of a thriller and if this was a movie, I’d be on the edge of my seat’ Novel Delights
‘A stunning thriller, a real page-turner, well researched and written by a brilliant storyteller’ Atticus Finch
‘What starts out slowly, soon explodes into a vibrant and Le Carréesque read that had me on the edge of my seat from the first page’ The Library Door
‘Matt Johnson has once again produced a belting read. I loved the short chapters in the book. To begin with the scenes have a gentle build with them progressing to the more hardcore details much later on, some of which are very harrowing … A brilliant read again, so looking forward to a third book’ Books From Dusk Till Dawn
‘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’ 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
‘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
‘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
‘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
‘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 the basis 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
End Game
Matt Johnson
For all serving and retired members of the emergency services. Those first responders who, without hesitation, head toward the dangers from which we, the public, flee.
For WPC Yvonne Fletcher, killed on duty on 17th April 1984, a crime that remains the only unsolved murder of a UK police officer.
And with thanks to John Murray, whose tireless and dogged determination to see those responsible for Yvonne’s murder brought to justice continues unabated.
‘And maybe just remind the few, if ill of us they speak, That we are all that stands between the monsters and the weak.’
—Michael Marks
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
—John Dryden (1631–1700)
Contents
Prologue
August 2002
Alone in his car, Grady cracked the knuckles of his free hand before answering the telephone call.
‘Where the hell are you, Cathy?’ He was angry. It was already ten o’clock. If the brief was correct, their target would soon be home.
‘Sorry. You’re on your own for this one, chum,’ she answered. ‘I’m on my way to Belgium.’
‘Is Howard sending a clean-up team?’
‘Negative. Instructions are to make it clean, remove the body and await further instructions.’
‘On my own?’
‘You’re a big boy, Grady.’
He hung up. This wasn’t the first time arrangements had changed at the last minute and he also knew Cathy wouldn’t have let him down if she could have avoided it. If she had to go to Belgium there would be a reason and he knew better than to ask her why.
This job was one he’d been expecting, one he’d been told was in the offing some weeks previously. A laptop and manuscript needing to be recovered and the bearer terminated. It was just a question of where and when.
The street was quiet. Not surprising, he thought, considering the rural location. Earlier in the evening, the rain had forced him to raise the car window. The first few heavy, yet infrequent spots had lasted several minutes before giving way to a deluge that now crashed down on the car like an angry monster demanding entry. Rain and dark cloud would give him an additional edge – ensuring he wasn’t seen or heard when the time came.
The rain was bouncing off the tarmac. Trees in the small gardens and along the street groaned in the wind and leaves in their thousands gave up their tenuous grip, covering the pavements in a soggy brown carpet.
Grady scowled. Cathy was right, of course. He could cope on his own. The female target was small in stature and easily bundled into the boot of his car. He would manage, as he always did.
Any passing cars were few and far between and it had now been nearly an hour since he had seen another human being – an old man walking his dog. With the arrival of the rain, the village had become quiet, the residents safe and cosy in their homes.
As the car windscreen started to mist over, he returned the mobile phone to one jacket pocket and from another pulled a handkerchief, which he used to slowly stroke the moisture from the glass surface. He was careful to avoid any attention-drawing movement. He disliked being in so public a place, but to fully cover the approach road, it was essential.
Improved vision secured, he flexed his fists and stretched his fingers, keeping the blood flowing and hands warm. Eyes still fixed on the street, he then reached for a small leather holdall beneath the passenger seat of the car. Opening it gently he felt the cold steel of a small semi-automatic Beretta Model 70. The Model 70 was a small calibre and not normally one he would have chosen, but the instructions had been quite clear: it was to be used and then returned to the officer who had sanctioned the operation. Grady didn’t argue the point; at close range the weapon could be just as deadly as something larger.
Earlier, as he’d watched, vapour had begun to flow from the boiler exhaust in the wall of the target house: an internal thermostat must have reacted to the drop in temperature triggered by the rain. A few minutes later a light had come on in the hallway. For a fleeting moment he’d foreseen complications; it looked like someone might already be home. But no movement followed. The curtains remained open; rooms stayed dark. The hall light was on a timer, he concluded – to create the illusion someone was in.
