The Parachute Regiment was divided into three battalions, or four if you counted the Territorial Army one, which served as a reserve force for the other three. Most of the personnel had been there in the first six months, forming part of 16 Air Assault Brigade during the invasion itself and remaining in the immediate aftermath before being withdrawn back to Britain. As the occupation became ever more American-dominated, there was little record of repeated deployments of the three Para battalions in the country. Purkiss knew they’d mostly been diverted to that other arena, Afghanistan.
Which made it all the easier to spot the personnel who had returned.
There were around thirty in all. Glancing through the names, Purkiss noticed that every one of them had been involved in the initial invasion. It suggested that people with local knowledge of the country were being chosen to come back, for some purpose that wasn’t clear, as the document gave no indication of the type of operations the personnel were involved in.
Kendrick’s name was on the list. He’d returned to Iraq, to Baghdad this time instead of Basra where Purkiss had first met him, in late 2005, and remained there until 2007. That was when he’d left the armed forces, as Purkiss remembered.
Kendrick had told him he’d gone back to Iraq, but he hadn’t spoken much about his work there, and Purkiss had assumed it was routine peacekeeping duties.
Out in the desert in Saudi, Ericson had told Purkiss that Scipio Rand had received and processed Iraqi prisoners during 2006. He might have been wrong about the year — dehydration and heat stroke could do that — but the fact that he’d been so specific suggested to Purkiss that the year was the correct one.
Ericson had been less sure about which parachute battalion the prisoners’ escorts had come from — I think it was Two Para, he’d said — so Purkiss decided to stay on the safe side and include members of the other two battalions as well. He created a new document, and included the names of all Paras stationed in Iraq during 2006. There were fifteen of them in total.
A pool of ten or so, Ericson had said. It was about right.
Purkiss sent Vale a text message: Can you talk?
The reply came less than a minute later.
Yes.
Purkiss dialled. ‘Where are you?’ he said, when Vale answered.
‘On Millbank, heading for the tube,’ said Vale. ‘I’ve just left Kasabian.’
‘I need another favour,’ said Purkiss. ‘Can you track down contact details for some of the personnel on that list? Personal mobile numbers, home addresses, workplaces, whatever.’
‘Should be able to.’
‘Got a pen?’ said Purkiss. He listed fourteen of the names, spelling them where necessary, omitting Kendrick’s.
Half an hour later Vale rang back. ‘I’ve got them.’
He began to read them out. After Purkiss had transcribed half of them, he said: ‘Could you check out the other seven? Save a bit of time. I just want to know where they are now, what they’re doing. And if any of them would be available for interview.’
‘Can do,’ said Vale, ‘though it’s half past ten at night. The workplace numbers won’t be much use now.’
‘Let’s just see how far we get,’ said Purkiss.
He rang the first number on the list, which again had come courtesy of the Ministry of Defence via Vale’s SIS link. It was a home phone number for a Para named Hollingworth. The area code was outer London.
After six rings, just as Purkiss assumed the voicemail function was going to kick in, the receiver was snatched up and a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Good evening,’ said Purkiss. ‘Sorry to call so late. It’s nothing to worry about. I wonder if I might speak to Mr Terence Hollingsworth?’
The silence on the other end went on for so long that Purkiss wondered if he’d been cut off. Then he heard the choking sob.
‘Madam?’ he said.
He heard another voice, also a woman’s, and the rustling of the receiver being taken by someone else. ‘Who is this, please?’
‘I’m an associate of Terence Hollingsworth. I need to speak to him urgently.’
The silence was briefer this time. The new woman’s voice said, ‘I’m assuming you don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Terry Hollingsworth was in a climbing accident last week Thursday. He’s… he’s dead. His wife isn’t really up to speaking to anyone right now, especially this time of night.’ The woman’s voice grew firmer. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
Purkiss ended the call.
He dialled the next number. It was a military barracks in Colchester, Essex.
The woman who answered was clipped, professional. Purkiss introduced himself as a solicitor.
‘I’m trying to locate a Darren Wallace as a matter of urgency.’
The woman asked him to hold. She returned a minute later.
‘Sir? I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news. Sergeant Wallace is no longer with us.’
‘Could you perhaps tell me his new address? It’s — ’
‘No, I’m afraid you misunderstand me.’ She kept up the professionally detached tone well, Purkiss noticed distantly. ‘Sergeant Wallace is dead. He and four other military personnel were involved in a fatal motorway collision last month. If you’d like to speak to — ’
Again, Purkiss ended the call.
He rang Vale.
‘Quentin, there’s a problem.’
‘I know,’ said Vale.
Forty-six
They decided together that ringing around and having to find out from grieving relatives that their spouses or sons were dead, was neither the most humane nor the most efficient way of doing it.
Instead, Vale suggested trying his SIS contact once more. The person, whoever it was, had some kind of liaison role with the Ministry of Defence, and the MoD was under instructions to cooperate fully. Purkiss imagined that rankled.
‘I’ll ask for up-to-date records of all military personnel recently deceased,’ said Vale. ‘It won’t capture everyone on the list, because many of these men will have already left the Forces. But it’ll whittle it down.’
While Purkiss waited, his skin crawling in frustration, he thought about what he and Vale had discovered. Six former Paras so far, all of whom had been in Iraq in 2006, turned out to have died within the last two weeks. They’d succumbed to an assortment of fates: car accidents, drive-by shootings, falling in front of a tube train while drunk. And then there was Kendrick, not quite dead, having been shot in the head. Some of the deaths were made to look like accidents, but in others there’d been no attempt to pretend that anything but a deliberate killing had occurred. It was as if the priority was to get these men dead by whatever means were available, and if that meant murder in broad daylight, then so be it.
Purkiss used the waiting time to limber up. His left arm was sore and stiff from the bite he’d sustained, and he had a mild sunburn from the desert. He rode out the pain, doing press ups, sit ups and squats, adrenaline and the caffeine he’d drunk making him feel wired and edgy.
At a little before midnight, the city outside calmed if not slumbering, Purkiss’s phone rang.
Vale said: ‘Of the remaining eight men, we have confirmation that four are dead. Two were with your man, Wallace, in that collision on the motorway. Two were gunned down outside a nightclub in Dartford. That last pair were no longer in the military, but I got someone in the Work and Pensions Department out of bed to check on them.’
Purkiss whistled silently. ‘Great work, Quentin. The others?’
‘No record that they’re dead, or alive. But…’
Purkiss waited.
‘One of the names. Tullivant. He’s got an interesting connection,’ said Vale.