Twenty Twelve Page 4

  The woman sounds nervous. ‘Are you okay?’

  I press my phone between my jaw and my shoulder and lower myself onto the bed. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Right.’ She doesn’t sound sure.

  I let myself flop back onto my duvet. ‘I’m great, honestly. How can I help you?’

  She lets out a breath, relieved. ‘It’s Highfields Hospital here.’

  Dad. Shit. I sit bolt upright, pain surging through me again. ‘Aaaghh.’

  ‘Miss Connolly, perhaps I should call back later.’

  ‘No!’ I shout. ‘Please just tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Happened?’

  I shake my head, trying to expel the terrible memories of Dad’s last stroke. ‘Is my father okay?’

  There’s a moment’s silence and I’m terrified that the images of me running from an exploding building will have proved too much. That this time his heart has given out.

  At last the woman pushes out another puff of air. ‘He’s not too bad, actually. Had a good night last night. He just wants a quick word.’

  Relief floods over me. My dad is not dead.

  ‘Jo?’ Dad barks down the phone.

  I can’t suppress a smile. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘So he put you in charge, did he?’

  The miserable old sod hasn’t even asked how I am.

  ‘I’m a bit sore, to tell you the truth,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘But thanks for asking.’

  He gives a low growl, like a dog who has just been kicked. ‘He’s a canny bastard, the PM,’ he says. ‘And I suppose he’s still got that bloodsucker Benning at his side.’

  I make the torturous journey to my wardrobe and reach in for a clean blouse. ‘He was pretty helpful, actually,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t trust him.’

  Dad doesn’t trust anyone. Never has done. When I was a kid, we were never allowed to have friends over to play. ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ he used to say.

  ‘Did you see me outside Downing Street?’ I ask.

  He gives a noise that means yes.

  ‘How was I?’ I ask.

  I’ve watched it at least ten times myself. I thought I did bloody well. I just want to hear Dad say it.

  ‘You’re a good-looking girl with a posh voice and you’d just dragged a disabled child from certain death,’ he says. ‘Even you couldn’t screw that up.’

  I sigh and fiddle with my buttons, wishing I could just pull on a T-shirt.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I say.

  He lets out another growl. What did I expect? A bunch of roses and a kiss on the cheek? This is Paddy Connolly we’re talking about. Never look back, never enjoy the moment. Keep moving forward, always forward.

  It strikes me how much he must loathe Highfields, where each day resembles the last and the future promises nothing but more of the same. It must be like death by a thousand cuts.

  ‘Any advice?’ I ask.

  Perhaps if I could involve him more in my career it might cheer him up. We’ve always had our difficulties, but perhaps we could put them behind us and help each other.

  An image flits through my mind. I’m running a tricky problem past him and he is smiling, giving his sage opinion.

  ‘Listen to me, Jo,’ he says.

  I do. I want to hear fatherly words of wisdom. I want that dialogue we’ve never had.

  ‘You’ve dropped lucky getting this job and don’t forget it,’ he says. ‘The PM’s Olympic ball nearly fell flat yesterday but he’s found himself a new juggler. So don’t take your eye off it for a second.’

  ‘You make it sound like life or death,’ I say.

  ‘It is, Jo, and if you haven’t worked that out by now, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’

  Clem knocked on the door to the PM’s study. This wasn’t going to be pretty. As requested, he’d sent the findings from the wreck of the Plaza within the hour. Now the shit was about to hit the fan.

  The door was opened by a scowling Benning. ‘We’re not happy with your report.’

  Clem all but pushed past him and strode towards the PM’s desk. He was leaning heavily on his elbows, his eyes rimmed red, his tie thrown onto the sofa.

  ‘There’s no room for error?’ he asked Clem.

  ‘There’s always room for error, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Well then.’ Benning closed the door. ‘We can still say this was an accident.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be the full truth.’

  Benning waved a copy of Clem’s report at him. ‘We don’t know the full truth because you haven’t been able to get it for us.’