He was looking for a BMW 5 series. The female, in her forties with blonde hair, would be smartly dressed and on her way home from some kind of event. She was the only occupier of the house and was reported to be unaccompanied.
Lights now appeared further along the street. He dropped a half-finished cigarette into the ashtray. As the car pulled up near to him he could see the rain in the headlights. He nodded as he recognised the familiar shape of a BMW.
The car pulled up outside the house and began to reverse into a parking space. He couldn’t make out the driver but, from the number of attempts being made to get into the space, it appeared they were clearly struggling with the difficulty the rain was causing.
Finally, the car was parallel to the verge. The engine stopped and a few moments later, a folded umbrella edged over the top of the driver’s door. It sprung open as a figure emerged. He saw dark clothes, trousers, a raincoat flapping in the wind, and then a briefcase. The head and upper body were obscured by the umbrella. It was impossible to be certain if the figure was female but it looked probable. Watching as the door to the car closed, he silently stepped out into the darkness.
The figure walked quickly across the footway and up the short path to the door of the house. He was now just a few yards behind. As the umbrella was placed carefully to one side, he could now see it was a woman, petite with fairly long blonde hair. It was the target. She seemed to be searching through her pockets for her door keys.
He approached, moving silently along the path behind her. Swapping the Beretta into his right hand, he pulled a small silencer from his left pocket and quickly attached it to the barrel. There was an almost inaudible click as it snapped into place. Rain trickled down the back of his neck. It was cold and uncomfortable, but it hid the sound of his feet on the path. He raised the gun.
The woman was distracted. He knew why. She couldn’t get her key into the door lock. He had superglued it before settling down in the car to wait. Delayed entry to the house; long enough to make the kill.
A small key fell from the woman’s wet hand. As it dropped to the ground, she bent over, seemingly desperate to retrieve it quickly.
Just as Grady fired.
The .22 calibre round ricocheted off the stone door surround at one side of the target’s head, sparks flying off into the darkness. He cursed. The woman turned and looked up towards him, their eyes meeting as she saw the gun. She looked petrified; raised her empty hand towards him, the fingertips trembling. As he pulled the trigger for the second time she mouthed a word. He didn’t hear it, the rain masked the sound, and this time he didn’t miss. Two bullets struck home, just above her left eye. She crumpled and rolled heavily against the door.
He stood astride her for a moment. She lay on her side, eyes now closed, body curled up as if asleep, a trickle of blood running from her nose onto the wet porch area. Even though she displayed no sign of life, he aimed at her temple and squeezed the trigger again. Her head jerked slightly as the bullet entered her skull.
Before picking up the briefcase, he checked the path and street. All quiet. Satisfied he was safe, he scanned the ground carefully and recovered the spent cases ejected by the Beretta.
The lights of another car appeared further long the lane. He paused, staying still, gun in one hand, briefcase in the other, as he waited for it to pass by. But it looked like the driver was slowing down.
‘Come on … come on.’ Grady breathed heavily from the exertion as he waited impatiently for the call to connect.
‘What is it?’ Howard was abrupt and angry, even though he would know Grady calling on a secure line could only mean something important.
‘I hit a problem.’
‘The target didn’t turn up?’
‘Oh, she turned up alright. Trouble was, just as I was about to put her in the boot of my car, she had a visitor.’
‘What happened?’
‘I had to take him out. No choice. Young bloke – not her type I wouldn’t have thought – came up the drive.’
‘You sure you had no choice?’ Howard asked, anxiously.
‘He clocked me. These things can happen when you don’t have a look-out to work with.’
‘OK, OK, point made. Where are you? Can you clean up the scene?’
‘Don’t worry, that’s all taken care of. I’m well away from there now. I’ve done the best I can. I slung him back in his car and dumped it a couple of miles up the road in a lay-by.’
‘A couple of miles away? How did you get back?’
‘A long, wet run. Nothing I haven’t done before.’
‘So, this lad who saw you will be found there, eventually?’
‘That’s the plan. He had a baseball bat in his car so I laid him out as if he’d been in a fight and come off worse.’
‘Good … good.’ Howard seemed to be thinking as he spoke, weighing up options, making decisions. ‘And what about the target?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got her. I’ll bury her where you said.’
‘Long drive, Grady. You’d best be on your way.’
‘Roger that. You didn’t want me for Belgium then?’
