The Balance of Guilt (15 page)

‘Good,’ Sarah replied slowly, and Dan thought he felt a touch of leg against his. ‘Then shall we see if we’re both worth it?’

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a long drink of the claret liquid. A kiss of lipstick held to the rim, dark patterns on the shiny surface.

‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me?’ Dan asked.

‘You want to know the truth?’

‘Is it pleasant?’

‘I think so.’

‘Go on then.’

‘I’ve got nothing to tell you at all. I just recognised you from the television, I noticed you were on your own and I wondered what you were thinking about. You looked – interesting.’

Now Dan chuckled, couldn’t help himself. ‘Like the way a gorilla in the zoo is interesting? Because it looks weird and does bizarre things? Or a road accident – the sort of interesting where people want to slow down to have a good look, but no one wants to get involved?’

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t react, instead she asked, ‘What are you thinking about? When you’re on your own?’

‘Well, it could be a range of things. Maybe something as mundane as it’s about time I did some food shopping, but when will I find the time? Or perhaps that I could do with some new socks with the winter coming on.’ He paused, let a couple of seconds slip by, then added, ‘Or sometimes it’s trying to work out who a murderer is from a range of suspects.’

Her mouth turned into an alluring O. ‘Really?’

And now, as the laws of life dictate it must be with men who are faced by beautiful women, the sensible side of Dan’s brain, the one which had warned him to be discreet and modest and self-effacing and all those other noble traits melted away into the evening. He told Sarah about the extraordinary cases he had worked on with Adam and his role in solving them.

The pint glass was empty, but Dan didn’t notice. The time ticked on, but he was totally unaware. The pub could have been demolished around him, the swing of a wrecking ball taking out each and every brick, and he would only have stood a remote chance of realising.

‘And what about this current case?’ she asked. ‘I bet you’re working on the Wessex Minster bombing, aren’t you?’

Again the warnings which whispered in Dan’s mind were as effective a barrier as air. He told Sarah all about the story, laced with plenty of his inside knowledge and never hesitating to play up the attack on his car and the threat to his personal safety.

Dan concluded the tale with another pinnacle of first-date humour. ‘In fact, it’s such a dangerous assignment that you’re darned brave to risk sitting next to me.’

Another chuckle, but then Sarah’s face changed. She leaned forwards and whispered, ‘I think you’re right. It could be too much of a risk. Perhaps we should go somewhere safer. Shall we head back to my flat for a nightcap?’

And so they had, and Dan had lain there in bed afterwards, wide awake, waiting for the icy downpour of guilt to fall. And it had failed miserably so to do. But what had instead intruded was the thought of tomorrow and his plan. So Dan got up, made the familiar excuses about work, oozed some unconvincing platitudes about seeing her again soon, kissed Sarah on the cheek, let himself out of her flat and walked home.

The cackle of a magpie brought him back to the park. Dan realised he had no idea how long he had been running, or how many laps he’d completed. But his head was clear, so it was enough. He put the reluctant Rutherford on the lead and they walked back to the flat. He still wasn’t sure what to make of last night. It was as if his mind was in shock, not yet ready to venture its conclusion.

That was enough recapping. What was done was done. In time he could regret or enjoy the memory, but for now there were other matters to attend to.

It was time to put into action the first part of the plan that Dan had entitled,
Screwing the Spooks.

T
HERE IS A CHANGE
in the atmosphere of an investigation when news of a possible breakthrough comes. You can see it in the eyes of the officers, the purposefulness of their movements, their eagerness. Tiredness is banished and drooping heads lift. It spreads an invisible energy, an imperceptible expectation. And it’s magnified many times over when it is an inquiry into a major or shocking crime, one in which the detectives feel a personal involvement, and where they have struggled in the search for justice.

Adam always thought of it as a primeval instinct, little different from the excitement of a hunters’ pack at the scent of a quarry.

And they had picked up a trail.

The call came to Oscar, on his mobile, just as they were about to start the morning briefing. The source was not disclosed, naturally, but the man’s smirk had, for once, disappeared, as he told the Bomb Room, ‘Ahmed’s got a cousin. He’s kept it quiet, but we’ve got … some new intelligence. The man’s name is Tariq. He’s from Plymouth. And get this – he lives in Stonehouse.’

The unspoken thought engaged each detective’s mind. The lightning forks of shared insight and experience. This man could have known John Tanton through Ahmed. He lived in the same area of the city, plenty close enough to have been in contact. Enough to influence the boy, perhaps to radicalise him.

Oscar was still listening to the secret voice on the line. He hung up and added, ‘And here’s another thing. The mobile phone registered to this Tariq isn’t the number Tanton called just before he set off the bomb, but it was in Exeter that day.’

And as one, that thought also spread. Tariq could have been using a pay as you go mobile to talk to Tanton. He believed he was smart, that he had covered his tracks and wouldn’t be traced. But he was wrong.

It was too much to hope for, that he still had the phone, the one elusive piece of evidence which would solve the case, but they had to try.

‘Get the firearms teams scrambled,’ was all Adam needed to say in reply. ‘Let’s go.’

