Deathlist (13 page)

Lakes swallowed. Her throat suddenly felt very hot and heavy. Granger watched her, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘You want us to find the men who carried out the attack?’

‘And take them out,’ Bell added uncomfortably. ‘Using whatever means necessary.’

‘By “take them out”, you mean—’

‘Kill,’ Bell cut her off. ‘We want you to kill the men who did this. All of them.’ He gestured to Pettigrove. ‘Sir Alan assures me you’re the perfect person for the job.’

Lakes looked quickly to her boss. He smiled weakly, then hack-coughed.

‘There must be a layer between us, of course,’ Granger cut in moodily as he scribbled on an A4 pad in front of him. A pair of tits, Lakes noted with a slight measure of disgust. ‘Plausible deniability. That’s the buzz word for this operation.’

‘Of course,’ Lakes said. ‘I understand.’ Thinking,
There’s more layers on this thing than a Hollywood pre-nup
.

Hawkridge said, ‘I’ll have a list drawn up. Hereford men who fit the criteria.’

Bell nodded busily. ‘Fine. But I don’t need to know the details.’ He looked around the table to underline his point. ‘Michael will keep me informed on the big picture. As for the details, that’s up to you lot to sort out. We don’t want to know. We don’t even want to know that we don’t know. Am I clear?’

Lakes nodded curtly at the Home Secretary. Typical Whitehall buck-passing. Osbert Bell was a master of washing his hands of responsibility whilst simultaneously taking all the credit.

‘Yes, Home Secretary,’ she said.

‘Good.’ Bell promptly stood up and straightened his back, signalling the end of the briefing. He paused and looked around the room. ‘It goes without saying that this conversation never happened.’

‘Naturally,’ said Hawkridge.

‘I leave the planning details to you,’ Bell added, looking at Hawkridge and Lakes in turn. ‘Clarence here will work with you on the particulars. He’s good at this sort of thing. Now, if that’s everything, gentlemen?’

No one had any questions. The men in suits slid out of their chairs and made for the door, each of them wearing grim faces. Lakes turned to follow them but then Bell moved towards her, intercepting her before she could reach the door.

‘A quick word, Miss Lakes. If you wouldn’t mind.’

Lakes stood by the door. Bell waited until everyone else had stepped outside. Then he closed the door behind them. He paced around the table, tutting and shaking his head.

‘Damned terrible news about Alan.’

‘News?’ Lakes asked, not following.

Bell feigned ignorance. ‘Haven’t you heard? Poor bugger’s got the cancer. Started out in the liver, now it’s spread to his lungs and brain. He’s refused chemo, the stubborn old fool. Doctors have given him three months to live. Absolutely tragedy.’ Bell stared at the floor, sounding about as genuine as a four-pound note. ‘I imagine this must be hard for you.’

Lakes let her eyes fall to the floor. ‘Alan’s been something of a mentor to me.’

‘That’s tough.’

An uneasy moment of silence hung over the room. Then Bell leaned in close to Lakes and lowered his voice. She caught a whiff of his stale breath. It reeked of garlic and red wine.

Bell said, ‘Between you and me, we’ll have to start looking for Alan’s replacement very soon. These things can’t wait.’ He paused and a smile played out on his face like a knife slitting through silk. ‘Should this operation run smoothly, then your candidacy would be hard to ignore, Miss Lakes.
Very
hard indeed.’

NINETEEN

Hereford.

Two days later. 0811 hours.

Porter reached for the Bushmills. There were still a few drops of the good stuff left in the bottom of the bottle, along with the remnants of a stubbed-out cigarette. He shrugged and pressed the bottle to his lips. He tipped the whisky dregs down his throat. Then he reached for his pack of Bensons, sparked up a tab and took a long drag. Ah, better.

Breakfast.

