Agent of the State (35 page)

‘Ms Weatherall, hope you’re well? I’m afraid I’m calling for a favour. You have a chap called John Kerr on your books, a career Special Branch detective chief inspector. Expert in highly sensitive investigations, from what I hear.’

Weatherall shifted in her seat. ‘We’re the SO15 Intelligence Unit now.’

‘Of course,’ said Theo Canning, his voice smooth as velvet. ‘I was wondering if you could bear to lose him to me for a couple of months?’

‘A secondment, you mean?’

‘An integrity issue has raised its delicate head in my Agency and I need a trusted specialist from outside to help me nip it in the bud.’

‘That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.’

‘Just the month, then? Paula, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry, Sir Theo, but I can’t help. I’ve just assigned him to a new position within SO15.’

‘Really? Something more important than our collective fight against corruption?’

Weatherall could feel her face reddening. She imagined Donna outside, listening to every word. ‘Not exactly, but I have to consider what is right for his career development.’

‘Difficult for an officer who punches so far above his weight, and for that alone I believe this would be a great opportunity all round. He’d be acting superintendent over here, so you could make him substantive on return, if you wanted to. Isn’t that right?’

‘It’s not quite as easy as that,’ Weatherall replied defensively. ‘There are processes, Sir Theo, as I’m sure you appreciate. Dotted-line responsibilities to reassign. Our modernised counter-terrorism arrangements are really quite complex.’

‘But this is an issue you might feel able to revisit?’

‘I’ll give it some thought,’ Weatherall said, cursing herself for sounding so flustered and browbeaten. ‘I’ll speak with HR and get back to you.’

‘That’s really decent of you,’ said Canning, as if giving his consent. ‘Any chance of a decision by close of play today?’

Weatherall heard herself mumble something about not being able to give guarantees, but by now Canning was talking as if it was a done deal. ‘Paula, that’s terrific,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be very much in your debt. Have a lovely weekend. Hope to catch up soon.’ By the time Weatherall had marshalled her thoughts to recover lost ground the line was already dead.

In the adjacent office Kerr’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Policy Unit? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I mean, you are joking, aren’t you?’

Ritchie leant forward. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up in combative mode, anticipating Kerr’s reaction. ‘I tried to warn you but you never switch to ‘Receive’, do you?’

‘Powerpoints, organograms and Excel bloody spreadsheets? Bill, when was I ever Mr Pie Chart? This is a fucking punishment posting.’

‘You said it.’

‘I’ve always been operational, you know that. Front line. Up to my neck in muck and bullets.’

‘And often charging down some dead end of your own making.’

Speechless, Kerr shook his head at the absurdity of what he had just heard. He swallowed hard to control his anger and keep his voice calm and controlled. ‘Meaning Ahmed Jibril?’

‘You’ve caused everyone a massive amount of grief.’

‘Eleven people are dead, Bill, including three of our own. Don’t talk to me about grief until you’ve been to visit the families.’

‘You really are so far up yourself,’ said Ritchie, kicking a chair over towards Kerr. ‘And sit down when I tell you to. You told us you returned Jim Metcalfe’s Dragstone database intact. But you opened it, didn’t you? Copied the info?’

‘Of course I did,’ said Kerr, rapidly calculating how Ritchie knew this and whether he needed to protect Alan Fargo. ‘Collecting relevant intelligence was always our job as Special Branch officers, Bill, or have you forgotten?’ He reversed the chair and sat down, leaning on the backrest. ‘But now you mention it, why the hell were MI5 tasking the Bellies at Paddington Green? Metcalfe couldn’t wait to tell me.’

‘MI5 have the lead and choose the targets. You know that as well as I do.’

Kerr’s BlackBerry buzzed and he quickly checked the text while speaking. It was a meeting request in his calendar from Theo Canning for two o’clock, ‘Somewhere neutral. Please call.’

‘So who gave the order to release Jibril so soon?’

‘I don’t know. But you should never have taken Jibril on,’ said Ritchie, reaching for his pile of paperwork. ‘Discussion over.’

