For those in search of the truth.
~~~
The final book in the The Harry Fingle Collection.
~~~
‘For over four years people have wanted me dead. Why? Because I expose people who’re corrupt, immoral, paedophiles, criminals, and more. I take no prisoners, do no one favours, and dig until I expose the truth. I don’t stop until I’m done.’ Harry Fingle.
Chapter One
Pain sliced through every part of my body, like a surgeon dragging a scalpel slowly down my torso. No limb, organ, or sinew escaped. Words could not describe the agony. I wanted to scream, but my mouth stayed closed. Instead, I grunted and made odd, coughing noises from the back of my throat, and felt my own sticky saliva–smelling of blood and vomit–dribble from my mouth and down my cheeks. All around me seemed hazy: grey, like fog and mist. The vomit-inducing stench of disinfectant filled the air. Ghostly shapes wafted around in the blur. Sometimes they moved close and became still, then made a noise and went away. I had no idea where I was or what was happening. Nothing made any sense.
It’s the end of life. Death beckons. Yes, take me. I’ll put up no fight. No more pain…
~~~
‘His name is Harry Fingle. He’s forty-one.’
‘Are you his next of kin? Do you know his address?’
‘I’m just an old friend. He’s an investigative journalist for The Morning Times. He lives in Chiswick. I’ll check his address.
‘We’d been out on a bender. He’d just had some bad news and wanted someone to talk to. We had a lot to drink, and were crossing a road to make for a restaurant. He was walking behind me. I heard the roar of a car’s engine and turned to see this big, black car appear from nowhere, driving fast, and heading directly for us. I dived out of the way and tried to grab Harry, but was too late. It knocked him down, ran him over, and drove away. It was ghastly. There was blood everywhere.’ Max put his hand to his head then covered his mouth. ‘I need to sit down. I feel I’m goner be sick.’ He shook his head. ‘This is shit.’
‘Sure,’ the young, female doctor replied and ushered Max to a lone, plastic chair against the wall of the emergency reception bay where Harry had been rushed from the ambulance. ‘Here, take this.’ The doctor handed Max a plastic vomit bag. ‘Can I get you some water?’
Max stroked his beard, swept his hand through his curly, black hair, and rubbed his forehead. He looked the doctor in the eyes. ‘Will he live?’
The doctor, who was in her mid-twenties and had just graduated from medical school, touched the back of her tied-back, blonde hair, fumbled for a moment with the instruments in the top left pocket of her green, stained tunic, and looked at Max. She shrugged a little. ‘I hope so. We’ll do our best, but he’s in a bad way.’
~~~
Warm, fetid air met Max as he pushed back the door to his apartment an hour later. It was midnight. The outside temperature was 21° C. His flat–like most London properties–had no air conditioner and felt hot and stuffy. He didn’t seem to notice; he dumped his leather bag by the front door, made for the kitchen, poured a large whisky, gulped it down, poured another one, and stood staring out of the window at the clear night sky. After a short while, he walked back slowly to where he’d left his bag and retrieved his phone.
Harry’s two parents were dead. He didn’t have a brother or sister. Max knew of no other relatives. The hospital authorities had taken down Max’s contact details and said they would list him as the de facto next of kin until someone else–a blood relation–appeared. Until that happened, Max would be the first person the hospital would inform of any change in Harry’s condition. He didn’t like it. It felt like a huge pressure. He scrolled through his contacts for someone he could talk to about Harry.
Max had been living in the Middle East for several years and had only met up with Harry again two years earlier. He knew few of his close friends. He scratched his head, dug his hands into his pockets, and started to pace around the room again. He stopped and looked down at his phone.
‘Amie.’ He stared at her number. He’d had a long-standing relationship with her. She’s now married, but he said they’re still close friends and he still saw her a lot.
Max shook his head and scratched his beard. It’s too late to call her, he thought. It’ll have to wait ‘til the morning. He screwed up his eyes, pursed his lips, and stared at his phone.
‘Is that Amie?’ he asked a few minutes later.
‘Who’s that?’ a sleepy voice replied. ‘It’s past midnight. What is this? Who are you?’
‘Look, I’m sorry to disturb you. You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Harry’s. There’s been a terrible accident.’
‘What’s happened? Is Harry alright?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. He was knocked over by a hit-and-run driver earlier, and is in St Thomas’s Hospital. He’s in a bad way.’
‘Oh my God. Not again. I’m going to see him.’
‘I wouldn’t. He’s being operated on right now, and then will go into intensive care. He won’t be able to see any visitors for some time, if he…’
‘If he what?’
Max put his thumb and index finger up to his forehead and squeezed his skin a few times. ‘If he survives the operation. It’s touch-and-go.’
‘Oh my God, no. Wh–at’s ha–ppened to him?’ Amie asked.
‘He has broken both his legs, cracked some ribs, has a lacerated back, a broken wrist, smashed teeth, and many severe facial and head injuries.’