Three days had passed since the attack, and Porter had done nothing but drink and stare at the grisly footage playing out on the news channels. Empty whisky bottles were scattered around the living room, along with several crushed fag packets and a couple of greasy takeaway cartons he’d barely touched. He hadn’t set foot outside since the Training Wing had been stood down. There was a media blackout in place. Orders from the CO. Every surviving guy on the Training Wing had been told to stay low and avoid going into town unless it was absolutely essential. Reporters from the national rags were out in force in Hereford, talking to all the local shags and punters in the hopes of finding out a few scraps of information and piecing together an exclusive. So Porter had shut himself indoors with the curtains drawn, drinking and trying to forget.

But he couldn’t escape. The news channels were having a field day. In the absence of hard facts, everyone was engaged in feverish round-the-clock speculation. The TV in the corner of the living room was tuned in to Sky News. A sombre-faced brunette reporter was standing in front of a police cordon down the road from the Storey Arms. Helicopters were buzzing overhead and a couple of local bobbies were standing watch on the other side of the cordon, keeping the hacks at bay.

‘Sources at Whitehall have confirmed fifty-five soldiers were killed in Friday’s attack,’ the reporter said in a grave tone of voice. ‘As of yet, no terrorist group has claimed responsibility for the bombing. Many are, of course, speculating that this may be the start of a new campaign by the IRA to undermine the Good Friday Agreement. Others believe that Islamic fundamentalists may be behind the attack. Earlier, the Prime Minister had this to say.’

The camera cut to the steps of 10 Downing Street on a grey afternoon. A million paparazzi bulbs flashed as a middle-aged man with wavy black hair stood in front of a wooden podium. Prime Minister Andrew Massey’s trademark cheerful smirk had been utterly wiped from his smooth face. Now he stood in front of the world’s press, brow heavily furrowed, wearing a look of grim sobriety.

‘Three days ago, Britain suffered an unprecedented attack on her armed forces,’ the Prime Minister began in a grave tone of voice. ‘My thoughts and prayers go out to the victims and their families, and all those affected by this barbaric act. Let me be clear. Those behind the attack, whoever they are, wish to destroy our society. But we are stronger than that. Our resolve is firmer than the terrorists. At present, we do not know who was responsible for killing our brave young soldiers. But in due course, we shall find those responsible and bring them to justice, as a civilised nation. . .’

Porter hit the mute button. Finished his cigarette and chucked the butt into the empty bottle. Then he reached for the phone. His hands were shaking as he punched in the number. He put the receiver to his ear and glanced at the clock. 0812 hours. They’d be heading out the door on the school run any minute now. The phone rang and rang, and for a moment he thought no one would pick up. Then a young, bright voice answered on the fifth ring.

‘Hello?’

Porter smiled. ‘Happy birthday, love.’

There was an excited shriek on the other end of the line. ‘Daddy!’

Something warm swept through Porter at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Eight years old. His little girl. He could hardly believe how quickly the time had passed. He pressed the receiver closer to his ear. In the background he could hear someone rushing around.

‘Did you get lots of presents?’ Porter asked, his voice choked with emotion.

‘Oh, Dad, you
have
to see them all,’ Sandy went on breathlessly. ‘Mum got me a Barbie dream house and two Barbie dolls. And Stuart got me a pony. He’s amazing. I’m going to call him Dancer.’

Porter frowned. Stuart. The bloke Diana had been seeing after she’d relocated to Nottingham. Some moneyed-up big-shot who made his fortune in shopping centres in the north-west. Guy was forever splashing the cash on Sandy. You can’t buy love, thought Porter. But this prick was having a damn good go.

‘Is that so?’ he asked through gritted teeth, rage brewing inside his chest.

‘I have to go to school now, but you’re coming to my party this weekend? Dad?’

Before Porter could reply a sharp voice in the background said, ‘Pass the phone to mummy.’

Porter sparked up another tab. There was a fumbling noise, and he could hear Diana telling Sandy to go and wait in the car. Then his wife’s voice came clearly down the line. ‘You shouldn’t be calling here, John. Not without letting me know first. That’s what we agreed.’

‘I just wanted to wish her a happy birthday,’ Porter replied. ‘That’s all.’

Diana sighed. It came down the line more like an angry hiss. ‘I was meaning to call you. I saw the pictures on the news. Those poor soldiers. God, it’s so awful. Are you—?’