  ‘It’s still early days,’ said Clem. ‘The scene isn’t stable. If we had another twenty-four hours I could be more certain.’

  ‘We don’t have that sort of time.’ Benning tapped his watch. ‘With every second that passes, the Americans are getting closer to pulling out and going home.’

  Clem said nothing. Politics was their business, not his.

  ‘The PM has to make another statement this morning and he cannot go on live TV saying this might have been a bomb but you’ll have to bear with us,’ said Benning. ‘If you’re still saying you can’t be one hundred per cent certain, then we stick with the accident scenario.’

  The PM looked up at Clem hopefully. Time to piss on his chips.

  ‘Given the nature of the explosion, I’d say we were almost certainly looking at a bomb.’

  ‘You didn’t say that in the report,’ said Benning.

  ‘I’m saying it now.’

  The PM sighed. ‘Who?’

  Clem opened his palms. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Clem,’ said Benning. ‘You must have some idea.’

  Clem felt the muscle under his eye begin to twitch and blinked to release it.

  ‘What’s the word out there?’ Benning continued. ‘The wires must have picked up some chatter.’

  Wires? Chatter? The man had been watching too many episodes of Spooks.

  ‘Obviously we gather as much intelligence as we can,’ said Clem.

  ‘And?’ Benning asked.

  Clem kept his tone even. ‘No one seemed close enough.’

  ‘Looks like someone was close enough, Clem,’ said Benning.

  Clem imagined the delicious sound of his knuckles landing on this prick of a man’s nose. But he knew that his anger was misdirected. It was himself that he was furious with. How had they missed this? They’d been watching and listening for anything remotely threatening the Games. There had been nothing concrete.

  The PM interrupted Clem’s thoughts. ‘Who is most likely?’ he asked.

  Clem mentally sifted through the organisations keeping him up at night. The ones who moved from talking about action to the next phase. ‘Al Qaeda, obviously,’ he said.

  The PM and Benning groaned. What did they expect? They knew who the current threats were coming from whatever their press releases said.

  ‘That isn’t good,’ said the PM. ‘Not good at all.’

  Clem understood that. An Islamist attack would send the Americans back in a nanosecond. Probably the Chinese, too. Might as well call the whole thing off and try not to think of the billions of pounds wasted. The great British public would react predictably and relationships with every Muslim country in the world would be crucified. It would spell the end of the road for this government and its leader.

  ‘Where are the Irish when you need ’em?’ muttered Benning.

  ‘I don’t suppose it could be a dissident republican group?’ the PM asked.

  ‘Not their MO,’ Clem replied.

  ‘You must be keeping tabs on someone besides the Islamists,’ said Benning.

  ‘Naturally.’

  Benning narrowed his eyes. ‘Give us a name.’

  Clem almost laughed. Did he think he could stand there in his hand-stitched shoes and intimidate someone who had been tortured by the Serbs and the Palestinians and lived to tell the tale?

  O
nce again the PM intervened. ‘We just need to consider all the options, Clem.’

  Clem paused. He was reluctant to even say the name. ‘Shining Light,’ he murmured at last.

  It was clear that the PM and Benning had never heard of them.

  ‘Anarchists,’ he added.

  ‘Anarchists?’ Benning couldn’t hide his incredulity. ‘Didn’t they disappear with the Sex Pistols?’

  ‘Who do you think caused all the trouble at the march against university fees? Let me tell you, it wasn’t a bunch of middle-class students who stormed the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Tell us a bit more, Clem,’ said the PM. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘A small group of fanatics. Animal rights activists, disaffected communists, white supremacists.’

  ‘Racists.’ The PM rolled the word around his tongue.

  Benning’s eyes widened. ‘Skinheads.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Clem. ‘This is a small but clever group of people who loathe your government and everything you stand for, but I don’t think there is any chance of their involvement here.’

  ‘So why were they on your radar?’ asked Benning.

  ‘Precautionary,’ Clem replied.