‘Oh, poor Harry,’ Amie sobbed. ‘Is he conscious?’
‘Just, drifting in and out, but they don’t think he knows what’s going on.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘About an hour and a half ago. We’d been out on a bit of a bender, and were crossing the road to go to an Indian restaurant. Harry had told me the news about his ex-friend Philip.’
Amie didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, ‘Yeah, it’s terrible, isn’t it. He’s told me. After everything Harry’s been through, and now this.
‘Who am I talking to, by the way?’
‘I’m Max, an old friend of Harry’s. We used to work together on The Morning News. Then I went off to the Middle East for some years. We met up again when I came back, two years ago.’
‘Max, yes, I know you. We met at your good-bye party when Harry and I were…’ Amie didn’t finish her sentence. She burst into tears.
‘Sorry, Max. I’ve got to go,’ she sobbed. ‘Keep me informed.’
~~~
Sally House, the young doctor who’d spoken to Max earlier, dragged herself to the room where the medical staff change and started to strip off her surgical scrubs. It was three in the morning. She should have gone off duty at 2:00 a.m., but was part of the team that operated on Harry and couldn’t leave until it was finished. She was exhausted. The surgery had been long and traumatic. Many times Harry’s blood pressure had dropped to a dangerous low, and his heartbeat became erratic and slow. She’d thought he’d die. They’d set his broken limbs, strapped up his ribs, sewed up his face, removed his damaged teeth, bandaged his lacerations, and patched up his head as best they could. He’d lost several pints of blood. An initial scan indicated that a small amount of blood had leaked into his brain. They were reluctant to operate in case he haemorrhaged, which could be fatal.
‘Hi,’ Sally said, answering her phone as she pulled it from her locker. ‘I’ll be home soon.’ She stood, dressed only in her bra and knickers, and listened to the caller, her partner, also a young doctor.
‘Yeah, you’re right. I do feel grim. I’ve just gone through my first serious op where we did our best, but I think the patient will die. I had to tell his best friend, and I think I screwed it up.’
~~~
Simon Long, Amie’s husband, was a fit man and didn’t suffer from sleepless nights. Amie and he would go to bed around 11:00 p.m., make love, and then go to sleep. They hadn’t been married for long. Most of the time it had been a blissful relationship. Once he strayed and started up an affair with someone he met at a one-day tutorial he’d been giving. She came up to him in the lunch break, asked him a questions about the course, and they stayed chatting until the afternoon session started up. She’d taken his number. When she couldn’t obtain one of the books he’d referred to, she’d called him. He’d said she could borrow his. He took it round to her flat. She was scantily dressed, and their affair started up immediately. Amie found out. She was heartbroken, and said she wanted a divorce. Simon promised never to stray again, and pleaded with her for them to stay together. They did, and seemed to repair the damage his unfaithfulness had caused.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Simon yelled as he sat up, naked, and looked at Amie’s tearstained face. ‘You’ve woken me up.’
She turned to him, pulled the duvet up to cover her breasts, and glared. ‘Harry’s likely to die.’ She put her hand up to cover her mouth. ‘He’s been run over by some hit-and-run driver.’
Simon screwed up his eyes, stared at her, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘So what’s such a big deal that someone has to call you at midnight to tell you your ex will die? Why can’t it wait ‘till the morning? Nothing you can do, apart from bawl your head off and wake me up.’
‘You bastard,’ Amie yelled, and jumped up–naked–from the bed, ran around to Simon’s side, and slapped him hard across the face. ‘I can’t believe you’ve said that. I lived with Harry for seven years; you know how much he meant to me. Yes, you came along when he’d ditched me, and were kind to me, and I fell in love with you. But to say what you’ve just said is fucking cruel and unkind. I hate you for saying it.’ Amie glared at Simon, who was nursing his face.
‘What the hell got into you to say that? Are you jealous of him? Look, the guy’s been through a nightmare over the last few years. I know he was unkind to me, but I still care for him, and we’re good friends.’
She turned away and put a hand up to her face. ‘He’ll probably be dead in the morning.’
Simon looked at Amie’s black hair, which fell on her naked shoulders. His eyes moved down her slim back to her butt. He reached up and touched her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I was a bit abrupt. Come back to bed. I understand you must be upset.’ He started to slide his hand around to her right breast.
Amie spun around and glared at him. His hand dropped away. ‘What the fuck?
‘I’ve just had some terrible news. You’re completely unsympathetic, accuse me of waking you from your beauty sleep, and when I have a go at you, you say you’re sorry, pat me like a toy, and try to pull me back into bed so you can fuck me.’ Amie took a step closer to Simon. She pointed her finger at him. ‘Go fuck yourself. I’m sleeping on the sofa.’