Dan was sitting in the News Library when the text message came through. It made him knock over his coffee and prompted a well-deserved scolding from Petra, the librarian. She quickly fussed around with a cloth, chiding him with every sweeping stroke. Drinks were not supposed to be brought in here, there was too much precious material which could be damaged. He apologised vaguely as he gawped at the message.

The morning had been going so smoothly. The firing squad that was interrogation by Lizzie had, for once, been successfully faced down. She wanted another follow-up story on the bombing, and, like a child who had been told about a unicorn, she wasn’t remotely prepared to be convinced that such a beautiful and desirable creature existed only in her imagination. Dan had managed to get away by promising he would make some calls and see what he could find.

In reality, he wanted to get to the library to make a start on the research for his plan.

He’d expected the message to be from Sarah, wondered what he would read. Thanks for a fun night, but I don’t think it’ll work? Let’s do it all again tonight? He wasn’t surprised to find himself hoping it wasn’t the latter. He was no longer nineteen years old and pumping with hormonal vigour.

Dan wondered if he should have texted Sarah first. It felt more gentlemanly, the modern equivalent of sending a handwritten note, or his calling card. But he still wasn’t quite sure what to make of their night together. Perhaps it was cathartic, maybe just sleazy, perhaps it would be repeated, maybe not.

Claire was sitting in the corner of the library, watching him. She had changed her clothes from last night and was no longer in jeans, but had put on one of her black trouser suits. Her face was still impassive, perhaps a little sad or disappointed, but not obviously so.

Dan clicked his tongue. He’d just about finished the research he needed to do and was planning to slink quietly down to the canteen for a relaxing coffee and half an hour reading the paper. He hadn’t got as much sleep last night as he would have liked. But the text message meant that delightful prospect had just been banished.

Lizzie would be getting her follow-up story.

Dan gathered up his notes and put them carefully into his satchel. The library had turned up two revelations of considerable interest. The first concerned Parfitt. He was an even more trenchant critic of Islam than Dan had thought.

The Principal had written a book entitled
The Clash of Civilisations
. In it, he had expounded the view that Christianity and Islam were fundamentally incompatible, and could not coexist.

He went on to argue that the modern day “threat” posed by Islam was not one of guns and swords and war, but instead a creeping and insidious change inflicted upon any society in which the faith took hold; a corrosion from within, stealthy and secretive, day by day, unnoticed until the mighty edifice fell. It was a view which generated considerable controversy, but Parfitt had stood by his opinions.

Intriguingly, one of the newspaper articles on the book contained a quote from Kindle. It argued the Principal had got his conclusions exactly right, and should be congratulated for being brave enough to speak out in the face of the prevailing gale of political correctness.

The other gem of information the library yielded concerned Kindle himself. He had been arrested following a BPP demonstration outside a church on Easter Sunday. Some of the worshippers complained it was intimidating and offensive on the most important day of the Anglican calendar. The police had been called, there was a minor altercation and Kindle was taken to the cells, all the while protesting his right to free speech was being infringed.

The Crown Prosecution Service must have come to the same conclusion. Kindle was released without charge and even received the apology he had demanded.

The protest was designed to draw attention to what the BPP claimed was the Church of England’s lamentable vacuum of resistance to its waning influence in the country and unwillingness to exert its supremacy over other faiths, in particular Islam.

Dan nodded to himself. It had been a productive morning. He needed time to think through what he had learned. But for now, thinking space was to be a scarce commodity.

Petra asked if he was OK and had to ask again before he responded with a vague, ‘Yeah, fine thanks.’

Dan looked at the message once more. It was from Adam. He rarely texted, thought of it as the preserve of the young, and hadn’t quite got the hang of it. But what he wanted to communicate was clear enough.

Can’t speak. Do NOT call. Got lead. Armed raid in Plym in 1 hour. Dock Street, Stonehouse. DON’T break cover until u see cops. My neck on block if u do. We need 2 talk LATER.

*    *    *

They’d learned the lessons of the past. Plainclothes armed cops no longer wore tight T-shirts to emphasise their muscles. Now it was old jackets to hide them. Short haircuts were also discouraged. A couple in the hurried briefing looked more like hippies than police officers, and one even had a thick beard reminiscent of a 1970s Open University lecturer.

The pistols and automatic rifles in their hands, dark and menacing in the gloom of the back of the police van, quickly dispelled that illusion.

They were parked around the corner from Dock Street. The drive from Exeter had taken a little over half an hour, sirens screaming the whole way, bullying the daily traffic from their path.

‘Standard procedure,’ the Tactical Firearms Adviser said quietly. ‘A pincer movement. Surprise is the advantage. Use it ruthlessly. We go in the front, another team is going round the back. Mr Breen, I take it you want our target taken alive and mostly undamaged?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Tazer your preferred weapon then?’

‘Yes.’

‘How dangerous is he?’

Adam considered the question. ‘We’ve got evidence he may be associated with Tanton and could even have played a part in radicalising him. So we can’t rule out the possibility he may have firearms, or explosives, and could be willing to die to detonate them.’

One of the marksmen let out a low whistle.