  ‘Then you must have thought there was some risk, however small,’ said Benning. ‘You must have thought it was at least possible that they would take action.’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ said Clem.

  Benning shrugged. ‘Then pick them up.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘By your own admission, it’s perfectly possible that this group are responsible for the deaths of twenty civilians, children included.’

  Clem turned to the PM and looked directly into his tired eyes. ‘My instinct is that these are not the people we want.’

  The PM took a deep breath. ‘Pick them up, Clem.’

  Clem ordered a coffee and toast. The smell of bacon frying wafted across the café and he was tempted to get a full English. Sausage, fried bread, mushrooms, the works. Doctors – what did they know anyway?

  He was careful not to look over at the group of men in the corner and opened his paper like everyone else. The front page was devoted to the explosion – and Connolly, of course. Poor woman didn’t know what a nest of vipers she was diving into.

  Clem checked his watch. Any second now, the PM would be informing the world that it might not have been an accident. By the time the news sank in, Clem and his team were to have Shining Light in custody.

  A young woman with startlingly white skin was serving the food, although service might have been the wrong word. Rather, she dumped the plates and steaming mugs of tea in front of the customers with a grunt.

  One of the men in the corner let out a shout. Clem looked over. At this point it would have been odd not to.

  The waitress had sloshed tea over the laminated table. ‘Get us some kitchen roll,’ said the man.

  She jerked her head towards the counter. ‘Get it yourself.’

  The man shook his head but he did as she suggested. Clem watched him. Caucasian male, six foot, average build, early twenties, scar on the left cheek. Clem pulled out his iPad and dragged up the file. Bingo. The man was Dean Mantel.

  Clem glanced over again, mentally processing the man in the seat next to Mantel. He went back to the file on his iPad. Another match. Stephen Miggs.

  With Deano and Miggs in the bag, Clem was willing to bet the other guy was Steve Bentley.

  That only left Ronnie X.

  The information on the leader of this cell of Shining Light was patchy at best. Unlike the other men, who had led an ordinary life with a trail of paperwork blowing in their wake, Ronnie seemed never to have officially existed. No medical or police records, no membership of any organisations, no driving licence. More importantly, no description. It was as if Ronnie X had invented himself. Still, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the cell led Clem to him.

  ‘Nice bit of kit.’

  Clem looked up. The waitress hovered over him with his breakfast. Her eyes were an odd cross between blue and grey. Almost silver. The contrast against her pale skin was strangely attractive. Mind you, at his age, two legs and a full set of teeth were attractive.

  ‘Must have cost a bit.’ She nodded at Clem’s iPad.

  Clem smiled and closed the file with his finger. ‘Waste of money, really,’ he said. ‘I only use it for checking the footie scores.’

  She let out a laugh and thumped the plate onto the table. Clem caught his toast before it slid onto the sticky plastic and waited for the men to make a move.

  Deano and Steve were watching the telly. Some daytime shite that rolled out a string of losers to argue with their girlfriends. Deano was pointing at a poor jakey whose scrawny wee girlfriend was weeping into the sleeve of her tracksuit.

  ‘What a cunt,’ Deano laughed.

  Miggs wasn’t sure if he meant the man or the woman. ‘Why don’t you two do something useful?’ he asked.

  Deano curled his lip. Whenever Ronnie wasn’t around, he and Steve just messed about. ‘Chill out, Miggsy,’ he said. ‘Don’t take everything so seriously.’

  But that was the trouble with Deano. He didn’t take anything seriously. Miggs was about to give them another lecture about commitment to the cause when his mobile rang.

  ‘Saved by the bell.’ Deano winked.

  Miggs frowned at him and checked the caller ID. It was Ronnie.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Ronnie’s tone was even but serious. ‘We’ve got a problem.’

  Miggs moved away from the other two. ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘They’re onto us,’ said Ronnie.

  Miggs’s pulse lurched. ‘Who?’