~~~
Len Banks, one of the longest-serving cleaners at St Thomas hospital, had changed his shift so he could work the day Harry was admitted. He was part of the hygiene team on the high-dependency ward, and was mopping the floor when Harry was brought in after surgery. Every surface in the ward was cleansed continuously to prevent bacteria spreading. It was a specialised job and Len was good at it, taking care to keep the area free from infection while ensuring none of the life-saving equipment and apparatuses was interfered with. As Harry was lifted onto a bed–attached to a range of drips, tubes, and monitoring equipment–Len moved as close as he could to catch the conversation of the medical staff gathered around.
‘Call me if there’s any change,’ the grim-faced doctor-in-charge said to the shift nurses. He shrugged and rubbed his face. ‘If he survives the next two hours, he’s a slight chance.’ He pursed his lips and tipped his head to one side. ‘It’s unlikely.’ He shrugged again. ‘Keep him comfortable.’ He closed the tablet that displayed Harry’s notes, replaced it in the slot at the bottom of the bed, turned, and walked away.
Len excused himself, walked down a couple of flights of stairs, took out his phone, and dialled a number.
‘Yes,’ a gruff voice answered.
‘It’s Len Banks. I’ve a message for the guv’nor.’
‘Your number?’
‘79804231,’ Len replied.
‘When did the queen die?’
‘Last week.’
‘What of?’
‘AIDS.’
‘What’s the message?’
‘Tell the guv’nor Fingle will die in the next twenty-four hours. Ask him when’ll I be paid?’
The phone went dead. Whoever Len had called had hung up. Len shrugged, went back to the ward, and continued his job. At 6:00 a.m., he finished his shift, left the hospital, and started to walk home, along the side of the Thames. He stopped a few times to look at the sunrise. The sun’s rays bounced off the grey City of London buildings to the east, making the river look like a mass of sparkling jewels. He would be home soon, he thought, and could tell his wife about the £10k he’d receive for providing the information on Fingle. It would pay for the cancer drug that would give his wife a few more years.
He turned right, away from the river, and up a narrow, deserted alleyway towards Southwark, where he lived. Almost immediately, he heard the sound of many pounding feet. He turned. Three large, hooded men–all dressed in black–charged at him, knocked him to the ground, and started to kick his head and stamp on his face with their heavy, studded boots. He groaned, fell unconscious, and died. One of the men leant down and looked at Len’s battered, blood-soaked face. He looked up at the other two and smiled. ‘Job done. Well done, boys, let’s go.’
***
Chapter Two
It was late August. The English summer had been exceptional. I can’t remember when we had one as warm as this. For most of the time since late May, the daytime temperature had risen to above 30°. Days were long, humid, and sticky. Although all of London’s commercial buildings had air-conditioning, hardly any homes had installed it. People just opened their windows, turned on fans, or lived outside. I was lucky. My house had tall ceilings so it stayed quite cool inside.
On the last Friday of the month I held a party. I invited Amie, her husband Simon—who I hardly knew—Max and his girlfriend, and Josh Linfield and Sian, his partner–both spooks from MI6. I was surprised Josh and Sian had agreed to come. I hardly knew them–they must have been bound to secrecy by the Official Secrets Act, as I was–but they’d said they’d wanted to come. After the scandal, nearly a year ago, when I was almost killed, and my one-time friend Philip Stacey—then head of MI6—was charged with conspiring to kill me (and recently found guilty and sent to prison), Josh had kept in touch to make sure I was okay. I suspect he did it out of guilt over what the security services had done to me over the years.
The doorbell sounded. I stood in the garden, laying-up the old, slate-topped table–my outdoor eating surface–while I kept an eye on the barbecue. I’m a bit of a purist and stick to charcoal, even though it’s a bit of a pain in the butt to light. I dumped my half-full glass of red wine on top of the slate and went to open the front door.
‘My God, you look well,’ Max bellowed as he stood back and took a long look at me before he clasped his large hand around my shoulder. ‘Who’d have guessed that we were about to give you your last rites ten weeks ago?’
‘Harry, you look great,’ his girlfriend Anna said, and came forward and kissed me on both cheeks. She was cute with short, blonde hair and a pretty, elfish face. ‘Last time I saw you, you were flat on your back, had loads of tubes attached to you, and had both your legs suspended in slings above you.’
‘Most undignified for our first meet,’ I quipped.
‘When did you come out?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday, but that’s enough about me. Come in to the garden and help yourself to a drink.’ I nodded my head towards the open back door at the end of the hall, leading off from my kitchen. ‘I’m busy with the food. If everyone else turns up on time, we should be eating about nine. It’ll be dark by then, but I’ve got some new, cool lights. They twinkle and sort of explode in a flash of light every thirty seconds, then there’s a mock burst of thunder.’
‘Sounds great. Let’s go,’ Max said, and put his arm around Anna’s bare shoulder and led the way.
~~~
By 10:30 p.m., when the night was still warm and bats swooped down through the trees, I reckoned everyone had eaten enough and drunk sufficient wine for me to ask the one question that bothered me.
‘Hey, guys.’ I waited for them to stop talking and look at me. ‘Thanks for coming, and thanks for visiting me in hospital, but I have a question I want to ask you all.’ I took a sip of wine from my glass.
