State Sponsored Terror Read online

‘This is Eve,’ said Stig, and several of the others mumbled, ‘Hi, Eve.’

  ‘You better come and get it,’ shouted the same guy, ‘before it all goes into these greedy pigs. We’ve been up the store.’

  There was a mixture of boys and girls and most of them were about Joss’s age, and it turned out, they really had been to the store, the local red white and blue hypermarket, from where they had returned laden with goodies. The four sitting munchers made room for the newcomers, pulling up extra crates.

  Joss glanced at the table. In the quarter light she saw it was heaving with ridiculous stuff. A pumpkin, two leaking bags of flour, three thick cut white sliced loaves, each eaten down to a half, a pack of scouring pads, five uncooked pork chops, a tub of stinking coleslaw, and some blackening bananas.

  ‘You nick this stuff?’ said Joss.

  ‘Do you mind!’ said the leader of the gang, jumping on his high horse. ‘We ain’t thieves, you know, missy Eve; we raided the skip at the back, the past its sell by date skip. There’s nothing wrong with any of it.’

  Stig knelt closer and sniffed the chops.

  ‘They smell all right,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do with ’em?’

  ‘Roast them of course, Jacksie’s setting a fire, aren’t you Jacksie, his speciality see.... fires.’

  Another guy in the corner turned toward them and grinned stupidly through gapped front teeth. Joss had never seen anyone look so thin before, outside of a television set. He looked about thirteen.

  ‘Are we safe here?’ she said, to anyone who would answer.

  ‘Should be tonight,’ said Stig.

  ‘Why tonight?’

  ‘Because they bust these arches once a week; and they did that last night.’

  ‘What happens to the people they catch?’

  ‘Depends what they are wanted for, don’t it,’ said the leader. ‘What are you wanted for?’

  ‘Nottin’,’ said Joss, slipping easily into street language.

  ‘Nottin’ my arse.’

  ‘Leave her alone, she’s all right,’ said Petal.

  ‘Almost forgot,’ said the leader, ‘got you this, Pig,’ and he reached down and picked up something from below the table, and tossed it across to Stig.

  ‘What the hell?’ shouted Stig, catching the missile.

  ‘It’s a coconut,’ said the leader; ‘can’t stand the bloody things.’

  ‘I love coconuts,’ said Joss.

  ‘Do ya?’ said Stig, tossing it to Jacksie. ‘Open that, ballbag,’ he said to the wraithlike kid. ‘Give a big piece to Miss World here.’

  Jacksie grinned and spitefully smashed the nut on the rutted concrete floor so hard the milk splashed every which way. He thought it hilarious. The others did not.

  ‘You can be a knob sometimes,’ said the leader.

  Jacksie nodded his agreement, and began nibbling a piece of coconut like a ravenous rat.

  BACK IN BOURNEMOUTH, Adam had wolfed down the pasties by the time he arrived at Hobson Street. It was dark in the road, and there were no lights on in the house. The building was a former semi-detached council house bought by the owner’s years before under Mrs Thatcher’s right-to-buy scheme.

  In the intervening time it hadn’t changed one iota. To the left side of the house was a recently erected garden shed. Adam hurried down the path and hid behind the shed and waited. The temperature was plummeting, his breath marking the passing of the seconds. Out in the cold, time passes so slowly. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

  He heard the clink of the low metal front gate. What now, he thought, jump out and surprise them, or wait and knock later? He reminded himself that her father was a copper, and no matter how much the guy might hate the Spittle, his loyalties would be tested to the extreme if he knew that Adam had stabbed Smeggan in the eye. Adam could not resist a smile, as he remembered a picture of that dark chocolate dagger, as if it was growing out of the bastard’s face. That image would remain with him forever, locked together for all eternity, with the picture of his mother lying dead on the grass. He would wait, bide his time, give them a chance to settle in. He would knock at the house in ten minutes.