‘Cathy can take care of it.’
‘Without an oppo?’
‘Drop it, Grady. You’ve made your point. I accept I should have sent both of you on this job.’
‘And what about the two cops?’
Howard hesitated before replying. ‘Leave it with me. Circumstances have changed, I need to give the issue some more thought.’
With the call ended, Grady flicked the windscreen wipers back on, lit a cigarette and pulled out onto the road. Like Howard said, it was going to be a long drive.
Chapter 1
London, late 2002
‘Chasing suspect…’
I moved as quickly as I could. It was definitely Nina’s voice on the radio, and it sounded like she was after our target.
The house had appeared empty. The SO19 firearms officers had declared it clear and we had moved in to start a more thorough search. We were looking for paperwork, documents – anything that might lead us further into the world of the trafficking gang we were investigating.
I was in the kitchen and had just unearthed some interesting passport-sized photographs of young women. Nina’s voice was shrill, excited.
She was on the first floor checking the bedrooms so I headed that way. Just as I turned towards the hallway and stairs, I caught a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. A figure falling from the flat roof extension into the rear garden: dark clothing, moving quickly.
‘Garden … garden. Male … dark jacket.’ It was Nina’s voice again.
I reached the door to the back garden in time to see one of the German Shepherd dogs from the firearms support team launch headlong towards a man desperately trying to climb a fence. I heard screams of pain and guessed what had happened even before I saw it with my own eyes.
As I jogged across the garden I found the dog firmly locked onto the left calf muscle of Nina’s fleeing suspect, who was trying to shake himself free of the animal’s grip. His efforts were pointless and time was against him. On both sides of the fence I could see armour-clad cops closing in.
Nina appeared behind me. ‘They got him?’ she panted.
‘Looks like it … at least the dog has. The Ninjas will have him cuffed in a tick.’
‘Excellent. Good job we decided to use them. Bastard dropped out of the loft hatch and climbed through the window.’
Nina moved to push past me further into the garden.
‘I wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘Wait till they’ve got the dog back on its lead.’
‘Ah … OK. Can I leave it with you? I left Matt upstairs on his own.’
I nodded, and Nina headed back to the first floor.
I watched her go. She moved smoothly, like an athlete. I had no doubt that, even with a head start, she would probably have caught our suspect without any help. I’d now known Nina Brasov for nearly a year. We were no longer Sergeant and Inspector, any conscious reference to rank was long since jettisoned. Matt was a Detective Inspector, a DI, the same as me. But to Nina, we were just Matt and Finlay. Two parts of the ‘Three Degrees’, as she called our team.
One of the SO19 lads – the Ninjas – gave me a thumbs-up as they lifted the injured suspect from the fence, checked the bite wound to his leg and slipped a set of ridged cuffs over his wrists. Satisfied the coast was clear, I walked over to them. The man Nina had described raised his head and turned towards me.
‘Hello, Costas,’ I said, smiling.
Costas Ioannidis curled his lip and snarled.
I ignored him and turned to the two dog handlers. ‘Good effort, lads.’
Then, as our prisoner was led from the garden, I heard Nina call from an open window behind me.
‘Was it him?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I shouted. ‘In the flesh.’
‘Come upstairs, Finlay. We all need a good laugh, and you’ll never believe what Matt has found.’
The first thing to hit me as I climbed the stairs was the smell. Stale ammonia. I was still puzzling as to the cause when I heard a squawk from behind one of the bedroom doors.
For a moment, I wondered what on earth they had discovered. Then, as I walked in, it became clear. The room was full of cages. Wall to wall parrots. African greys, to be exact.
Matt had counted them. There were eleven, he announced.
Nina produced a can of Easy-Start spray and shoved it towards my face. ‘Have a sniff, Finlay.’ She laughed at my puzzled expression. ‘It contains ether. The junkies go into pet shops; one distracts the owner while another sprays the bird. Poor mister parrot keels over, which makes it easy to nick.’
‘Seriously?’ I asked.
‘Damn right. These fetch over a grand a piece. Costas is the fence, he deals in stolen birds.’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘So, what are we going to do with them?’
Matt interrupted as he brushed past me, heading towards the stairs. ‘Nothing. Leave ’em where they are. I’ve already called the local CID. They’ve got loads to put to Mr Ioannidis. They knew someone was at it locally … it looks like we’ve found out who.’