‘Can any of you tell me what the hell is going on?’ I looked around the table. They all looked puzzled. Nobody seemed to understand my question or was eager to answer.
‘Okay. Let me explain. About ten weeks ago, I was knocked down and nearly killed by a hit-and-run driver.’ I looked at Max. ‘You reckon the car was deliberately going for me?’ Max nodded.
‘Apart from a very brief interview with the police in the hospital–just after I regained consciousness and was not really fit to talk–nobody has told me what happened.’ I turned to Max again and said, ‘Surely the police have asked you what you saw?’
Max flung his hands apart and made a nonplussed grimace. ‘Sure, man. They interviewed me at the time, while they were getting you into an ambulance, and then they came around a few days later and asked me to go over what I’d said at the time of the accident and sign a statement.’
‘And?’ I asked, leaning forward.
Max shrugged. ‘My statement was the same as I’d told them before: in my opinion, the car was deliberately going for you, it’s registration was,’ Max stopped and looked at his phone for a moment, ‘0V53YHJ. Here, look.’ He held his phone up. ‘I made a note. It was a big, black BMW 4x4. The driver was unrecognisable. He or she wore a black balaclava. That was it.’ Max looked at me. ‘Haven’t they told you anything else?’
‘Not a bloody squeak.’ I shrugged. ‘I wasn’t too worried at first, more concerned with getting better and being able to get out of the goddamned place. Then, as I started to feel more normal, I began to think–is anyone going to tell me what’s going on? Apart from you guys, I had no other visitors. The police didn’t come back after their first visit.’
‘What!’ Anna exclaimed. Her pretty blue eyes seemed double their normal size.
‘Yep,’ I said and nodded. ‘I didn’t want to ask any of you. It was simply too boring. You’d come along to cheer me up and help me get better. Talking about the incident would have been a real downer. Then, as it got closer to me leaving the hospital and still nobody came near me, I thought I’d ask you all at the first opportunity.’
Max leant forward, stroked his beard, frowned, and put an elbow on the table. He turned to Josh. ‘You must know something. You’re in the spook business.’
My God, I thought. I’d told Max Josh was a spy in confidence. He wasn’t supposed to broadcast it to everyone. I’d introduced him as a civil servant, working in the Home Office, which was his official cover. I looked at Josh. He was laughing.
‘Oh, come on,’ he said. ‘Who gave you that nonsense? That’s pure fantasy. I do a boring 9-5 job in the Home Office, checking visa applications.’ He turned to Max. ‘Yeah, I’d love to be a spook. Much more exciting. But they wouldn’t have me. I’m no good at keeping secrets.’ He turned to Sian. ‘Am I?’
Sian ran a hand through her short, brown hair. She’d flushed up a bit. ‘Bloody crap,’ she replied after a few seconds. ‘He can’t even keep secret what he’s bought me for my birthday.’
Max, who’d refilled his glass while Josh and Sian had been talking, turned back to face Josh. He shook his head. ‘Nobody told me about you. I’m a journalist, and we tend to know most things. You’re listed on our database as an MI6 officer. True?’
Josh laughed again, rubbing a hand through his thick, dark hair. Max was right, but Josh hid any concern he might have had well. ‘Well, that just shows how you media guys tell fairy tales and get so much wrong. I’ve never put a foot inside the MI6 building, and I guess I never will.’ He turned to Sian. ‘Same for you, isn’t it?’
‘Sure,’ she replied brusquely.
Amie, who looked stunning in a plain, black, sleeveless dress, held up by thin straps and showing a little of her cleavage, moved her head forward and stared at Josh. ‘I don’t know what any of you guys are talking about, and I don’t care who does what or who’s telling the truth.’ She stopped and turned to catch my attention, then turned back. ‘But you all know that Harry’s had a shit time over the last few years. I find it staggering that he doesn’t know a thing about the hit-and-run incident. The driver tried to kill him. It’s scandalous and shocking that the police haven’t come back to him to tell him about their investigation.’ She turned and stared at Josh. ‘What do you think? You’re…’
‘Hold on,’ Simon said, putting his hand on Amie’s arm. ‘Aren’t we all rushing to conclusions. It seems, from what Max said, that this was a hit-and-run accident. But we don’t know for certain the driver was out deliberately to kill Harry. He might have been drunk, high on drugs, and out for some kicks.’
‘Maybe,’ I quipped, staring at Simon, who’d leant forward so he hid Amie’s face. ‘But if the police had the registration and make of car, why haven’t they come back to me with some information? Even if the car had been abandoned somewhere, they could have told me.’