‘I’m fine,’ Porter replied flatly. ‘Can’t really talk about it.’

Silence. He took another pull on his tab and blew out smoke. He could hear Sandy’s faint voice in the background, pleading with her mother to give the phone back so she could speak to Daddy.

Porter said, ‘I was thinking, maybe I could come down for the birthday party. Give Sandy her present, like.’

And to see her face, he thought. Sweet Jesus, I miss her.

There was a long pause. Then Diana said, ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘I wouldn’t be any harm. I’ll be in and out in five minutes. Christ, Di. I’m not asking for much here.’

More silence. Porter could feel it hanging in the air. Like fruit from a tree.

‘Stuart and I have been talking,’ she said at last. ‘We think it’s for the best if you stay away for a while. What Sandy needs in her life right now is stability. When she hears your voice, it – it confuses things.’

Porter gripped the phone so hard he thought it might crack. ‘I’m her old man, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Right now she needs a
father
, John. Not some stranger who occasionally shows up blazing drunk at two in the morning. Stuart’s here for her. For both of us. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.’

Porter said nothing. He smoked some more. He thought of all the angry things he could hurl down the line at Diana, but when you drilled down to it, there was only himself to blame. He’d fucked it up. Maybe Diana was right, the familiar voice prodded at him. Maybe Sandy was better off without her old man in her life. A rich twat like Stuart could give her a good life. She could have everything she ever wanted. What could he give her?

Fuck-all.

‘John? Are you still there?’

Porter hung up the phone. Stubbed out his tab and looked down at the clumsily wrapped present he’d bought for Sandy. A cuddly penguin he’d picked up at the local toy shop for twenty quid. And there was Stuart buying her a pony. A fucking
pony
, for Christ’s sake. How the hell could he match up to that?

Face it, John. You might be Sandy’s old man, but you’re just a washed-up old cunt.

The pounding between his temples returned. God, he needed another drink. He got up, rooted around the flat and came up empty. He was flat out of booze, and the shops weren’t open yet. The only thing he could find was a bottle of mouthwash in the bathroom cabinet. There was some alcohol in it, according to the label. Right now, that would have to do. Anything to numb the pain. Porter screwed the top off. He was about to take a long swig when the phone rang.

He set the mouthwash down and paced back over to the phone. Probably Di. Probably mad at him for hanging up just now. She’d give it to him with both barrels. He picked up the phone and said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Porter, it’s Stones here.’

Porter sat up straight. He recognised the voice of the Regiment ops officer. Stones sounded serious, thought Porter. But then again, he always sounded serious with that deadpan Brummie accent.

‘Boss?’

‘Listen, the CO wants you to come in for a chat.’

‘What for?’ Porter asked.

‘No bloody clue,’ said Stones. ‘But he’s been pacing up and down all morning. If I were you, I’d get my arse down here right fucking now.’

Twenty-five minutes later Porter was rolling through the gates at RAF Credenhill. He eased his motor into the packed car park and unfolded himself from behind the wheel.

The atmosphere inside the camp was restless. Porter could sense it as he marched across the parade ground towards the main Regimental HQ, a plain building overlooking the parade ground. The Regiment was on high alert. The SP team was back at Hereford, with a second squadron overseas on stand-by for further action. All the guys were milling around the camp and bumping guns, their kit squared away, ready to move out at a moment’s notice. No one said much. They were spitting mad for vengeance.

Porter trudged past the guard room. It was eerily quiet. Normally all the lads would be sitting around watching pornos and taking the piss, but this morning the guys were grim-faced and silent. Porter paced up the stairs and hurried down a narrow corridor leading towards the Kremlin, the Regiment’s inner sanctum. As he swept past the ops rooms Porter wondered again why the CO had called him in this morning. It couldn’t be anything to do with the Training Wing, he knew. Selection had been suspended indefinitely, with the remaining students being processed back to their parent units and the head shed conducting a root-and-branch review of the SOPs to try and prevent a similar attack happening in the future. Besides, half of the instructors were dead. There would be no new Selection courses for a while.