‘Then it’s simple,’ the Firearms Adviser said calmly. ‘If there’s any show of resistance whatsoever, stun him with the tazer. But if it looks like he’s got a rucksack, or anything that might contain a bomb, then it’s your sidearms. We can’t risk the electricity setting it off. All clear?’

There were some mutters of yes, a few nods. Each man looked focused, their eyes bright in the half light. They started checking their weapons.

‘Two minutes,’ the Firearms Adviser murmured.

All was silent. One officer shifted his weight, making the van creak. Another itched at his nose.

A man at the back checked his Tazer. The red dot of its laser sight played on the metal roof.

A radio crackled. The driver reached out and turned it down.

Someone cracked their knuckles, the noise loud in the quiet of the van. Another officer took off his glasses and polished them on a sleeve. A motorbike buzzed past.

‘One minute. Standby.’

A young man took out his wallet and kissed a picture of a woman and girl. The marksman to his side smiled and patted his shoulder.

‘Your first big one?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’ll be all right, don’t worry. These terrorists are bloody cowards. When they’re blowing up women and children they’re real hard men. But faced with us they shit themselves and can’t surrender fast enough.’

A car drove past. The silence returned. At the back of the van a man coughed and cleared his throat.

‘Thirty seconds.’

A couple of loud breaths. The windows of the van were fogging, make it even darker.

The Firearms Adviser held up his watch. ‘Ten seconds. Good luck to us all.’

Dan and Nigel were sitting in the cameraman’s car at the end of the street, watching a van. Nigel was wearing his baseball cap, pulled low down over his eyes. Dan had donned a pair of oversized shades he’d picked up from a garage on the drive down and a moustache he’d grabbed from a fancy dress shop. He was too well known not to make a reasonable attempt at disguise, but wondered if all he’d achieved was to draw attention to himself by resembling an ersatz porn star at a stag party.

‘This tash keeps itching,’ he complained.

‘You shouldn’t have to wear it much longer.’

‘Good. I think it’s giving me a rash. Any sign of action?’

‘For the twentieth time – still no.’

They’d been waiting for almost half an hour. Dan had started to grow convinced they’d got the wrong place and had to forcibly stop himself calling Adam. Then the large white van had trundled slowly up the street and carefully parked. It looked absolutely ordinary, could have been any tradesman, but it was low on its axles as if heavily loaded, had manoeuvred with rare precision, and the man in the front was a little too watchful.

Since the van’s arrival there had been nothing. The driver sat there, turning the pages of a newspaper, continually glancing up the street, but there had been no other movement.

Dan poked the moustache back up his lip. ‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered.

‘You only have to wear it to make sure no one clocks us.’

‘I wish they’d get on with it. I hate all this hanging about.’

‘You sure about this?’ Nigel asked.

‘Yeah, I think so. It’ll be a hell of an exclusive if something does happen.’

‘Any idea what we’re expecting?’

‘No. I just got a tip off it was some kind of a raid connected with the bombing case.’

Nigel had the camera on his lap, primed and ready to go. ‘Well, we’re all set for when something happens. I don’t think …’

He stopped suddenly. The doors of the van had swung open. Men were jumping out. And they were carrying guns.

Adam was running, fast, up the street behind the pack of marksmen, his leather shoes pounding hard on the pavement. Panting breaths filled the air. He dodged around a lamp post, kept running. A couple of curtains twitched, a woman pushing a pram stopping to stare. All the passengers on a passing bus turned to watch too.

They ran on, focused only ahead. Along the street he was aware of a familiar figure getting out of a car, a camera being pointed towards them.

Adam felt himself starting to sweat, reached up, unbuttoned his collar and pulled down his tie. It was just like playing football with his son. The lad was getting faster and fitter as he grew into his teens, leaving his old dad behind with the wonder of the new stamina and strength.

At the front of the pack one of the cops had stopped, was pointing his arms towards a house.

An end terrace, painted white with blue windowsills. A For Sale sign in the front garden, a paved path, small rockery, a couple of well tended bushes. It was absolutely ordinary. A Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the window.

If this was the home of a terrorist, the man had an unexpected sense of humour.

A shove and the low metal gate flew open, swinging on its hinges, clanging into a fence. A door, painted blue. No hesitation. A swing of the battering ram, a cracking crunch of splintering wood. They tumbled inside.

Two marksmen clambered up the stairs, two more along a hallway. Adam stopped, watched, eyes wide, breathing hard. This was their time. A second to decide how to react to what they found here. To pull a trigger or not. To kill, or let live.

Panting and gasping. Thudding and shouting. ‘Clear! Clear!’

Adam’s mind spun to his own firearms training. A morning on the shooting range, an afternoon of role-playing. The deafening noise, the pumping adrenaline. It had taken less than a day to decide it wasn’t for him.

The agonising pressure of an instant’s decision.

A door ahead, plain white and wooden, a poster of some vaguely familiar painting, pastel spring colours. A foot, kicking out, flinging it open. A kitchen, fridge freezer, work surfaces, cupboards, one half-open, some packets of cereal. A toaster, silver and shining. A bread bin. A plant on the windowsill.

Nothing else. No one here.

Another door, closed. A foot, reaching out, ready to kick. Then halting, suddenly, in a second.