Chapter 2
An hour later, with the arrest paperwork complete, we had handed Costas over to the local CID and were heading back to our office at New Scotland Yard. We’d wanted to talk to him about his alleged involvement with prostitution, but the evidence of his dealing in stolen goods had now taken priority. Our questions would have to wait.
I had the result of an important interview to think about, although Nina and Matt seemed more interested in talking about their discovery in Costas’s upstairs bedroom. We’d been travelling for several miles before Nina noticed I wasn’t joining in the conversation.
‘Have you absolutely no idea if you passed the selection board, Finlay?’ she asked as she swung the car into the offside lane and raced towards the junction. The traffic signal was just changing to amber and, as was typical of her style of driving, Nina was determined to beat the lights. We made it, just.
‘None at all,’ I said, as I started to breathe again. ‘I even had a sneaky look through the boss’s correspondence tray yesterday. There was nothing; no clue.’
Matt leaned over my shoulder from the back seat. ‘It went well though, I heard. And it can’t have done you any harm that you just completed the Hostage Negotiator course. Most people who do that training are earmarked for promotion.’
‘True enough, but there aren’t many spots for Chief Inspectors this year, and my time at Combat Stress won’t have helped. So, to be honest, I’m not too hopeful.’
‘It was a shame they held the board so close to you coming back to work,’ said Nina. ‘If there’d been a decent gap…’
‘What’s done is done,’ I snapped, instantly regretting my lack of patience. Nina was being sympathetic, and I wasn’t showing much appreciation.
‘So, will they let you stay in the department as a DCI, or will you have to go back to being a wooden-top?’ she asked calmly, having either not noticed or politely chosen to ignore my rudeness.
‘I don’t know that, either.’
‘Jenny will be pleased … if you pass, I mean. Especially now you’ve an extra mouth to feed.’
I shrugged. Nina was right. The extra pay would help, especially as there was no chance Jenny would be going back to work any time soon. She was enjoying being a new mother again, and our daughter Becky loved having a little sister.
Nina interrupted my thoughts. ‘Well, you’ve done your courses now. So, technically speaking you’re a proper DI. And, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re not a bad one, either. I’ve worked with a lot worse, believe me.’ She jabbed a thumb towards the rear seat and laughed.
‘Bugger off, Nina,’ said Matt, feigning anger. ‘Fancy a job writing parking tickets do you?’
I didn’t respond, but I appreciated Nina’s words. It had been a tough year; one that I was glad was behind me. For now, all my thoughts were concerned with the result of the promotion board and what the implications would be if I had managed to scrape through.
I was certainly the oldest and, possibly, the least apprehensive of the applicants who assembled in the foyer of the interview rooms on the day of the selection board. The thought even crossed my mind that I’d been nominated so the Met couldn’t be accused of excluding older officers. I saw a lot of female candidates, at least as many as the men, which didn’t come as too much of a surprise given the effort the Met was making to put right its poor record on equal opportunities. We were all in best bib ‘n’ tucker – smart suits or full uniform, depending upon our current role. I’d felt quietly confident at that point, even as I’d walked through the door to the final interview room.
But now that I was due to see our new Superintendent to hear the result, I didn’t really share Matt and Nina’s faith in me. My lack of operational experience as an Inspector had generated quite a few questions from the three senior officers on the selection board. And I was asked the inevitable question – a tough one to answer: Did I think that spending several years guarding the Royal Family and just one year as a Detective Inspector was sufficient to prepare me for the demanding role of a Chief Inspector?
I had given as good an answer as I could, but it was clear to me that the question was posed to expose my Achilles heel. I’d done well on my CID courses, but I knew as well as the board did that I’d only been fast-tracked onto them due to my unusual situation. My interviewers didn’t mention the six-week absence I’d taken to be treated for stress. But they knew about it – it was on my file – and I wasn’t so naive as to think it wouldn’t figure in their deliberations.
Our new Superintendent, Ron Cutts, was waiting as we arrived back at the office. He waved me over and, as I stepped into his office, he shut the door behind me and invited me to sit. My stomach felt hollow. Long in the tooth and with a long history of selection systems and examinations behind me, yet I still felt nervous.