  ‘Police, maybe MI5. On their way now.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Miggs tried to think but his heart was hammering in his chest. ‘What about your computer?’ he said. ‘Your phone?’

  ‘Both with me,’ said Ronnie. ‘I’ll destroy them after this call.’

  Miggs nodded and let out a long breath. Nothing to lead them back to Ronnie, that was good. Even if the rest of them got picked up, Ronnie was safe.

  Over his shoulder he heard Deano’s laughter like machine-gun rattle. It stopped Miggs in his tracks. ‘You know Deano will talk.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  There was no perhaps about it. They both knew that if the police pulled the fat fucker, he’d sing like Charlotte Church on Bacardi Breezers.

  Miggs closed his eyes. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ronnie asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was another moment of silence, which made Miggs’s eardrums throb. ‘You can trust me,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ Ronnie’s voice was low. ‘I always could.’

  Miggs ran his hands through his hair and blinked back tears. He didn’t know what hurt the most, what he was about to do or the knowledge that he would never see Ronnie again.

  ‘Stay strong,’ Miggs whispered.

  ‘I will.’

  The phone went dead and Miggs knew that in minutes Ronnie’s phone would be crushed or burnt and thrown into a skip. It would be as if they had never met.

  Another volley of Deano’s laughter ripped through the air and Miggs reached for his gun.

  Clem leaned against the bus shelter and waited for backup.

  After they’d finished their fry-ups, Clem had followed the men out of the café and down Roman Road. The market was in full swing, stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables. A woman covered head to toe in black, only her eyes peeping out from a slit in her burka, was haggling over the price of okra.

  The men stopped at a narrow door between a travel agents, the windows covered in posters offering cut-price flights to Dhaka, and a kebab shop. They disappeared inside, leaving Clem to watch a processed piece of lamb perform its pole dance, grease running away like sweat.

  The buzzer on the door t
old Clem it was the entrance to the flat above. That must smell lovely, he thought. He skirted round the back, checking there was no other way out and called it in.

  Carole-Ann picked up. ‘What have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘66A Roman Road,’ he said. ‘Bethnal Green.’

  ‘Nice part of town.’

  Clem laughed. Carole-Ann Bowers was an in-house operative who spent her days scanning the airwaves and coordinating the agents on the street. She was a gargantuan black woman who ruled the back office with a clicking tongue and a will of iron.

  ‘How many?’ she asked.

  ‘Three,’ Clem confirmed. ‘But there could be another one inside.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘No way to tell,’ said Clem.

  ‘Then let’s assume the worst,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘I can get C Group to you in less than fifteen.’

  ‘Do we need the whole crew?’

  Carole-Ann kissed her teeth. ‘You want your head blown off, fine. But not on my shift.’

  Clem sighed. There was absolutely no point in arguing. ‘Tell them not to arrive like the fucking cavalry.’

  Carole-Ann let out a hoot of laughter and hung up.

  Clem checked his watch and waited. It was never like this in the movies. Brad Pitt and George Clooney didn’t spend any time standing around like lemons. They’d be in there now, single-handedly taking the perps down. Then again, they weren’t the wrong side of fifty with high cholesterol.

  Clem sighed and checked his watch again. He wondered if he would still be able to see the doorway from the baker’s on the opposite side of the road. The earlier slice of toast hadn’t touched the sides. He was weighing up the option of a ham roll or a croissant when he heard a sound he recognised all too well. Gunshot. From inside the flat.

  Clem checked the street but there was still no sign of C Group. He pulled out his phone.

  ‘What’s up, Mr Grumpy?’ Carole-Ann laughed.

  ‘Where’s backup?’

  ‘I told you, they’re on their way. Five minutes tops.’

  Clem looked up at the window. He thought he saw a figure but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Something’s not right in there,’ he said. ‘I heard a shot.’

  ‘I’ll put out a call to all available officers. In the meantime, Clem, keep your head down.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Under no circumstances are you to go in there without backup.’ Her voice was ice. ‘Do you hear me?’