  Those ten minutes dragged by. Now or never, he thought, for he was growing colder by the second. He crept from his hiding place and sloped around to the front of the house. To the right of the front door was a luminous green bell. He poked it once with a shaking skinny finger, and a cacophony of sound rang through the house. The door was semi-glazed with clouded rippled glass, and through it he could see someone coming down the hall. It was Susie. He was sure of it. She opened the door. She was chewing a crust of fresh bread.

  Adam looked at her hopefully, and tried to smile.

  It took her all of three seconds to recognise the kid, Adam grateful to see that welcoming smile.

  ‘Well if it’s not the man with the hole in his jeans,’ she said.

  Adam smiled again. There was something about him that melted women’s hearts; even Liz Mariner had noticed that. It was a priceless skill that Adam had not yet quite perfected, though he was a willing learner, and improving all the time.

  ‘I’ve nowhere to go,’ he said, like a character from Oliver Twist.

  She half closed the door to stop their conversation entering the house.

  ‘You in trouble?’

  Adam nodded.

  ‘You can’t come in, my dad’s a policeman.’

  ‘I know, you told me.’

  ‘SPATs after ya?’

  Adam nodded again.

  ‘Thought as much.’

  She put her finger to her mouth and thought for a second. ‘You can stay in the shed, if you want.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, ‘good one.’

  She reached back inside and grabbed a key from the carved wooden barge of key hooks that sat to one side of the hall. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘Dad will be going up the club in an hour or so, I’ll come and bring you something to eat when he goes out, and some blankets.’

  ‘Nice one,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘You’re welcome.... Adam Rexington, but it will cost ya.’

  THE ACCOMMODATION UNDER the arches stank, a combination of pot, urine, body odour, diesel, and vomit, but it was home for the night, and Joss gratefully accepted a moth eaten old blanket that had once belonged to a tramp who had died under it during one recent cold spell. She shook it vigorously, hoping to dislodge any fleas, before settling down. The trains above seemingly never stopped, rumbling and bumbling along, but neither Joss nor any of the others cared about that. The air may have been rancid, but it was warm under the arches, and for that one night, or so Joss promised herself, it was home.

  Just as it was in the timber shed in Hobson Street for Adam, where after consuming a thick bacon sandwich, he snuggled down under three clean blankets. The food and clothing had come at a price. Susie demanded, and after some good natured bantering, received several hot snogs, something that Adam was happy enough to deliver, until she suddenly pulled herself away and ran outside, departing with a giggle. Wasn’t that girls all over?

  He lay on his back and turned off the torch she had thoughtfully provided, and in the darkness re-ran the day through his head. It had begun in custody on trumped up terrorist charges, and had ended with him being a wanted cop killer, a man with a huge price on his head, a man with the hangman loitering in the shadows, and yet oddly, he was happier now than he had been since the day of his mother’s brutal slaying. He was indeed a killer, a murderer, an infamous terrorist whose face was lighting up every TV set, every computer screen, every mobile phone, in the land. But he no longer cared. He would sleep easy, and he did.

  Forty

  ELIZABETH MARINER PLOUGHED her way through the staff assessment reports. It was her least favourite duty. As ever, she was behind with them, and had ordered Molly to give her a free hour. The one report she had completed with some relish had been Jarvis Smeggan’s, and now that had been made totally redundant, thanks to the innovative action of the y
oung Goodchild.

  She smiled inwardly, for in a way, she had supplied the weapon.

  The moment she met that kid she instinctively knew he was a special talent. She prided herself on her intuition, and had been as right with him as she had with Smeggan himself, albeit coming from opposite corners. It wouldn’t stop her pursuing Adam Goodchild with all the resources at her disposal, and if that resulted in his ultimate conviction and hanging, then so be it. He had freely decided his own path. He wasn’t a child any more, despite his frail body. He must be brought to book. No one would murder a SPATs officer on her beat, and get away with it. No one.

  Someone tapped on her office door and came in without waiting to be invited. It was a breathless Molly.

