The Jonah (3 page)

Nothing happened.

Both barrels of the shotgun exploded and Riley was thrown back, his feet leaving the ground, arms outstretched, body curved inwards as the blast ripped through his stomach. He hit the concrete
like a loosely filled sack and lay there, unmoving.

For a brief second, Kelso and the gunman could only stare at the still form. Even Cook had stopped struggling with the semi-conscious villain on the ground. The chainsaw never stopped its
whirring.

The masked man holding the smoking weapon quickly looked from the dead policeman to Kelso. Wild panic showed through the holes cut out for his eyes. Kelso slid from the bonnet off the Allegro
and ran towards him. The gunman turned to run and Kelso flinched as a shot rang out from behind. The shotgun clattered to the ground as the fleeing criminal cried out and his hands tried to reach
the bullet wound next to his spine.

He hit the ground just as Kelso got to him, his body squirming with pain. The noise from the chainsaw stopped abruptly and the hooded figures around the security van were running, ducking
beneath the body of the lorry blocking the tunnel, making for the two cars waiting on the other side.

Kelso heard pounding feet behind him and he turned ta see McDermott and three other detectives running towards them. McDermott’s gun was still aimed at the sprawled villain and Kelso knew
it was he who had fired the shot.

‘You bastard, Kelso! Why didn’t you get him before he shot Riley?’ The detective sergeant was panting hard as he kicked away the shotgun. The other policemen pushed their way
past, going after the escaping criminals.

‘My gun jammed!’ Kelso shouted, but McDermott had not stopped to listen. He was helping Cook to his feet.

‘What a fuck-up!’ McDermott said to the DI.

‘Shut up and get after those bastards!’

With one venom-filled look back at Kelso, McDermott took off after the other three detectives.

Cook brushed past Kelso, hardly giving him a glance. He knelt down beside the motionless policeman and touched two fingers beneath his jawline, feeling for the pulse. He thook his head and
muttered something under his breath. Then he stood up and stared at Kelso.

‘Stay here and keep an eye on those two,’ he pointed at the prone gunmen. That was all he said, but Kelso felt the disgust in the words. And he knew the disgust was directed at
him.

Kelso could only gaze blankly at the gun he held, as Cook turned his back and walked away.

It was rare, but only one person occupied the lift as it zoomed up to the fourth floor of Scotland Yard. Kelso leaned back against the rear wall, his head bowed as though
studying the light-coloured but grubby sneakers he wore. He drew in deeply on the last inch of cigarette, filling his lungs, then expelling the smoke in a blue haze. The anorak he wore over faded
denims was a size too big for him, making his shoulders seem slighter than they actually were. Dark hair, made flat and damp by the steady drizzle outside, hung limply over his forehead; he
shivered as droplets of water found their way inside his shirt collar and ran down his back. He ran a hand over his chin, glad that he had taken the time to shave that morning; even so, the skin
felt rough and made a scraping noise against his palm. The lift bumped to a gentle halt and he tucked his hands inside the anorak’s loose pockets, pushing himself away from the wall with his
buttocks.

He almost collided with someone entering the lift, but managed to slide around, barely touching the tall, dark-suited figure. Leonard Seyrig, Operational Chief of CID, six foot three – and
still growing, some said – glared down at him.

Kelso nodded without returning the gaze, and squelched his way along the corridor towards his department’s office. Seyrig frowned at the trail of wet footmarks and slowly shook his head as
the lift doors closed.

The noise hit Kelso even before he opened the office door. Pounding typewriters, ringing telephones and filing cabinets being drawn open and slammed closed were the mechanical sounds that joined
with raised voices and general conversation buzz to create the clamour. A few heads turned in Kelso’s direction as he walked in, but no acknowledgements were given. He headed for his desk
which was tucked away in a corner of the room which was large but seemed ludicrously small because of the office furniture, equipment and manpower crammed into its forty-by-thirty-foot area.

He turned his head when he heard his name called. Detective Sergeant McDermott, a telephone receiver held momentarily against his shoulder, was pointing with his thumb towards the DI’s
office. ‘He wants to see you. Now.’ McDermott resumed his telephone conversation.

Kelso completed the journey to his desk, stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and pulled out a greasy bag containing two bacon rolls from his anorak pocket. He tossed the bag onto the
desktop and made his way towards Cook’s office. Breakfast was cold, anyway.

The DI’s room was merely a partitioned wall, half of it glass, in the main office area, only a door giving it some credence. Cook was just rereading his own report on yesterday’s
foul-up, wondering whether an added word here and there would make it read more favourably, when he saw the DC in the open doorway.

‘Come in,’ he said, and continued reading. ‘Close it,’ he added, his eyes not losing their scanning rhythm. Kelso closed the door and settled himself in the chair
opposite his chief. He crossed an ankle over his knee and slumped down in the seat, arms crossed. Then he straightened. Why pretend to be relaxed?

Cook sighed heavily and let the sheaf of papers he was holding fall onto his desk. No additions were going to improve it. His eyes met Kelso’s and they sat in silence for several seconds
before Cook spoke. ‘What happened?’

‘Gun jammed,’ Kelso replied evenly.

‘I know the fucking gun jammed! We’ve had it checked. I’m talking about the blag. You told us it would go off on the other side.’

Kelso leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face anxious. That’s the information I was given, Frank.’

‘Who’s your grass? What’s his name?’

‘He’s not a grass. Just a loose mouth. He doesn’t know I’m a cop.’

‘You know how this is going to make me look, don’t you, boy? A prize pillock.’

Kelso’s body stiffened in rising anger.