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, actually,’ said Kerr, pressing ‘Accept’. He hesitated, still unsure how much to reveal. ‘I believe another attack is already planned, and letting Ahmed Jibril loose was a monumental screw-up.’ He searched for some understanding in his boss’s face, but saw only anger. ‘You’ve got to place him under surveillance.’

‘No,’ said Ritchie. ‘I have to follow the rules. Jibril is a free man. Finch let him go.’

‘With MI5 all over him, which stinks.’

‘But is nothing to do with us. And I’m certainly not going head to head with Derek Finch.’

‘Jobsworth bullshit.’

‘Like it or lump it,’ said Ritchie. ‘Finch is head honcho and you’re a chief inspector who needs to wind his neck back in. Paula thinks you’re a maverick and she wants you here where she can keep an eye on you.’

‘Paula?’ asked Kerr, looking quizzical. ‘Very cosy. Do you know what they called her in her last job?’

‘Be very careful . . .’

‘‘‘Tsunami’’. Arrived without warning, fucked everything up and disappeared. Oh, and I’ve been burgled, by the way,’ he said, before Ritchie could react. ‘Followed as well, but not very professionally. Trace comes back to the Anti-corruption Unit. Now why would the rubber-heelers be interested in me?’ Kerr waited a moment, but Ritchie’s expression was unreadable. Reaching into his pocket, he threw one of the microphones on the table. ‘Let’s try this, then. It’s more sophisticated than your standard Metcrap anti-corruption issue, so who else has me in the frame?’ He paused again, watching for Ritchie’s reaction. ‘Is that a look of surprise or guilt, Bill? Why don’t we go and see the commander now, ask “Paula” if she can enlighten both of us? Why can’t you be honest with me?’

Ritchie sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Collect your things. You’ll be working three doors away.’

Kerr regarded Ritchie levelly for a few seconds. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’s an order.’

‘You going to discipline me?’ said Kerr, standing to retrieve the bug and holding it in Ritchie’s face. ‘No, of course not. So tell Paula thanks for the thought but I need to get this sorted first. Seeing as my own boss isn’t interested.’

Forty-one

Friday, 21 September, 13.51, Victoria Embankment Gardens

When Kerr called back to arrange their meeting away from the office, Theo Canning suggested Victoria Embankment Gardens, a quiet stretch of green alongside the Thames. He returned a missed call from Melanie as soon as he surfaced from the Tube. ‘Anne Harris just rang me from the lab because she couldn’t get hold of you. The DNA trace from Marston Street is Tania’s. Will you let Karl know or do you want me to?’

‘I’ll handle it,’ said Kerr, checking up and down the Strand for surveillance, ‘and I’m telling you to go home. Have a long weekend.’

‘I’m taking Justin to have another crack at Pamela Masters tomorrow, remember?’

‘Jack can do that. Stay home and play with the kids. Rob must be worried about you.’

‘Rob doesn’t know, and don’t you breathe a word.’

To reach the gardens, Kerr took a short-cut past the old Water Gate, built in 1626 as a triumphal entrance to the Thames but now a long way from the river’s edge. He found Theo Canning sitting alone beneath a statue of William Tyndale, most workers having returned to the office after their lunch break. The gardens lay within striding distance of the Inns of Court and a pinstriped barrister was studying a brief, absently twining the red tape around his fingers, robe bag on the bench beside him.

Canning stood as Kerr reached him, eager to be on the move. ‘You look knackered,’ he said, as they strolled around the path. ‘Been overdoing it?’

‘Only at work, unfortunately,’ laughed Kerr.

‘We both need to get out more, my friend,’ said Canning, ‘and you know why I wanted to see you.’

‘Yes, and with all the shit I’m taking, your offer is becoming irresistible.’ Kerr made it sound light, but meant every word. Theo Canning was the only senior person Kerr trusted, and the man with the authority and the desire to re-energise his career. He was transforming the National Crime Agency into a new, level playing field, offering real opportunities to someone untainted by the stale politics and infighting that had mired the early years of its predecessor, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Who knew what they might be capable of achieving? ‘Also, I believe you have some problems in-house.’

