Smokescreen Chapter 4

The Number Six was almost deserted. Woodbine was polishing a glass, a roll-your-own stuck to his bottom lip. Not a papiros: it was real cigarette paper, not newspaper or Izal toilet roll. We paid plenty for the drinks in the Number Six.

‘Harry, Ray.’ A nod: talkative for Woodbine.

'2 Guinness and whatever Ray’s having.’

A lip-twitch, not quite a laugh: a tiny victory in the war against Woodbine’s inscrutability.

I wiped the bitter froth from my upper-lip. Harry used his lizard tongue to clean his.

‘Stick the telly on, Woodbine.’

‘What for?’ he said.

‘Heard the news? The PM.’

‘Oh him. What’s the diff, eh? There’ll be another one along,I ain’t voted since ’97.’

‘Shame on you.’

I wagged a finger at him. The twitch came again. Last year’s election was the first time the Met had been called on to ‘escort’ voters to the booths. 85 % turn out in the Metropolitan area: the experiment would spread to the rest of England, next time. Didn’t matter, there was only the Tony Party to vote for.

Woodbine zapped the remote.

‘And now to Downing Street for a statement from the Foreign Secretary…’

‘Jackie’ Carlton appeared. Pinstripe tailored suit. Late 40’s, well preserved. I found her sexy. Liked the aura of authority she wore so easily. The North-East accent was a turn-on too. Born in Ashington, some Central Office wag had dubbed her Jackie after Blair had asked her if she was related to the footballing brothers. It stuck: didn’t hold her back. Maybe Blair had been right, details don’t matter.

‘As you may know, the PM is no longer with us. Circumstances of his death are unclear, but the Cabinet Office are being kept abreast of events by Assistant Chief Constable Pressley of the Metropolitan Police, Head of a specially constituted Task For-‘

I missed the next few seconds. Harry looked like a ghost. Woodbine raised his eyebrows:

‘Another drink?’

‘Long Island Iced Tea.’ Harry was fucking weird.

Whiskey, Woodbine. Double.’ I said.

Carlton was taking questions from pet reporters now.

‘Foreign Minister, can you explain why you are pro tem leader of the government when the constitution clearly calls for the Home Sec-‘

‘There are special circumstances which we are unable to reveal at this time.’

She seemed to be looking behind the camera for… What? Encouragement, confirmation… clues?

‘Minister, is there any truth in the rumour that Martial Law is about to be declared?’

‘The Cabinet Office have been in discussion with the Chiefs-Of-Staff, yes, but no decision has been made at this time.’

‘One more thing-‘

A suited lackey stepped forward,

‘That’s all. No more questions at this time.’

He escorted the Minister out of shot.

‘Ray.’ Harry looked at me like a Bloodhound at the vet’s.

‘What?’

‘I’m going back to the station and I’m putting in a leave pass. Or I’m going sick. I’ve got kids.’

I exhaled. Savoured the Guinness and whiskey breath.

‘Yeah… you do that. I’ll drop you off.’

‘What about you?’

‘My kid doesn’t like me.’ I said.

 

Harry waved on his way out of the station yard. I hoped the tube was running far enough out for him today. I ran up the station steps. The sergeant on the desk was Gina. Gina Douglas. Everyone called her Gina Gina.

‘Gina G…Sarge. Anything for me?’ I said, praying for a no.

‘The Super, the Super’s looking for you. Looking for you.’

‘Yeah…I’ll call his office.’ I waggled my mobile at her.

‘He said straight to him. Straight to his office he said.’

‘You could say you hadn’t seen me?’

‘I could, Inspector, yes I could.’

A meaty hand slapped on the desk. ‘But ye won’t, so ye won’t!’

Gina was stunned beyond all repetition. I followed the arm up the uniform sleeve towards the silvered symbols on the epaulette. Above the thick neck was the blocky and ever-reddened face of Superintendent Doug McCracken. McCrackers was his inevitable nickname. Always angry, prone to prolonged and colourful outbursts of swearing, everyone in the Station was terrified of him. Me included.