I grimaced and shifted in my seat. My legs–their plaster casts removed three weeks earlier–hurt. I stretched them out and faced everyone. ‘Look, I’m amongst friends. Without spelling it out, you all know what has happened to me over the last few years. MI6, the CIA, and corrupt elements of the Metropolitan Police–helped, unknowingly, by the Russian and Chinese governments–screwed me. People wanted me dead. I upset no one, just wanted to expose the truth and bring transparency to corrupt practices.’ I stopped and looked around. I had everyone’s attention, and Josh and Sian kept up their act. ‘When Philip Stacey, Alex Goad, and that murderous Russian guy Grigoriy Nabutov went to prison, I thought my nightmare was over, and I could get on living a normal life.’ I took a sip from my glass. ‘Well.’ I paused. ‘The nightmare continues.
‘Ten weeks ago, the driver of that car nearly killed me. My hunch is that he or she wanted to kill me. If the police don’t find out the truth, I will.’ I paused, scratched my head, and looked around at everyone’s expectant faces.
‘And fuck the Official Secrets Act. This time I’m goner go public.’ I rubbed my chin, stared ahead, and watched another bat scoot past Amie’s head. She leant forward and applauded.
~~~
Josh and Sian closed the door to their apartment at 1:30 a.m. Both undressed in silence. Sian put on her white bathrobe, sat at her dressing table, and started to take off her makeup while Josh went to the bathroom. She saw him return in the mirror and turned to him. ‘Are you still of the opinion that we should do nothing?’
Josh stood by the side of the bed and looked at her. ‘Yes, I am. We discussed it in the car. What’s changed?’
‘Just that I thought you might have realised that Harry is a security risk; so is his friend Max. He nearly exposed us.’
‘Oh come on. Everyone there knows we are spooks. Harry’s told them all in confidence. It’s just that we can’t admit it in public. You know that. Look, Max had too much to drink, that’s all.’
‘I don’t get it with you. You don’t seem to take this seriously. If we take risks like that, we could compromise the organisation.’
Josh took a step back from the bed. He glared at Sian. ‘So what do you think we should do?’
‘Bring Harry in,’ Sian replied. ‘Warn him that if he breaks the Official Secrets Act–as he says he’ll do–he’ll go to prison.’
‘Oh, come on. You’re kidding.’
‘No, I’m being dead serious. And we should ask to see this database that Max says he has.’
Josh shook his head. ‘That was just a ploy. He knew, by a look that Harry gave him, that he’d overstepped the mark. He was just trying to cover his tracks.’
Sian turned around from the mirror so she faced Josh. ‘So you think we should do nothing? Walk away from it as if nothing was ever said?’
Josh screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, I do, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to sleep now.’
Josh and Sian made love every night. That night was an exception.
~~~
At about half past one in the morning, I sat drinking whisky in the garden. Am I right? I asked myself. Are there still people out there who want me dead, or am I being paranoid and hysterical, suffering from some weird side effect of all the drugs they gave me in hospital?
I had never spoken to any of my friends who came for supper about the incident before. They all knew what happened. It was reported in the paper. ‘Hit-and-run driver almost kills award-winning journalist,’ was the headline in The Morning News–the paper I work for–the next day, and something similar was in most of the other papers. I’d assumed the police had been on the case, but it seemed they hadn’t, or had done a crap job.
I picked up my glass of whisky, strolled to the bottom of my garden, swigged what was left down, and left the empty glass on a bench. I made for the back door and my bedroom. It was late. I had much to do the next day.
~~~
At 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, I looked at the top of the head of the desk sergeant at Hammersmith police station. ‘Hi,’ I said to him when he looked up. I guessed, by the look of him, that he was close to retirement and working his time out doing a desk job.
‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’ he replied, looking at me in a none-too-friendly manner. He was a large guy, overweight, and had a reddish face and grey hair.
‘My name’s Harry Fingle. I live at 13 Marlborough Road, Chiswick. In June, on the 2nd to be exact, I was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver in Chiswick High Road at about 11:30 p.m. and nearly killed. Can I have some information on the case?’
The police sergeant narrowed his eyes and stared at me. I sensed he thought I’d arrived from Mars. He clasped his hands together on the desktop and continued to look at me for a moment. ‘I beg your pardon. You can’t just walk in here and demand information like that. I don’t know who you are.’ He scratched his face, just by the top of his left cheekbone.
‘Are you deaf? I said my name’s Harry Fingle. Now, please, could you look up the case and tell me where it’s got to.’
The officer frowned. ‘We don’t do it like that, sir. First you have to give us some identification, and then you have to make a formal request to see the officer handling the case. You could be anyone, walking off the street. You could even be a journalist. We have to be careful these days how much information we give the press.’
I felt as though my blood was boiling. My pulse started to race. I reached inside the back pocket of my jeans for my press card. ‘Look,’ I said, as I slapped the card down on the counter. ‘I am a journalist, and I am who I said I was.’
The sergeant flinched. He looked down at the card. ‘I see. Why do you want to know all this? Are you going to be running a story on it?’
I bit on my bottom lip, counted up to ten, and said, ‘I might be, but right now I just want to know who tried to kill me. Is that asking too much?’