‘The AC’s been on at me twice this morning already,’ Cook went on. ‘One copper dead – and a Squad driver at that – two villains collared, and that’s it.
The rest clean away.’

‘But I gave you names . . .’

‘Yes, and we’ve brought four of them in. The trouble is, no one’s saying much.’

‘You’ve got Mancello?’

‘We’ve got him. His brief’ll have him out in five minutes when he hears about it.’

‘You haven’t nicked him?’

‘On what charge? He’s got an alibi just like the last time. Guess what?’ Cook nodded patiently as Kelso raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s right. In his cab, running a
fare. Two witnesses again. We’re holding him on sus.’

‘What about the villain who did the shooting? He’ll talk to save himself.’

‘Are you kidding? He’s a lifer now. Automatic. No amount of talking’s going to help him. In fact it could make life in stir very unpleasant for him if he did.’

‘Christ!’

‘Yeah, Christ. You’re going to have to give us some more names. Like who mentioned the job in the first place.’

‘It’ll blow my cover.’

‘Not necessarily. Anyway, it looks like you’ll be on a different beat soon.’

Kelso sat back in the chair. ‘You’re pulling me out?’ He shook his head in disbelief. He had worked for a long time to get himself accepted by certain members of London’s
criminal fraternity. They generally thought of him as a small-time goby, a fixer, an arranger. Nothing big, just a junior-league go-between, a messenger. If they had ever learned his true identity,
his torso, minus arms, legs and head, would have been found floating in the Thames. Unless, of course, they fed it to pigs instead.

Cook’s tone changed; he seemed almost resigned. ‘Look, Jim, you’ve done a good job over the past six months or so, but your use on the streets is coming to an end. It’s a
long time, you know; I think you’ve stretched your luck to the limit.’

‘That’s not why you want to pull me out, though, is it?’

Cook took a cigarette from the pack lying open on his desk. He lit it and pushed the pack towards Kelso, who shook his head.

The DI exhaled a heavy stream of smoke. ‘I’ve been going through your file, Jim. It doesn’t read too good.’

Kelso shifted uncomfortably.

‘Oh, you’ve done your job well enough,’ his senior officer reassured him. ‘In fact, your undercover work has been excellent, couldn’t be better. But I think you
know what I’m talking about.’

‘You’d better spell it out.’

‘Right. Certain jobs over the past few years have turned nasty when you’ve been on them.’

‘Come on, Frank, you can’t blame . . .’

‘Hold on, hold on. No one’s putting any blame on you. I’m just pointing out certain facts. Four months ago, the blag on the jewellery shop in Hatton Garden. You got us the
tip-off, just like yesterday. And the car you were chasing the villains in crashed into a bus stop, killing a civilian.’

‘I wasn’t driving, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I didn’t say you were. Just listen, will you?’

Kelso reached for the cigarettes on the desk and pushed one into his mouth. He forgot to light it.

‘A few months before that, on the warehouse job. We went in after thieves helping themselves to electrical gear, loading up the company’s own lorry to get the stuff away in. You were
going over the rooftops with a couple of other detectives. Detective Sergeant Allan went through the skylight, broke his back.’

Kelso opened his mouth to protest, but Cook held up a hand. ‘I know – not your fault. Course it wasn’t, nobody’s saying it was.’

Kelso started searching for his matches.

‘Then there was the night you were on obo in Notting Hill Gate.’

Kelso stopped searching. ‘Ah, come on, Frank . . .’

‘All you had to do was watch the comings and goings of certain dubious individuals in the house opposite. What happened? The house you and Georgie Fenner were in burnt down. It’d
read like a fucking comedy script if it wasn’t so serious. Fenner had third degree burns all over his body. He’d have died if you hadn’t got him out of there.’

‘I still think we were sussed. Somebody started that fire deliberately.’

‘If they did, we couldn’t find any evidence of arson afterwards. There were kids living in the flats downstairs, Jim. They could have all gone up in smoke.’

Kelso yanked the unlit cigarette from his mouth. ‘What’s all this leading up to, Frank?’

Cook ignored the insubordination in the DC’s tone. ‘There are plenty of other incidents I could mention, going right back to when you were on the beat. There’s even that
business with your girlfriend.’

Kelso avoided the senior officer’s gaze. He found his matches and lit the cigarette.

‘So what I’m trying to say is this: You’ve got a reputation, Jim; you’re bad news. I’ve got to regard my men as a team and, frankly, you don’t fit in too
well. Why the fuck do you think you’ve been put on undercover work? The men are a bit lairy of you, Jim. As it happens, you work better on your own. You’re a loner, you don’t
conform to organization.’

‘Then why take me off undercover?’

‘I didn’t say I was.’

Kelso looked puzzled.

‘The Drugs Squad are short-handed. You’re going over to them.’

‘Drugs? What the hell do I know . . .’

‘No arguments, son. That’s it, you’re going over. I’ve already spoken to their DCS; he’ll be glad to take you. Starting from Monday next you’re on a new team.
Good luck.’

Kelso knew there was nothing he could say; the decision had been made and it was final. He walked to the door and looked back when Cook spoke. ‘Give the name of your informant to
McDermott, Jim; he’ll be no good to you now.’

Kelso went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Cook slumped back in his chair. He hated to lose a good man, but he had no choice; the others wouldn’t work with him any more. They could be made to, of course, but that would only breed
unease, resentment. He liked to keep his team tightly knit, no rifts. The funny thing was that he hadn’t really explained it to Kelso, hadn’t needed to. They both knew what it was all
about.

Nobody wanted to work with a Jonah.