‘Sir, I was just going..’

‘No you weren’t, you fucking lying Prod.’

I braced myself for a flood of obscenities. They didn’t come.

‘Right, my office now.’

I followed meekly up the fire exit stairs. The lift was out of order, again. McCrackers was causing sparks with the metal in his heels. Maybe a fire would start and I’d escape.

The Super’s office was on the same floor as the ACC’s. Smaller, dirtier and more impersonal than Elvis’s, it was more intimidating all the same. A postage-stamp window’s view was obscured by a Venetian blind that hadn’t moved in a decade. A pull on the string and every blade would have cascaded to the grubby lino floor. I sat in the plastic and tubular steel chair opposite McCrackers. He steepled his fingers, breathed in deeply; maybe 10 breaths.

‘Anger management. Valuable tool.’

‘Yessir.’

He glared at me over the steeple. A wrathful God eying the Godless outside his church.

‘Don’t take the piss out of me. Inspector Murray. You Hun scum are all the same.’

‘I support St Johnstone, sir.’

‘Even worse! Ye won’t even tayek saides. Yer not whyze.’

McCracker’s Belfast bollocks got stronger and stronger the angrier he got. I wondered how to defuse the situation.

‘What’s this about, sir?’

‘That fucking politician!’

‘I can explain…’

‘What the fuck are you on about? What have you got to do with the ACC swanning off to Westminster on a special Task Force? Are you in charge of the Met now? You scunner! Are ye takin’ the piss?’

He loomed over the desk. No wonder the Irish Rugby Union had sent a letter to tell him he wouldn’t be representing his country. There’d been an unfortunate incident in the Met versus Combined Services match in 1991.

‘Nothing, sir. Nothing.’ Maybe the Super had caused Gina’s verbal tic.

‘Anyway, Pressley’s asked for a DI. I’m sending you. You’ll tell me what’s going on, that smarmy bastard. He’s a fockin’ creep, I tell ye. Even at Hendon. He knows fockin’ nothin’ aboyt polace work.’

He swept his in- and out-trays off the desk. I realised why the furniture was so cheap in his office.

‘Right sir, Right. I’ll be going. Where is the Operations Room for the Task Force?’

He started to laugh. Looked almost human.

‘Ye’ll like it fine. They’ve set up in the House Of Commons Bar.’

That was my cue. I left.

 

It looked like you’d imagine it. Dark wood panelling, brass fittings on the bar. Portraits of long-dead politicians on the walls. Tables had been shoved together. Laptops were connected up in an impromptu network. The ACC was sitting on one of the velvet covered banquettes in conversation with a suit. Not a good suit. Civil - or Secret - Service I guessed. There were about 3 uniforms excluding Elvis’s: 5 CID including me. A pretty pathetic Task Force. I stood at the bar waiting to come into Pressley’s eye-line. The bar wasn’t open. Pity.

‘Murray! Here.’

He patted the velvet beside him. Back to avuncular. You couldn’t trust some ‘Uncles’ though, could you?

‘Sit, sit.’ He was almost jovial.

‘What is it then? A murder, suicide, act of God, what?’

‘Oh, it’s foul play alright.’

‘All sewn up already, sir?’

He smiled, I wondered about his Uncle act again. ‘You might say that,’ he said.

‘What do I do, then?’

‘I knew he’d send you, you know.’

He rubbed his hands down his cheeks, shook his head, as if to clear his ears, mind - or even conscience.

‘I’m counting on you to know what to do, when it’s time. Meanwhile, get the bar open. Enjoy yourself.’

‘But, sir, what about the investigation?’

‘It will be satisfactorily concluded, don’t worry.’

I half expected him to rub a finger along the side of his nose.

‘So what do I do?’

‘You’ll do what you normally do, I imagine.’