Canning’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? So let’s have it. Tell me all.’

Kerr had already briefed his team about Robyn’s sex-trafficking allegations. Now he broke the news to Canning, without disclosing her identity. But it was her claim that a corrupt undercover officer was infiltrating girls into the UK under the cover of his Agency that stopped Canning in his tracks. ‘HMG conniving in the trafficking of sex workers? Aided and abetted by someone in my own organisation?’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, it beggars belief.’

They had reached the east gate alongside the Savoy, where a woman in a
burkha
and stilettos watched over her two children circling the path on plastic tricycles. They stood aside as the kids careered past their ankles. ‘We have to close this down quickly, Theo, no matter who’s involved.’

From the safety of his plinth, the statue of Robbie Burns glared down on a rough sleeper. ‘This is another hangover from the past. The sort of thing I was telling you about. Fuck, it’s all I need on top of everything else,’ said Canning as they accelerated through the tramp’s stench, ‘but I’m going to investigate it.’ Angry eyes fuelled by heavy-duty lager, the wino was shouting after them now, calling them a pair of bastards. Canning ignored the ranting and stopped to face Kerr. ‘You’ve just told me I may have another big corruption problem inside my organisation. If this story has legs, John, I need you more than ever. I called Paula What’s-her-name to ask if she would release you but she hasn’t rung back yet.’

The children had run back to their mother and Kerr watched the tramp struggle to focus on them. ‘Like I say, Theo, I’m giving it serious thought. Let’s wait and see what she says first.’

‘Of course. But in the meantime I really need to progress this.’ They wandered back towards the Water Gate and Embankment station. ‘I checked on Joe Allenby over at Vauxhall Cross, by the way, as promised. Turns out he’s resigned. Very sudden, but it happens over there a lot, these days. They’re all very tight-lipped about it. Perhaps they bollocked him for passing you the Jibril stuff on the side and he told them to poke it. I’ll try and get some more out of them.’

‘That would be great.’

They continued a few steps in silence. ‘Look, John, I appreciate this other thing is highly confidential and all that. Is there anything you can tell me about your source?’

Instinctively Kerr checked behind him and saw the mother ushering her children through the gate to the safety of the Savoy. ‘Sorry, Theo, I gave my word.’

‘All understood, my friend,’ said Canning, holding his hands up. ‘Third-party rules and all that. Forget I ever spoke.’ He slid Kerr a mischievous glance. ‘But you don’t mind me trying, do you?’

‘What – to bend the rules?’ Kerr laughed. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

Forty-two

Saturday, 22 September, 15.07, St Benedict’s Independent School for Girls, Berkshire

Mid-afternoon on Saturday, Pamela Masters sat in Classroom 7C tutoring four of St Benedict’s brightest for the Oxbridge entrance examinations. They were working through Chaucer for the specialist paper, and Masters was content to sacrifice her weekend because the pursuit of excellence in her students was the most important part of her role as head of department. Diligence had characterised her professional life and she wanted to give the girls the opportunities Fate had denied her.

She still wondered how life might have turned out had her own application to St Hilda’s College, Oxford, been successful twenty years ago. She could have pursued a career in the private sector, perhaps, or one of the more respectable civil-service departments, with marriage and family life displacing a thankless existence in the shadows.

With knowledge came power, the MI5 training officer had cautioned her on her first day at Gower Street, but with power came the prospect of corruption. In her first years with the Security Service she had relished the adrenaline rush that accompanied secrets, but by the time she had left, she hated the terrible knowledge they gave her. St Benedict’s had released her to share her love of literature and lap up her pupils’ hopes as if they were her own. And in the quiet times she was happy to settle for her books,
University Challenge
on BBC2, and generous glasses of Tuscan red.

Her living quarters in the school grounds lay within a five-minute stroll around the perimeter of the netball courts. She had a one-bedroom flat at the top of the West Tower with panoramic views of the countryside, and on a good day she could just see Windsor Castle. Searching for her keys, she almost bumped into Melanie and Justin waiting for her outside the main door.