The sergeant visibly gulped. He wrung his hands again. ‘I see. If you don’t mind, sir, I need to talk to someone else. Do you mind waiting for a minute? Please take a seat over there.’
‘Okay, then,’ I replied wearily, and made for where the officer had indicated. There was a coffee dispenser nearby, and I made myself a cup of cappuccino while I waited. After about five minutes, a police inspector, about the same age as me, appeared with a green file in his hand.
‘Mr Fingle. I’m Inspector Challis,’ the inspector said, and held his hand out for me to shake.
‘I’m Harry,’ I said as I shook his hand.
‘Okay, come this way, Harry. We’ll go in that small office over there.’ He led the way.
‘Take a seat.’ I looked at the black, oblong, plastic-topped table and four black, plastic chairs, moved round to the far side, and sat down. The inspector sat opposite me. He looked up.
‘You’ve got a drink, I see. Mind if I just acquaint myself with the case file?’ he said as he flipped open the green cover.
‘Go ahead.’ As he started to turn the pages, I glanced at the torn and scratched notices stuck with Sellotape on the grubby, cream-washed brick walls, the small, high windows with bars, the few shelves holding police manuals and recording equipment, and the row of hooks with police helmets and handcuffs hanging from them. I guessed it was a room used mainly for interviewing suspects and offenders.
After a few minutes, the inspector looked up at me. He was clean-shaven with tidy, brown hair, not overweight, and fit looking. He looked into my eyes. ‘It seems you had a lucky escape. The officers on the scene thought you were dead.’
‘Okay. Well I wasn’t. Enough of that. What happened? Where has the investigation got to?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr Fingle. It’s been taken out of our hands. It’s being handled now by Special Branch.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’ I demanded, and slammed my fist down hard on the tabletop.’
‘Don’t swear at me, Mr Fingle. I mean just what I said.’ He closed the file, and placed both his hands on top of it. ‘As far as this police station is concerned, the case is closed. As I said, it’s now being handled by Special Branch.’
I jumped up and glared down at him. ‘I don’t care how fucking special they are. I want to know who tried to kill me. Isn’t that my right? If you can’t tell me, get hold of…’
‘Mr Fingle,’ the inspector said as he stood up, ‘if you carry on in this threatening manner, I’ll have to arrest you for causing a disturbance.’ He looked into my eyes. ‘I suggest you leave before we have to detain you.’
***
Chapter Three
A man, about mid to late forties, walked out of Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police in Broadway, Victoria and headed up the road to the entrance of St James’s Park tube station. He wore a suit, and had short, cropped, greying hair, a taut face, and was about 1.83 metres tall. He looked fit and walked quickly. He glanced over his shoulder a few times before descending the steps at the station and mingling in with the throng of people heading for or leaving a train. He took the tube to the next stop, Victoria, where he caught an overland train to Denmark Hill station. He ran from the train and hurried down Denmark Hill Road towards Camberwell Green and to an old, housing association block of flats that overlooked the open space. He took out a key to the communal front door and opened it, bounded up the stairs to the first floor, took out another key and let himself in to Number 9. He closed the door, double locked it, slid the two bolts across, and tapped a code into a keypad that emitted a low whine as soon as he put in the last number. He rushed down the small corridor, his shoes making a noise on the bare floorboards, to the living room at the far end.
An old sofa, a couple of scratched, straight-backed wooden chairs, and a small, plastic, low-level table were the only furniture in the three-and-a-half metres long and three metres wide room. A solitary, naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling. There were no other lights, no pictures on the walls, and no ornaments. Adjacent was a small kitchen area, just over a metre long and three metres wide, separated from the main room by a breakfast bar. Three men sat on the sofa in silence and looked straight ahead. The man who’d just entered looked at them, screwed up his eyes, and stared at each of the three men for about ten seconds. His gaze finished on the last man. ‘Introduce yourself,’ he said, curtly.
‘Brett Edwards,’ the man replied. He was the oldest of all of them, late fifties, and had a full head of grey hair. He looked a little overweight, and had a reddish face. He wore a suit and tie.
The man stroked his chin and continued to stare at Brett. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Okay, Judge Brett Edwards, high court judge, you’re the replacement for Judge Beech then. You know what happened to him, don’t you?’
Brett’s eyes met the man’s. ‘You killed him.’
‘No, no, no, Brett.’ The man shook his head. ‘I don’t do things like that.’
‘Well, you arranged for him to be killed, didn’t you?’
The man gave Brett a wry smile. ‘Let’s just agree that he thought he could play games with me. You see, Brett. I’m smart. I have contacts everywhere. Judge Beech thought he could outwit me.’ The man made a mocking laugh. ‘I knew what he was trying to do.’ He turned and looked at the other two and grinned. ‘We stopped him.’ The man turned back, looked at Brett, and smiled. ‘I’m told he screamed for an hour.’