I turned to the barman who’d appeared behind the gleaming brass pump.

‘Give me a half.’

‘What would sir like? We have Guinness, Old Peculier -very popular with the members- German Lager, French, Belgian…?’

‘One of everything, give me one of everything. It’s going to be a very long day.’

My mobile beeped. An SMS. Obviously not urgent. The Short Message Service could deliver in seconds, hours or even weeks. Coverage dropped out, messages queued for days, servers went down and looters took down the masts in the dead of night to sell the metal for scrap. Police officers carried mobiles because it was procedure, a relic from when things like that actually worked as advertised. I thumbed the buttons. Harry Xeno’s number.

’12.00.Get to a TV.’

It was 11.55. I snapped at the Barman to turn the TV on. He looked blank.

‘Go on, I know you’ve got one under the counter, for when it’s slow.’

It was a guess, but a good one.

‘In a few moments we’ll be going live to the nerve centre of the Police Task Force investigating the PM’s sudden death. We have news of a high-profile arrest’

There was a commotion, Kilgour, the Home Secretary came in, a uniform either side of him. The press were behind, TV and print. Kilgour was grinning.

‘And now live to Task Force Central in Westminster…

A TV reporter in front of the Palace of Westminster started up in that earnest, pompous voice they save for disasters and world exclusives.

‘In a dramatic development in the investigation the Home Secretary has today been called in to the Task Force HQ to help the Police with their enquiries…’

The TV switched to a shot of a marked car arriving. Kilgour was frog-marched into the building. The BBC as usual were pretending everything was live: they cut to the reporter.

‘A police spokesman has declined to comment…’

I looked over at Kilgour. He and Elvis were chatting over on the velvet.

The press having turned up were huddled just inside the door, not sure what to do. A few looked impatient; old enough to remember what a D-notice was, but the majority were just waiting for someone in government to tell them what to report. ‘Needles’ Sharpe from the Standard was chewing a biro. I waved him over.

‘Drink, Needles?’ I pointed at my row of half-pints.

‘Don’t mind if I do? Cheers, Ray.’

He necked the Guinness in a oner, smacked his lips.

‘Fuckin’ lovely. Even better when the Bill pays.’

‘This one’s on the Government, Needles.’

‘Shit, We’ll pay for it sooner or later, then.’

‘I was just thinking the same myself.’

Needles nickname wasn’t just down to his surname. Earlier in his career, he had been noted for always getting the Politicos to say the wrong thing, needling them until the mask slipped and they said something they might actually believe. MPs would see him in the Press Gallery and find a reason to talk to the Guardian or the Independent – or even Woman’s Own. He didn’t look so scary: stood about 5’5”. His shirt was hanging out, a denim Jacket was mis-buttoned about half-way up and there was a dark patch on the front of his chinos. I liked him; there was still enough of the reporter in him to make him worth talking to.

‘What do you know, Needles?’

I ushered him further towards the corner of the bar, pushing half pint glasses along the surface.

‘I know not to trust the filth.’ He smiled, showing crooked, stained teeth.

‘Not even a fellow smoker?’ I asked.

‘Especially them.’

‘Thing is… I’m not sure what I know either.’

‘Want to talk about it?’ The teeth appeared again.

‘Yeah, only… confidential. Could be an exclusive in it for you.’

He started a laughing fit then… it bubbled out of him, he couldn’t contain it. He laughed like a man who hadn’t laughed in half a lifetime. Perhaps he hadn’t. He got control of himself:

'Just who would print it, eh?'

‘I don’t know. One of the European dailies?’

‘It would have to be a hell of a story, wouldn’t it? I mean, if it’s about this lot, I couldn’t come back, could I?’

‘Can’t talk here, Needles. Eleven, tonight. Slug and Lettuce, Canary Wharf, bring some Euros. Or put me on expenses.’

The laughing started once more: even harder, as if he was frightened he never would again.