He got straight to the point. ‘How do you think the board went?’
I shrugged and screwed up my face a little. I was about to speak when he raised a hand to silence me.
‘Sorry … not a lot of point in beating about the bush. That was a pointless question.’
‘Not good news, then?’ I asked.
‘Not for you, no. I’ll admit to some relief you’ll be staying with us for a while longer, though.’
‘Can’t say I’m too surprised. I was the oldest by far and my CV kind of let me down.’
Cutts flicked through a file on his desk, appearing to re-read what had been said about me. ‘Feedback was good: says if there had been more places you’d have been in with a shout. It suggests a posting where you can act up in the rank and then have another go.’
‘I bet they say that to everyone who dips out. What do you think?’
He took a deep breath. ‘If I’m honest, I think it’s not just your age and length of service that work against you.’
‘Something else?’
‘Your history. Before I took command of this team, Mr Grahamslaw filled me in on what happened to you last year and how you ended up here.’
‘You think that influenced the board?’
He closed the file and placed it in a drawer. ‘I think you’re a damn good cop, Finlay, and it’s clear our Commander has your back. But, let’s just say there are people in the job who thought you should have been prosecuted.’
There was little more to be said. I extended my thanks and headed back to the main office.
Nina and Matt were in the corridor grabbing coffee and a cake from the tea-lady’s trolley.
Nina looked at me, expectantly. I guess my face told it all. ‘No good, eh?’ she asked.
‘Better luck next time, I guess.’ I did my best to look upbeat.
‘Not a chance. I had to sleep with all three of the board to get them to turn you down!’
I laughed. Matt laughed. Even the tea-lady laughed.
‘Well, at least you can enjoy the weekend,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve just had the DCI from Kilburn on the phone. They’ve been trying to catch up with Costas Ioannidis for months. Well pleased, he was, and he’s agreed to take over the enquiry. We’ve got a weekend off to enjoy some down time.’
Chapter 3
Jenny’s reception to my phone call came as something of a relief. She took the disappointing news well and was honest enough to admit that she hadn’t really expected me to be successful. And, perhaps to soften the blow she’d anticipated, she’d arranged for us to have a drink that evening with my old friend Kevin Jones and his girlfriend, Sandi, so I had something to cheer me up.
Ron Cutts was right, of course, especially regarding the legality of some of the things Kevin and I had been involved in. The preceding year had been amongst the most difficult I’d ever known. Everything had changed the day I’d been at home with Jenny and had answered a telephone call from Nial Monaghan, my former CO at 22 SAS. I hadn’t heard from Monaghan in many years and what he said to me that evening threw my life up in the air. And my family, having discovered I wasn’t the ordinary former soldier they’d thought, had been drawn into a fight for survival so dangerous that I came very close to losing them.
And then, just when I’d thought the threat was at an end, I’d gone with Kevin to visit the widow of a former colleague murdered by the terrorists who’d been targeting us. On the face of it, we were simply helping her dispose of a trophy weapon, a pistol her husband had retained after leaving the army. But we’d been handed a document – the ‘Al Anfal’ report – which turned out to be so sensitive, so secret, that even knowledge of it placed a person at risk of being silenced by the Security Services. The report had been discovered by an ex-military team called Increment, who had been working in Afghanistan during the war with Russia. They had forwarded it to their MI6 controller but, before doing so, they’d photocopied it. Somehow, one or more of them must have realised its potential value and had tried to hawk it to the press. That decision had cost them their lives and our attempts to discover the significance of the document had very nearly resulted in us suffering a similar fate.
Our MI5 family liaison officer, Toni Fellowes, had uncovered the truth. Monaghan had been given the job of clearing up the leak and had set about it in the way he knew best. He’d then used the ruse of an official MI6 black op as an excuse to target Kevin and me in the mistaken belief we were both guilty of having had affairs with his late wife. It was a mistake that cost him his life.
As was my habit, I picked up an evening paper and, on the underground journey up to Cockfosters, read it from cover to cover. I still found that crowded trains were a cause of some discomfort. The combination of noise, heat and the crush of people was an anxiety trigger I knew was best to avoid. Reading the paper was a coping strategy I’d learned. By immersing myself in newspaper articles, I could ignore my surroundings.