  ‘Call for you on line eight, ma’am.’

  ‘Didn’t I say to hold my calls and give me an hour?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, sorry ma’am, but I thought you would want to take this one. It’s 10 Downing Street, ma’am.’

  ‘Downing Street?’ said Liz, setting down her pen.

  ‘Yes ma’am, the Prime Minister, herself.’

  ‘Mrs Bletchington?’

  Molly nodded, her eyes bulging.

  ‘OK, you were right, leave me, close the door.’

  Molly nodded again, and ran outside. Liz took a breath, a slight cough, and picked up the phone and pressed button eight.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Commander Mariner?’

  It was a man’s voice, perhaps a secretary, a civil servant, Cabinet member, who knows what? Not a voice she had ever heard before.

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘I have the Prime Minister on the line, please hold.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Liz counted. Ten seconds, twenty, then: ‘Is this Commander Elizabeth Mariner?’

  It was unmistakeably Mrs Bletchington, that clear diction, that never doubting tone, that aura of command.

  ‘It is,’ said Liz, standing up.

  ‘Elizabeth, it’s Thelma Bletchington speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bletchington.... Prime Minister.’

  ‘Call me Thelma, please.’

  ‘As you wish, Prime Minister.’

  ‘I’d like you to come up to town and see me, could you fit me in?’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Say tomorrow? Around noon, come for lunch, just a light informal effort.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mrs Bletchington, Thelma, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good, we’ll see you then, at number 10.’

  ‘Yes ma’am, I look forward to it.’

  THE LINE WENT DEAD leaving Liz staring at the phone. Could it have been a hoax? Surely not. Those commanding tones of Thelma Bletchington’s were unmistakeable. But so distinct were they, they had become the target of every mimicking alternative comedian in the kingdom. Later, Liz ordered Molly to ring Downing Street and check the arrangement. Molly came back grinning and nodding.

  ‘It’s real, all right,’ she gasped, ‘I wonder what she wants.’

  Good question, thought Liz.

  EARLIER THAT DAY AT 7am, Jemima Cornelius had been arrested at her home. In due course, once the CPS had seen the papers ranged against her, she would be charged under the Terrorism Act. No bail was ever granted on such charges. As before, the SPATs had no call on Eve. She was not detained, nor even questioned, and after school, remembering everything her mother had told her, she took Donald round to Auntie Mary’s.

  It turned out she was expected.

  That evening, Eve made her way back to the house. The Edwardian building seemed so much larger than before, quiet and cold. No one wants to return to a silent and empty building alone, and Eve knew she could not accept that situation for long.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a pristine black Rover saloon built at the vast new steel and glass modern manufacturing plant, a complex sponsored by the government, and thrown up on a green field site midway between Birmingham and Coventry, cruised to a standstill in front of the Bournemouth SPATs building.

  ‘Your car’s here,’ trilled Molly.

  ‘Don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ said Liz, gathering her bag and things together. ‘I’ll ring you when I get the chance.’

  ‘Good luck, ma’am,’ said Molly, standing to one side, as Liz hustled from her office. It was a quarter past nine.

  The journey to London was fast and uneventful. Liz sat back and closed her eyes and pondered the reason for being summoned to the capital, by the PM herself. She came up with any number of potential reasons, yet they all seemed equally implausible.

  Once in the city, the car parked round the corner from Number 10, where it was ordered to remain by heavily armed regular police. Minutes later, Liz was escorted along Downing Street, and in the next moment she was sitting alone in a side room, waiting to be summoned. A few minutes after that, a young woman came for her and showed her upstairs.

  ‘The Prime Minister will be with you shortly,’ she said haughtily, before adding almost as an afterthought, ‘Latest protocol suggests you might like to kiss the PM’s hand.... it’s up to you,’ and with that, she left Liz alone.

  The room was large and square and lavishly furnished. The walls were covered with nineteenth century oil paintings, pictures that Liz could only guess at their value. A moment later the far door opened and as Liz turned round, the Prime Minister entered, accompanied by a tall broad man.