The man put both hands in his pockets, leant back on the breakfast bar, and looked at all three men in turn. Damian Hunt was a government minister responsible for work and pensions. He was in his mid-forties, 1.73 metres in height, good-looking, trim, with thinning, brown hair. He wore a suit without a tie. Grant Fields was the youngest man in the room. He was in his late thirties and was a high-flyer in the prison service, and currently the prison governor at HMP Durham. The four men were the only members of the inner circle of the biggest criminal-protection organisation in Europe, known as Zero One. It was a highly successful outfit. In return for a large, upfront sum, Zero One would ensure massive crimes went undetected, never reached court, or—if worse came to worst—the judge or jury would be nobbled and the case would either be dismissed or the accused found not guilty. It had never failed, and in the course of its ten-year existence had made vast sums of money, successfully deposited in many offshore accounts worldwide. The newcomer–the man who spoke most–called all the shots.
‘Look at it as an example,’ he said, and paused for a few seconds. ‘Okay, Brett. You know how we operate, you’ve done some work for us before, and you’ve been through our checking system. But there are just a few welcoming facts I need to tell you.’
‘Go on,’ Brett said, who seemed unmoved by the man’s threatening style.
The man reached into a casual, leather bag. He pulled out three photos. He took a pace closer to Brett and handed him the photos. Brett’s face turned pale. ‘Where did you get these?’ he asked, looking at them.
The man leant forward and touched the first photo. An attractive, fortyish, blonde woman sat by a swimming pool, naked. ‘Your wife, I understand,’ the man said, and then pointed to the other two photos, each of a pretty teenage girl, also blonde and also nude, sitting by the same pool. ‘Your twin daughters, I believe.’ The man sneered. ‘Wouldn’t do your judge’s reputation much good if the media knew that you kept pictures of your wife and daughters, naked, on your computer, would it, Brett?’
‘How the hell did you get them?’ Brett snapped, scanning each picture with a worried expression.
The man reached forward, snatched back the photos, and stuffed them back in his case. He stood up and glared down at Brett. ‘Now listen. You’ve worked for Zero for some time. You’ve passed the test. I’ve invited you to join this inner circle of the most secret and powerful organisation in Europe, possibly in the US as well. I have spent years building it up, and won’t allow it to slip out of my hands by anyone who thinks they can get one over on me. As you know, I have people working for me in the judiciary, the secret services, all the police forces, the prison service, banking, the medical profession, many businesses, and most government departments. Apart from you lot,’ he stopped and flung his hand out to point to the other two, ‘nobody else has met me. I’m known as X, and that is how it’ll remain. Understand?’
Brett nodded.
‘The pictures were pulled from your PC.’ X raised his head and stared at Brett. ‘I have complete access to your computer, and everyone’s in your family. Now you’ve joined us, you no longer have any personal secrets. They’re all mine.’
Brett gulped. ‘You’ve hacked into my PC? That’s out of order.’
‘Fucking grow up, Brett,’ X snarled.
‘But you didn’t ask my permission.’
‘No. I didn’t, and I won’t. Want to argue about it?’
Brett looked around the room and glanced at the other two men, who’d remained silent and watched on. He turned back and looked up at X. ‘No,’ he replied.
X didn’t comment. He moved to the one empty chair, opposite Brett.
‘I called you all in for two reasons. To meet Brett: we’ve done that. And to discuss an urgent matter.’ X, who’d been leaning forward with his hands clasped in his lap, looked up and at the others. ‘Harry Fingle survived the hit-and-run. How, I don’t know. He should have been killed instantly, or died in hospital.’ X shrugged and rubbed his chin. ‘But he didn’t, and he’s the biggest threat to the organisation’s existence. If he’s allowed to carry on digging the shit, he’ll expose us.’ X looked into the eyes of the three men. ‘He has to be eliminated.’ He looked around again.
‘Any ideas?’
Damian Hunt shot his hand up.
‘Go on,’ X said, and nodded at Damian.
‘A straightforward accident: like falling down an escalator at a tube station, knocked off his bike and under a bus or lorry, falling under a train, something like that.’
X made a grimace. He didn’t look convinced. ‘Yeah, possible, but it’s got to look like an accident, and it must work. He’s got to be killed outright. Work out a scheme and come back to me tomorrow with a plan.’
Damian took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. As the government minister responsible for work and pensions, the Health and Safety Executive reported to him. This gave him an insight into the many fatal injuries that happened every day in the workplace. ‘When do you want it done?’
X glanced at Damian with a withering expression. ‘ASP. Fingle’s fucking dangerous.’
‘Okay. I’ll get on with it,’ Damian said, and fiddled with the collar of his shirt.
X turned to Grant Fields. ‘Your plan.’
Grant, who was on his day off, wore jeans and a T-shirt, and coughed to clear his throat. ‘You’ll think I’m mad, but hear me out. There’s a guy in Wakefield prison called Grigoriy Nabutov.’
‘Nabutov!’ X exclaimed. ‘You’re taking the piss. He must have the record for most failed attempts on Fingle’s life. You can’t be serious.’ X shook his head. ‘Besides, he’s inside. No one’s ever broken out of Wakefield.’
