Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“It’s a possibility,” Palmer conceded. “But it still doesn’t explain where Scoby fits into all of this.”

“Dom Lynch was close to Sean Farrell and Fiona Gallagher. What if Lynch and Farrell planned to kill Scoby and then blame Brady for it? After all, a directive like that would have to come from the head of the Army Council. Farrell’s arrested before Scoby gets here so it’s handed down to Gallagher to carry on in his place. I know it’s all hypothetical, sir, but it would give a motive for the murders of Lynch and Kerrigan.”

“But Farrell and Gallagher would be implicated as well.”

“Not if they were supposedly carrying out an order from the Army Council,” Eastman replied.

A rare smile touched the corners of Palmer’s mouth. “You know, Keith, you might just have something there. We’ll discuss it further this afternoon.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I’ve got a meeting with my opposite number in Special Branch at one o’clock. I want to be kept up to date on the situation here.”

“Even if nothing’s happening, sir?”

“Especially if nothing’s happening. At least if I know it’s all quiet it might help me to cut down on these damn things.” Palmer dropped the cigarette onto the ground, crushed it underfoot, then got back into the car.

Eastman returned to the mobile van. There were five uniformed officers seated in the back of the van, each wearing a pair of headphones, who were in constant touch with the various arms of the Metropolitan Police involved in the security arrangements on and around the river. One of the men caught Eastman’s attention and informed him that Whitlock was waiting to talk to him. Eastman sat down in his chair by the door, slipped on a pair of headphones, and was patched through to Whitlock.

“Where have you been?” Whitlock asked.

“The Commander’s just been here,” Eastman replied. “I had to brief him.”

“Well, it’s all quiet out here. The highlight so far was when the mayor’s wife spilt a glass of red wine down the front of her dress.”

“Sounds nasty,” Eastman said with a smile. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got a bit of news for you. Kerrigan’s dead. The Swiss authorities found his body in a chalet earlier today. He’d been shot.”

“First Lynch, now Kerrigan. Do you think the murders are somehow linked?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any evidence to suggest it at present but I’ve got my own little theory which I’ve already put to Commander Palmer. I’ll discuss it with you later over a beer.”

“You’re on. Well, I’d better check in with the launches. Talk to you again soon.”

“Right. Over and out.”

Mullen wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The wetsuit had become uncomfortably warm. Or was it just his nerves? Fiona looked ice cool as she crouched on the catwalk, scanning the river with the binoculars. He had already tried to talk to her but she had held up a hand to silence him without taking her eyes off the river. He now paced the floor, anxiously waiting for her to give them the go-ahead to move out.

She suddenly cursed loudly.

“What is it?” he asked, pausing mid-stride to look up at her.

“There’s a police chopper coming this way,” she hissed, pressing herself against the wall as it buzzed low over the warehouse. She waited until the engine had died away then peered cautiously out of the window.

“Can you see it?” Mullen called out.

“It’s heading toward the Albert Bridge. It’s the first time it’s been this far down river which means the Merry Dancer can’t be too far behind.”

She trained the binoculars back on to the Lambeth Bridge. The unmarked white helicopter was already hovering close to the bridge. She smiled to herself as the bow of the Merry Dancer came into view. There were two men in the wheelhouse. One was Whitlock. The other was Moody. She watched as he removed his sweat-stained peaked cap, ran his arm across his forehead, then tugged it back over his bald head. She lowered the binoculars and looked round at Mullen, the smile still fixed on her face. She didn’t need to say anything. He crossed to the trapdoor and began to strap on his breathing apparatus. The waiting was over …

Stephen Tanner was one of the most experienced officers in the Air Police. He was a former RAF helicopter pilot who had joined the Metropolitan Police at the end of the Falklands War. In contrast, Bruce Falconer was a rookie who had graduated from the police college only a month before. He was a quiet, soft-spoken youth whose self-assuredness had impressed his superiors and they had decided to put him with Tanner to help toughen up his character. Now, two weeks later, Falconer was already more assertive and Tanner was beginning to warm to his new partner …

“Hey, isn’t that Stamford Bridge down there?” Tanner said with a wicked grin, pointing to the football stadium in the distance as the helicopter approached Albert Bridge.

“Very funny,” Falconer retorted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot,” Tanner said, the grin widening. “You’ve got tickets for the match this afternoon, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, and much good they’ll do me now.”

“Don’t worry, kid, it won’t be the last time your day off will be canceled at such short notice,” Tanner said, easing the stick to the left, arcing the helicopter in a graceful one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

“You’re all heart–” Falconer trailed off and grabbed the binoculars.

“What is it?” Tanner asked, his face suddenly serious.

“I thought I saw something down there,” Falconer replied without lowering the binoculars.

“Where?”

“In that deserted warehouse over there,” Falconer replied, pointing it out.

“I’ll take her in for a closer look,” Tanner said, banking the helicopter away sharply to the left. “What did you see?”

“I don’t know. I thought I saw a movement through one of those broken windows.” Falconer cursed angrily and lowered the binoculars as the helicopter descended toward the warehouse. “I’m sorry, I should have been concentrating more carefully on the surroundings.”

“Forget it. You say you thought you saw something, that’s good enough for me. We’ll get the place checked out.”

“I’m going to look pretty stupid if it turns out to have been nothing.”

“You’re going to look a lot more stupid if we don’t report it and it turns out to have been that IRA cell.” Tanner indicated the radio. “Call it in, kid.”

Falconer nodded and reached for the radio.

Fiona lay on the lead swimmer delivery vehicle as it powered its way silently through the cold, murky water toward the barge. Mullen, who was carrying the hermetically sealed container, kept close behind her. They were guided by the powerful lights built into the nose of the SDVs and by the directional beacon detector which was set on the same wavelength as the homing device attached to the hull of the barge.

When they reached the barge, moored in the center of the river, she tethered her SDV to the anchor chain and switched off the light. Then, keeping close to the hull, she removed an optical fiber periscope from her belt and pushed its tip out of the water. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings. She focused on Vauxhall Bridge, which was two hundred yards away from the barge. The Merry Dancer was due to turn at the bridge before heading back toward Tower Bridge. The boat was now only a few hundred yards from the bridge. It would begin to turn within the next minute. She slipped the periscope back into its protective sheath then took the transmitter from the pouch on her belt and extended its short aerial. She released the protective cap covering the detonator and pressed the button.