Today, one article in particular drew my attention. It was about a missing literary agent – Maggie Price, who I knew represented an author by the name of Chas Collins. About a year before, Collins had brought out a book called Cyclone. The book had caused a bit of a storm, especially when the author’s claims about his work in the SAS Regiment had been exposed as lies. He’d since dropped out of circulation, but rumour had it he was working on a follow-up book.
Maggie Price had recently disappeared, and, when superglue had been discovered in the lock to the front door of her home, the papers had been full of the story, with some incredible conspiracy theories being aired. All kinds of ‘experts’ had come out of the woodwork, from former detectives through to supposed friends of both the agent and her author. All had different theories, from a random stalker to a hit by an assassin hired by an underworld crime syndicate. The truth was, nobody knew what had happened.
Maggie Price lived in rural Essex, so the Met had only been involved in a support role, helping to interview her friends and associates. With no ransom demand received and stumped as to how best to proceed, the Senior Investigating Officer had made an appeal on the BBC Crimewatch programme the previous night. I hadn’t watched it, but several people at work had been talking about the case. The connection to the Collins book had been mentioned, as had the story that the author had gone into hiding in Belgium, fearing for his life. The SIO had made a public appeal for him to get in touch.
I had my own opinion on how successful that appeal was likely to be. Those of us who knew Collins of old also knew that if he didn’t want to be found then he wouldn’t be. Despite the false claims in his book, he’d still been a good soldier and would know how to look after himself.
The newspaper article, written by the reporter Max Tranter, and following up on the publicity caused by the Crimewatch appeal, was a good one. Tranter had been doing some digging of his own and had made a connection between the Price case and a murder that happened about two miles away from her home, the day before she was reported missing. A young man had been found shot dead on a quiet, country lane and Essex police were working on the premise that the killing was drugs related, the victim having possible connections to east London drug dealers. Max Tranter, however, had an alternative theory. He argued that it was too much of a coincidence that two major crimes could occur so close together without there being some kind of connection.
I wondered if he might be right. Maggie Price certainly had some shady connections. I’d met her the previous year at a wedding; the same event at which I’d last seen Chas Collins. The bride on that day was Marica Cristea, a young woman I’d met on holiday, and who’d been kind enough to invite Jenny and me to the ceremony. In different circumstances those facts might have been irrelevant, but in the weeks that followed I came to learn that the Cristea family were part of a gang of Eastern European criminals whose expertise extended from slave trafficking through to gun-running. That they could have been behind Maggie Price’s disappearance was a distinct possibility.
What I’d learned about the Cristeas had helped me play a part in breaking up their sex-slave operation in the UK – one reason I wasn’t likely to be on the family Christmas card list. In fact, I’d surmised a long time ago that I would be wise to avoid any further contact with them. They suspected I had attended the wedding as a police spy. And while they were wrong, my guess was that, if we ever met again, they were unlikely to listen to my explanation with much sympathy.
That said, the solution was simple. Make sure it never happened.
Chapter 4
Howard scanned the notes on his desk.
If there was one very important thing he had learned in his life with the Security Service, it was to be thorough. Be it the creation of a cover story, a fake identity, the logistics supporting an operation, even an answer to a parliamentary question; all warranted appropriate diligence.
And yet, he was troubled. The job was done, complete, and what had at first appeared to be a situation likely to threaten both the national and his own personal security had been averted. The irritant that was Chas Collins had been removed, his manuscript recovered and both he and his literary agent had been taken care of. But things hadn’t gone as smoothly as they ought to have done. Grady had very nearly been compromised and the Belgium side of the clean-up had experienced unexpected delays when Collins had proved hard to locate. And now there was yet another problem.
As Howard sat back in his chair and arched his back in an attempt to ease the discomfort that had settled there during the last hour, the grey telephone on the desk rang twice and then stopped abruptly, interrupting his train of thought.
He waited. Five seconds later, the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver.
‘Sir,’ he began, having already guessed the identity of the caller.
‘Do you have it?’
‘We do. Both targets are black-bagged. And it was as we’d thought: Collins was trying to be clever by avoiding electronic back-ups. He and Mrs Price had the only hard copies and we have them both.’
‘Very good. Your usual efficiency, Howard.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ If only he knew, Howard thought.
‘Have you had a chance to look through the draft?’