‘I said hear me out,’ Grant replied sharply. ‘I could get him out. Take it from me.’
‘What! And then let him go and have another shot at Fingle and screw it up again. You must be joking.’ X shrugged. ‘Look, don’t waste our time. We’re all busy people.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve a meeting in an hour.’
‘Listen to me, X.’ Grant looked irritated. ‘We offer Nabutov a deal.’
‘Like what?’
Grant stared at X for a few seconds. ‘We tell him we’ll get him out on the condition he goes immediately to kill Fingle.’
‘He won’t buy that,’ X said. ‘From what I know about him, he likes to plan his jobs. He won’t do anything on the spur-of-the-moment, particularly with his failure record. And anyway, he’s got no escape route. He’s not going to do something that’ll land him back in jail for the rest of his life.’
‘Exactly,’ Grant replied. ‘We provide an escape route. We get him out, provide the tools, and fly him out of the country to a safe destination.’ He stopped and looked around at the other three. ‘That’s within our powers, isn’t it?’
~~~
Clad in shiny, reflective, one-way glass from top to bottom, Scotland Yard–the high-rise, sixties-style building that houses the HQ of the Metropolitan Police in London, SW1–could not be called pretty. As I pushed open one of the dark-blue, glass doors to enter, I remembered reading that the Met had agreed to move to a new, purpose-built HQ alongside the Thames, designed by the architects who’ve been commissioned to design Google’s new UK head office in London’s King’s Cross. Good move, I thought as I walked up to the reception desk and asked to see John Rogers, head of Special Branch. I’d called John just before 9:00 a.m. and said it was to do with the hit-and-run attempt on my life. He’d agreed to see me at 6:00 p.m. I was five minutes early.
‘Harry,’ I heard as I flipped through a page of a magazine while sitting and waiting outside his office. I looked up and saw him striding towards me. ‘Good to see you.’ I stood up to greet him. He clapped a hand around my shoulder.
‘Sit down. I’ll join you,’ he added, and sat down in one of four squat, leather chairs that sat in a square formation opposite his office door.
I’d first met John about a year previously when a Special Branch team had saved my life and exposed Philip Stacey, my ex-friend and once head of MI6, as having conspired to murder me. For some reason, I’m not sure why, John had stayed in touch with me, and called me from time to time to check I was okay. He knew I was pretty shaken up by Philip’s deceitful behaviour, and he probably knew how the secret services had treated me two years back. I figured he felt those in authority owed me one and took it upon himself to try to rebuild my confidence in their integrity.
‘So what can I do for you?’ he asked me, ‘I hear you had a near escape again.’
‘Exactly that. I’ve just come out of hospital and want to know if the police have found out who it was who tried and failed to top me again.’ I looked across and into his eyes. ‘All the villains who wanted me dead–you know: Nabutov, Goad, Richard Morecombe, Drago the Serbian, and that guy Ed something–are either locked up or dead. I’m intrigued as to who I’ve upset this time.’
‘Who wouldn’t be? But I’m not sure how I can help.’
‘Well,’ I said and narrowed my eyes, ‘I went to Hammersmith police station on Saturday, started to ask about the case, and a dick of an inspector told me to shove off, or he’d arrest me for causing a disturbance, and anyway, he said the case had been handed over to Special Branch.’ I smiled. ‘So, I guessed as you’re the boss of the outfit, you’d be able to give me some info.’
‘Really, well I’ll be damned. That’s news to me.’ He ran a hand through his short-cropped, greying hair and looked at me. ‘Leave it with me, Harry; I’ll find out for you.’
‘Okay, but tell me: why would a simple hit-and-run case that happened in the Hammersmith area be pulled from the local boys and then handled by you guys? Surely you’ve much more important things to do, like catching terrorists, cyber crooks, and the like?’
‘I don’t know, Harry, but I’ll find out,’ John replied, turned away, and looked out of the window.
‘So can I call you tomorrow?’ I asked and noticed a fleeting look of concern on John’s face.
‘Look, John. I know you’re a busy guy, and I’m grateful for you seeing me at such short notice, but I’m kinda getting bored and pissed off. The police at the scene of the accident were given the make and registration number of the car that hit me.’ I looked straight at him. ‘Since then, nobody has told me a thing about it. Wouldn’t you be getting pissed off?
‘This time,’ I said without giving John a chance to answer me, ‘I’m not stopping until I find out what the fuck is going on. Official Secrets Act or no Official Secrets Act, it’s all coming out.’ I shot John a glance. He was staring at me with a frown and screwed-up eyes. ‘You’re goner help me on that, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. I completely understand. Call me tomorrow about this time. I’ll have some answers for you. Now, if you don’t mind. I have to get to another meeting.’
***
For more go to Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Zero-One-Harry-Fingle-Collection-ebook/dp/B00HRWMHI2/
www.nickwastnage.com