  ‘Elizabeth Mariner,’ the PM gushed, crossing the room. ‘Thank you so much for coming at such short notice.’ Mrs Bletchington held out her hand, not sideways as one might expect for a handshake, but palm down. Liz gently took the hand and stooped and kissed it. It was a first for her.

  ‘My pleasure, Prime Minister,’ she said, nervously.

  ‘Call me Thelma, I insist.’

  ‘Whatever you say, ma’am.... Thelma.’

  ‘Come, let us sit,’ and she beckoned Liz to a small circular table that was be-decked in antique Honiton lace. They sat opposite one another and shared smiles. The muscular man dressed in suit, shirt and tie, stood in front of the door, his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed straight ahead, like a Buckingham Palace guard.

  ‘I have been studying your records,’ said Thelma. ‘Your career to date, you have done so well in such a short time.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘SPATs Southern Area Commander now, no less.’

  ‘That is correct ma’am. I have been most fortunate.’

  ‘Now come on, it’s Thelma, I insist on it, at least in our private discussions.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.... Thelma.’

  ‘You are enjoying your work?’

  ‘Yes, very much.... Thelma.’

  ‘Your staff appraisal reports have been truly excellent.’

  Liz wondered who had been filing such reports.

  ‘That is gratifying to know.’

  ‘I was particularly impressed with your work on that undercover operation you did, it sounded so exciting, Martin Reamse wasn’t it?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And he is now in custody?’

  ‘He is, ma’am.’

  Thelma gave her a mild rebuking look.

  ‘Thelma,’ Liz corrected herself.

  ‘It must have been hard for you.’

  ‘It was, but in the end there was no choice to make.’

  ‘I would say you served your country above and beyond the call of duty, sleeping with a terrorist in that fashion.’

  Liz remembered her time with Martin with mixed feelings. It had not all been so dreadful, as some people might have imagined, but Liz wasn’t going to correct any misunderstanding. She glanced across at the hunk standing by the door, and wondered what his duties entailed.

  ‘You have impressed a lot of important people, Elizabeth, in a short period of time. We have discussed you in some detail in Cabinet and no one spoke out against you.’

  Where was all this leading? pondered Liz.

  ‘Sir Robert is unw
ell, but I expect you know that.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Liz, with genuine surprise.

  Sir Robert Blake was the overall controller of the SPATs. He had monopolised the post since the force had been created, indeed he had single-handedly bullied the service into becoming the efficient and feared organisation it was.

  ‘Bowel cancer,’ continued Thelma, pulling a strange face in the process, as if it might be contagious.

  ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The thing is, he will take some following.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine he will.’

  ‘Fancy the job?’ said Thelma.

  Liz’s mouth involuntarily fell open. Was this a job offer, or simple speculation?

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Liz, re-gathering herself. ‘Anyone would jump at the opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Thelma, glancing back at the man as if for inspiration.

  ‘Do you think you could handle it?’

  ‘I would give it my best shot.’

  ‘I am sure you would. I have taken advice from several people who know you well. They have all been singing your praises. Not one of them said they thought the position beyond you.’

  ‘That is gratifying.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d like to know. The thing is, there are some difficult times coming up. It is essential I have someone in that position I can trust implicitly.’

  ‘My loyalty to the Party, the government, and to you Prime Minister, has been total.’

  ‘Yes, exactly, my thoughts, entirely. I know that. You would not be sitting here if it were otherwise.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘It would mean moving to London.’

  ‘Not a problem. I am always prepared to relocate, wherever my career takes me.’

  ‘You have no ties?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Good, that’s excellent. As I was saying, we have some difficult hurdles to surmount.’

  ‘In what area?’

  ‘Bloody general election,’ she said, taking a handkerchief from her bag, and gently blowing her nose. ‘I’ve put it off for long enough. I won’t be able to cancel the damn thing indefinitely.’