‘I have. Your decision proved correct, the book would have exposed a crucial aspect of our Islamic intelligence-gathering operation.’
‘We can count ourselves lucky.’
‘Indeed.’ Howard took a deep breath. There was no time like the present; and it appeared the Director was in a good enough mood to handle the news. ‘There is a new problem, however.’
‘A related problem?’
‘I’m not certain at this stage, but quite possibly,’ Howard said, and heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line.
‘Presumably, your mentioning it means it’s something I need to know about?’
‘I think it’s best you do, yes,’ Howard answered.
‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘Very well. Someone has Googled the name. I had a notification from GCHQ a couple of days ago.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Do we have a source?’
‘Not as yet. But I’m working on it.’
‘I predicted this, you will recall. There really were too many potential leaks.’
‘And I’ve always argued we needed to be proactive. Ask any decent surgeon – sometimes it’s necessary to destroy good tissue to ensure the whole tumour is removed.’
‘You’re referring to the two policemen?’ said the Director.
‘Amongst others – all represent potential exposure risks.’
‘We’ve had this debate before, Howard, I don’t intend to repeat myself.’
‘I understand. I’ll keep you posted with regards to the Google search.’
The Director ended the call. Howard replaced the telephone receiver and then flicked through the scattered papers in front of him until he found what he was looking for. It was a photograph of a group of heavily armed soldiers in desert fatigues – some standing, some crouched – posing at the rear of a C-130 transport aircraft. He studied the photograph for a moment, mentally ticking off the names as he scanned the faces.
Finally, his gaze came to rest on one man. He half smiled as he muttered quietly to himself. ‘Soon, old friend,’ he promised. ‘Very soon.’
Chapter 5
Arriving at the pub I looked in through a window and saw Kevin and his girlfriend, Sandi, talking to Jenny. My daughter Becky was perched on his left hip, her tiny arms on his shoulder as she looked up at him with her puppy-dog eyes.
As I walked in Becky dropped to the floor, ran to me and, as I bent down, did her usual trick of squeezing my neck so tight that I struggled to breathe. I swept her up and nibbled her ear.
‘Urgh, Daddy. Stop that, it’s disgusting,’ she said, her tiny hand wiping away the evidence of my misdemeanour. I then sneaked a quick look into the crib sat on a table next to where I was standing. Our new daughter was sleeping soundly. Despite my promotion disappointment, I couldn’t help but count myself a fortunate man.
An hour later, I was outside enjoying a breath of fresh air when Kevin found me.
‘Gutted at failing the board, boss?’ he asked.
‘Not really. It’s the way it goes. And it’s been great catching up with you and Sandi, by the way. I’m glad you could make it at such short notice.’
‘Jenny can be very persuasive … There’s another reason I came, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘We need to talk.’ Kevin’s face turned suddenly serious. There was an urgency in his words that immediately troubled me.
‘Something up?’ I asked. ‘I noticed Sandi seems a bit distracted.’
From his jacket pocket, he removed what looked like a plastic button with a couple of wires hanging from it. He held it up in front of me. ‘Know what this is?’
‘I know what it looks like.’
‘Sandi found it in a faulty plug socket, hard-wired into the mains. It’s a listening device. Finding it has really shaken her up.’
‘You’re living together now?’ I floundered a little, buying some thinking time as I grappled with the implications of what Kevin was saying.
‘Not yet, but it’s on the cards. What about this, though? It’s a bug – someone has been keeping tabs on me.’
I glanced back into the pub. Jenny was back near the bar, chatting with Sandi, who I noticed was glancing nervously out towards us. ‘Do you want me to check on it?’ I asked. ‘The tech lads up at the Yard will know exactly what it is.’
‘I know what it fuckin’ is, boss,’ Kevin said, impatiently. ‘What I want to know is what it was doing in my house and who was at the listening end.’
‘Have you checked the rest of the house?’
‘Not yet. I thought I’d ask you first. And maybe Toni Fellowes could have MI5 do a sweep.’
I thought about the idea. Toni was still, technically, our MI5 liaison officer, despite the enquiry into the attacks on Kevin and me having been wound down. In normal circumstances she would have been a good first call. But things were a little different now – Toni had moved on, been promoted to departmental head and was now based at the MI5 headquarters, Thames House.
