‘Who?’ Harrison demanded.
Her mouth was dry, arid as a desert. ‘It was a bomb threat. Somewhere in Poplar.’
Harrison shook his head, trying to clear his mind. ‘This has to be someone’s idea of a joke.’
‘I don’t think so, Tom.’ He could see now that her face was pale with shock, the fear in her eyes all too real. ‘It was the AID AN codeword.’
That was it. No one but no one would make a joke about that, not even Trenchard. He took the note pad from her. ‘I’ll call the Section on my mobile. You ring AT Branch and give them that call-box number.’
‘What’s their direct line?’
‘I don’t know.’
Shit, she’d have to go through 999.
Harrison took the mobile from his jacket hanging on the chair and punched a single number. He recognised Midge Midgely’s noncommittal voice.
‘Listen, Midge, it’s Tom here. AIDAN’s just been on the blower. There’s a warning for Poplar.’
The Yorkshireman seemed to be waking from a dream. ‘Tom? You pulling my plonker? AID AN phoned you?’
‘It came through Casey on the Standard,’ he explained vaguely. ‘We’re down to about forty-five minutes.’
Midgely realised it was no wheeze — until Harrison read over the address. ‘Patel & Son, Tom? What the hell is this? A grocer’s shop in Poplar.’
Harrison felt the ice running through his veins. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what it is, Midge, it’s a come-on. Just make sure my boys get tasked in on the job.’
‘I see.’ He sounded dubious. ‘I’ll check it out with Al.’
‘No time,’ Harrison objected.
Midge sounded like he could be chuckling. ‘No trouble, he’s kipping in the duty office.’
Of course. Divorced, Pritchard had no home to go to. No doubt he.couldn’t sleep either.
Harrison said: ‘Okay, Midge, I’m going straight there. You can get me on the mobile.’ ‘
As he replaced the telephone in his jacket pocket, he turned to find that Casey had finished her call and was already out of bed, tugging up tracksuit trousers over her naked body. ‘Don’t even think it, Tom,’ she warned. ‘That call was to my paper, so it’s my story. We can travel together or else I race you across London.’
His scowl melted into a reluctant half-smile. ‘And I can guess who’d get there first.’
By the time they’d reached Casey’s parked Mini Cooper, the Section’s Range-Rovers were screaming out of Lambeth Road, the lumbering Tactica in hot pursuit.
Muldoon swung out of Coldharbour Lane and into Brixton Hill.
‘Time?’ he asked.
‘Two forty-five,’ Dougan replied smugly. The precise time McGirl was due to ring the Samaritans with the Deptford bomb warning. He could imagine the growing pandemonium in the Met’s Explosive Section. He was actually beginning to enjoy this.
‘Sod it!’ Muldoon hissed.
‘What is it?’
The other man didn’t answer. He didn’t have to; Dougan could see it himself up ahead in the dazzling reflection of shop window lights on the wet street, bouncing off the gleaming bodywork of parked cars. Amongst all this he’d missed the flashing blue light and the policeman in the yellow dayglo waistcoat waving them down.
‘What are you going to do?’ Dougan breathed, the knot of terror tightening like a balled fist in his abdomen.
‘Hope the girls don’t panic,’ Muldoon replied tersely, beginning to wind down the window. ‘Let me do the talking…’
The officer wore sergeant’s stripes; he was middle-aged, his face pinched against the drizzle. ‘Out late, sir?’
‘Out early,’ Muldoon countered cheerfully. Dougan noticed there was no trace of an Irish accent, the’t’ dropped to sound like a Londoner. ‘Brick through a shop window and the place vandalised.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, as if in explanation. The policeman shone his torch on the van’s flank. ‘Oh, I see, emergency shopfitters, eh? Bloody vandals around here — our loss, your gain.’
Muldoon chuckled; he seemed genuinely relaxed. ‘What’s going on, then?’
‘Just routine. Out-of-date road fund licences and hooky goods, you know.’
I know, Muldoon thought, so what’s that bastard doing in the flak jacket, hiding in the doorway shadows with a Heckler & Koch and a firearms-unit car parked farther up? The Escort had overtaken them, had pulled in just ahead of the police vehicle. If the shit hit the fan, Moira would know what to do. Take out the man in the doorway and splatter his backup as they sat in their car, tired and bored. They would run for the getaway car, Moira covering.
‘Where are you headed, sir?’
‘Not far. Off Streatham High Road.’ Muldoon could see another officer now, looking directly at the Renault as he spoke into a radio mike, flex extending from the open window. Checking the registration number against the computer. No fears there. An identical blue Renault was owned by the genuine Stebbings company. Easypeasy.
‘Licence, sir?’
‘Sure.’
No problem. Genuine licence that would check out. The Brits were so fucking trusting on their own turf.
‘My son used to work for Stebbings.’
Sudden paralysis caught in Muldoon’s spine, spreading up to his throat and jaw. He swallowed, hard. ‘Pardon?’
‘Has old Cyril retired yet?’
A shrug. ‘No idea, I’m new.’
‘I’d better look in the back.’
Shit! ‘Sure.’ Calm.
Opening his door, taking an age. Into the wet drizzle like the clammy hand of death. Slow-motion, all the time in the world, looking ahead at the Escort, knowing that Moira would be reaching for the gun. Bizarre and unreal, his heart pounding so hard and so deep it hurt his ears as the blood thudded through the veins in his temples.
The doors creaked open; the flashlight revealed the lengths of timber, the toolbox, the sign…
‘What’s in the drum?’
‘Varnish.’ Glib. So goddamn fucking cool.
The officer on the radio nodded at the sergeant.
‘Thanks for your cooperation, sir. Watch your speed now, it’s slippery tonight.’
YEEEAH!
13
Casey tore through the deserted London streets, slipping expertly through the gears in fluid heel-toe changes at the approach to each bend, bringing on the power at the apex, straightening out the Mini Cooper with a roar from the exhaust.
‘Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?’
‘My first husband drove dragsters as a hobby. He taught me to drive, then divorced me.’ She grinned. ‘He was lucky to get out of the marriage in one piece.’
‘I can believe it.’
With Harrison navigating, they reached the corner shop in Poplar just five minutes after the Section convoy. Local police were clearing the area, attempting to hold back angry and anxious locals who were wandering around in nightdresses and pyjamas and pushing up against the cordon tapes.
Harrison pushed through the crowd, flashed his pass at the bewildered young constable.
Al Pritchard was standing by one of the Range-Rovers and saw him coming. He didn’t mince his words. ‘You know what this is, Tom? This is PIRA cocking a snook at your bloody bravado that we’ve got ‘em licked.’
Harrison smiled gently. ‘Then we’re agreed on something, Al. Poplar means nothing to them. It’s a blatant come-on.’
‘And phoned in person to your journalist lady friend.’ He almost spat the words, ignoring Casey’s presence. ‘Well, that’s it and we’ve barely ten minutes.’
‘Is the area cleared?’
Pritchard’s eyes, red-rimmed, were like chips of frost. ‘Is it fuck?’
‘What’s been found?’
‘They sent in a local constable. Thank Christ the lad had some imagination — read your friend’s articles, I imagine, found a bloody great oil drum. Front door’d been jemmied. He went in…’