War on the Streets. Peter Cave

it happened, there would probably be an enquiry, but not a major scandal. The same could not be said for a mistake being made among the civilian population. One innocent person shot by mistake, and at least seven different flavours of shit would hit the fan.

      That was where the ‘Killing House’ came into its own. Officially known as the SAS Close Quarter Battle building, it created remarkably lifelike situations in which mock battles could take place – often demanding lightning-fast reactions and split-second judgement by the combatants. At any moment they might be confronted by a dummy or pop-up target which could be anything from a terrorist with an Armalite to a blind man wielding his stick. Hesitate and you were dead, losing valuable points. Shoot too hastily and you risked being sent back to basic training, or worse. More than one SAS hopeful had been RTU’d purely on poor performance in the Killing House.

      ‘You’ll also be needing at least four specialist snipers, of course,’ Winston added.

      Davies nodded. ‘And a couple of men with Bomb Squad training, and at least two good demo men,’ he confirmed. ‘But the fundamental requirement is going to be youth, which will probably mean a fairly high proportion of probationers. That’s why sheer quality is so vital on this one. We won’t have any leeway for any guesswork, or don’t-knows. Every unit boss will have to have absolute and implicit trust in every single man under his command.’

      Winston thought about it for a few seconds, finally whistling through his teeth. ‘That’s a pretty tall order, boss.’

      Davies nodded at him. ‘I know – a shitty job with a lot of responsibility. That’s why I’m asking you for your personal recommendations.’

      ‘Well, thanks, boss,’ Winston muttered, grinning ruefully. Being put on the spot like that was something of a backhanded compliment. He nodded discreetly over towards the table where the card game was still in progress. ‘Off the cuff, I’d say that Pretty Boy would be a rather good contender. He seems like a real laid-back bastard at times, but he’s got the reactions of a bloody mongoose.’

      Davies cast a brief glance in the man’s direction. ‘Any specials?’ he wanted to know.

      Winston nodded. ‘Explosives and demolition. That man can blow a hole in a building wall without rattling the windows.’

      It was a wild exaggeration, but Davies knew what he meant. ‘Age?’ he asked.

      Winston shrugged. ‘Twenty-eight, but he looks younger. And his accuracy scores on the range are impressive.’ Winston broke off to grin. ‘Despite his nickname, he’s not just a pretty face.’

      It was time for a more direct and important question, and Davies asked it. ‘Would you want him covering your back?’

      There was not a second of hesitation. ‘Rather him than a hundred others,’ Winston stated unequivocally.

      Davies took the personal recommendation at face value. ‘All right, bring him in,’ he said quietly. He drained his beer and pushed himself to his feet, adding: ‘Well, I’ll leave you to go and lose some more money.’

      Winston looked at him sheepishly, then grinned. ‘Your confidence in me is totally underwhelming, boss.’

       6

      Paul Carney’s telephone rang. It was by far the most exciting thing that had happened to him in two days. He virtually jumped across the flat to snatch it up.

      ‘Paul?’ The voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant, almost apologetic.

      And so it ought to be, Carney thought, recognizing the caller as DCI Manners. The man had, after all, virtually suspended him. His response was somewhat less than enthusiastic. ‘Yeah?’ he grunted. ‘What is it?’

      There was a long sigh on the other end of the line as Manners got the message. It was more or less the reaction he had been expecting. ‘Look, Paul, about that special job I mentioned to you,’ he muttered, finally. ‘They want to see you.’

      ‘They? Who’s they?’ Carney asked guardedly.

      ‘Sorry, Paul, but I can’t tell you that,’ Manners apologized. ‘But there are a couple of Special Branch officers on their way round to your flat now. I’m sure they will explain everything to you.’

      Eagerness, and the air of mystery, had already raised Carney to a pitch of anticipation. A sense of frustration was not far behind.

      ‘Special Branch?’ Carney queried irritably. ‘For Christ’s sake, Harry, what’s going on here?’

      ‘Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for the minute,’ Manners said flatly. He had only the sketchiest idea of what was going on himself, and he’d been pressed to secrecy. Whatever the full facts were, they were well above the level of a mere Detective Chief Inspector. Even as a friend, there was nothing he could tell his colleague on that score. There was, however, something he could say, and he needed to say it.

      ‘There’s one other good piece of news I think you ought to know,’ Manners went on after a brief pause. ‘You know that batch of contaminated heroin you were worried about? The stuff that killed the girl?’

      Carney jumped on it immediately. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

      ‘We’ve pulled it in – hopefully the whole lot,’ Manners told him. ‘And you were right – it was real bad shit. Adulterated up to seventy per cent and cut with bleaching powder, among other things. Lethal.’

      Carney let out a sigh of relief. ‘Yeah, thanks, Harry. That is good news. How did you get on to it?’

      ‘Sofrides talked,’ Manners told him. ‘He led us straight to his supplier. A callous little bastard out for a quick profit and damn the consequences.’ He was silent for a while. ‘Just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’

      ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Carney felt equally awkward, not sure what to say to his boss. The line was silent for a long time.

      ‘Well, good luck – whatever happens,’ Manners said finally, and hung up.

      Carney slipped the receiver back into its cradle and began to pace about the flat, trying to figure out what was going on. He did not have to wait very long. Less than three minutes after the call from Manners, there was a light but firm knock on the door.

      There were two men standing in the hallway as Carney opened up. They both looked businesslike and efficient. They were unsmiling.

      ‘Paul Carney?’ one of them asked.

      Carney nodded. The two men exchanged a brief glance and took the admission as an invitation to enter. They stepped across the threshold, the second man closing the door behind him.

      Minutes later, Carney was in the visitors’ car, being driven south to New Scotland Yard.

      McMillan gestured to a vacant chair at the table. ‘Please sit down, Carney. Would you care for a drink?’

      Carney felt himself tense up, both physically and mentally. Was this the opening move in some sort of test? he found himself wondering. Coppers weren’t supposed to drink on duty. So did they want to see if he lived by the book?

      He forced himself to relax, rationalizing the situation. All this secrecy was making him paranoid, he decided. The offer was probably an innocent and genuine one. Besides, he wasn’t officially on duty any more, and he could certainly do with a drink. He nodded, finally. ‘Yes, thank you, sir. A Scotch would be fine.’

      The commissioner allowed the faintest smile to cross his face. So Carney was a man, and not just some order-following drone. Carney noticed the smile, realized that he had been tested, and could only assume that he had passed.

      McMillan stood up, opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich and a chunky tumbler. He splashed a healthy measure into the glass and carried