‘We’re assuming, of course, that Toni Fellowes didn’t plant it?’ I suggested.
‘I don’t buy that,’ he answered. ‘A few weeks ago I came home and had this weird feeling someone had been in the house. One of the chairs in my dining room looked out of place – not where I thought it had been when I left. At the time, I kind of dismissed it, but now I’m wondering.’
‘Careless if someone was planting surveillance kit, wasn’t it?’
‘Back in the day, we even photographed the insides of the target home to make sure everything went back as it was before we got there. If our Security Services were behind it, they were unusually sloppy.’
‘Which is why you don’t think it was Toni?’ I asked.
‘Correct. I was hoping we could ask her. If you’re not happy with that, I’ll ask her myself. Maybe you should get your place checked as well?’
‘It was swept when we moved in as part of their routine checks, but I’ll ask, yes. Can you leave it with me for now?’
Kevin nodded, his jaw tight. ‘I’d prefer that, to be honest,’ he said, quietly. ‘You’re better with words than me and I’d most likely go off on one, because I’m telling you now, I’m not going to be a sitting target this time, waiting around for whoever it is to do what they’ve got planned.’
‘Are they likely to have heard anything we’d prefer them not to have done?’ I said, trying to ease the tension.
He grinned, confusing me as he did so. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘Well, if it’s anything about the kit stashed under my allotment shed then, no. I don’t talk to Sandi about that. But, well … let’s just say that if someone was listening in they might have had an education in bedroom Olympics—’
‘Enough!’ I stopped Kevin in full flow. He’d hinted previously at the unusual games Sandi liked to play and I needed no details. ‘One of these days one of her sons will catch you two and then you’ll be sorry.’
I took the bug from Kevin’s open palm and slipped it into my trouser pocket. ‘Leave it with me. It’ll have to wait until Monday, but I’ll ask one of the geeks from the Technical Support Unit if they can give us any background on it. In the meantime, you could ask Hereford to do a sweep for you.’
Jenny appeared in the doorway. ‘You two having a secret meeting?’ she asked.
I turned to her and smiled. ‘Surprising how much we had to catch up on. Kevin was telling me that Sandi and the boys are to move in with him soon.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, Kevin.’ Jenny put her free arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘I am sooo pleased for you.’ Her left hand held a wine glass, now nearly empty. It was one of several that had passed her lips. Kevin raised an eyebrow as he turned back to me. If I read his thoughts correctly he was thinking we were lucky not to have been overheard and it was a good job I was the one driving home.
As we returned to the pub, it was clear it was time to leave. Becky looked tired, and I imagined that, along with the baby, both she and Jenny would be fast asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows.
I was right. But, for me, it was nearly an hour after arriving home before I also felt able to turn in. What Kevin had said, and his idea about the listening device, were preying on my mind. Thinking a nightcap might help, I opened a bottle of whisky that Matt Miller had given me. It was one of his ‘specials’, a Welsh brand called Penderyn that hadn’t yet gone into commercial production. He always kept a bottle in his bottom drawer and it had become something of an office favourite.
This time, the alcohol didn’t soothe my busy mind though, and as I lay down, my head was still spinning with confused thoughts. A listening device in Kevin’s house? Were MI5 secretly monitoring him? Were they also listening to me? And if so, why?
Too many questions.
Chapter 6
‘Can I come, Daddy?’
I hesitated. Believing my family to still be asleep, I had crept downstairs quietly, donned my walking boots and was just opening the back door when Becky’s voice startled me.
I looked around into the kitchen to see my little girl, still in her pyjamas. There was no way I could resist her.
‘Shall we get you dressed then?’ I whispered as I picked her up and cradled her tiny frame in my arms.
Ten minutes later, following much secretive giggling and exaggerated shushing of lips, I scribbled a quick note to Jenny on the back of an envelope and then quietly carried my daughter downstairs. ‘Do you want to walk or ride on my back?’ I asked.
Our daughter had become quite precocious, showing many of her mother’s personality traits, and her vocabulary was growing almost as fast as her little frame. So, I wasn’t at all surprised when, after having her dad slip her red Postman Pat wellingtons onto her feet, she strode off down the garden path, hands on hips, tossing her hair backwards with a flick of her head and calling back to me, ‘I’ll walk, thank you.’
