Javelin - the gripping new thriller from the former commander of Special Branch (John Kerr Book 3) Read online

  JAVELIN

  The third John Kerr thriller

  JAVELIN

  ROGER PEARCE

  urbanepublications.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive, Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © Roger Pearce, 2017

  The moral right of Roger Pearce to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911583-74-5

  MOBI 978-1-911583-75-2

  Design and Typeset by Julie Martin

  Cover by

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  urbanepublications.com

  The publisher supports the Forest Stewardship Council® (FSC®), the leading international forest-certification organisation.

  This book is made from acid-free paper from an FSC®-certified provider. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.

  For Olwen

  With the exception of capitalism, there is nothing so revolting as revolution.

  George Bernard Shaw

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Friday, 23 September, 14.36, Hammersmith

  Enjoying the bright autumn sunshine from the riverbank, Detective Chief Inspector John Kerr watches a pair of swans emerge from the shadows of Hammersmith Bridge and glide to the shore. The tide is low and their coats shine white against the mud as they patrol the shore for bread from the Anchor pub before taking to the water again.

  Kerr is in a lightweight navy suit, the jacket folded on the chair beside him, and a white cotton shirt, open at the neck. He has purchased a bottle of Barolo with two glasses from the bar and sits at a rickety wooden table on the terrace, a strip of raised deck hugging the chest high flood wall. The pub is of rough whitewashed stone, with ‘1728’ carved into the blackened oak lintel and a horseshoe on the studded door. Upstream to his right, three brightly painted houseboats lie alongside each other in the mud, woodsmoke curling from one of the chimneys. Kerr’s companion is late so he is already on his second glass, doing his own thing, just as she would expect.

  John Kerr is a career Special Branch officer who spends his life fighting terrorism and extremism. It is the end of a week in which he has debriefed three agents, soothed Europol over Brexit, batted off a complaint from MI5 and blown the covert policing budget. This morning his boss, Commander Bill Ritchie, has nominated him for a promotion board to detective superintendent. Neither of them is hopeful.

  Thirty paces to his left, at a right angle to the river walk beyond the sculling club, is a dirt track fronting a block of flats. He sees Robyn skid to a halt in a maroon Volkswagen Polo, narrowly missing the metal posts bordering the path. The swans have just come ashore again and the racket sends them thrashing into the air. Robyn is the mother of Kerr’s daughter, Gabrielle, and she looks cool in tight jeans, ankle boots with three inch heels and her glossy, dark hair tied back. She has not seen Kerr for over six months. ‘How’s it going?’ Her rental car key clatters onto the table as she kisses him on the cheek three times, Italian style, then surprises him by sliding her tongue between his lips.

  Robyn fills her own glass, replenishes Kerr’s and sits, legs crossed, facing him into the sun. Designer shades flip down from her forehead and her free leg swings while she talks. Robyn is playful but keeps her canvas work bag strapped across her body; it tugs at the buttons of her blouse and spoils her cream linen jacket. Kerr shifts his jacket to make room on the chair but Robyn prefers to cradle the bag in her lap.

  Kerr watches a black motor scooter pull up on the far side of the Polo, annoying the swans again. The riders look young, in jeans and black T-shirts, a girl with long blonde hair and a stubbled boy on the pillion, and Kerr notices her pink canvas shoes. She carefully lays a black rucksack on the ground before joining the boy on a bench with a view of the river and terrace. Neither flinches when one of the swans flaps onto the flood wall and hisses at them, spreading its wings. This gets Kerr’s attention: surely every kid knows a swan can easily snap your arm?

  Robyn is chasing the Barolo. She is Glaswegian but has lived in Rome for over two decades and works for Spirito e l’Anima, an EU charity reporting on human rights abuses. She is in transit from Belfast, where she has been researching sectarianism against Catholics, and will return home tomorrow, Saturday. Kerr has taken the tube from the Yard and throws Robyn’s key another glance. Why the rental car? She is deeply tanned and in good spirits. Kerr wonders if she is seeing someone.

  The faster Robyn speaks and drinks, the stronger her Scottish accent. The barman wedges the door open in the warm air and gives he
r a wave as she tells Kerr about Belfast’s separate schools and bus stops, the peace walls, tribalism and the powerful undercurrent of violence, things that Kerr has known about for a long time.

  The couple on the bench are still drawing Kerr’s attention. It is their inactivity that attracts him. Homebound traffic trails from the south side of the bridge and the river path is busy with dog walkers, cyclists, boaties and workers drifting to the pub on an early getaway. A couple on Coronas are fooling around taking selfies and everyone seems energised by the autumn sunshine except these outsiders, who neither speak to each other nor use their iPhones. Then the boy’s eyes lock with Kerr’s for a second before he forces them back to the sweep of the river.

  Robyn pours them both more wine and wants to know what Kerr thinks, so he places his hand over the car key and tells her she won’t be driving anywhere tonight. ‘Why are you always checking up on everyone?’ she says with a laugh. Then she jiggles a chunky crystal bangle up her forearm, eases the bag aside and leans in to remove a speck from Kerr’s scarred cheek. ‘So what happens now?’ she says, which surprises him again, for Robyn had suggested the time and place. Her fingers rest there, stroking him, and her face says she isn’t planning to go anywhere.

  Abruptly, she walks into the pub. Through the open door Kerr sees the barman slide her another bottle of Barolo and unhook a set of keys from the wall behind him. With a discreet ‘follow me’ nod Robyn heads down the path. Disarmed, Kerr slips her car key into his pocket, grabs his jacket and catches her by some giant steps built into the flood wall. Robyn clambers up to a rickety wooden pier and leads the way to the middle of the three houseboats. A topiary bush in the shape of a heron keeps watch where the tiller should be but Robyn steps easily aboard, gripping a butcher’s bike for support.

  She unlocks the door and waves him inside. Layers of varnish darken every surface and a whiff of oil and bilges hangs in the air. While Kerr gets his bearings, Robyn takes two plastic wine glasses from the galley. In the forward cabin he checks out a comfortable looking double bed, but Robyn stays in the saloon pouring the wine. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she says, like someone who already has. He sees that she has finally released her bag, as if she feels safe here, and left it beside the stove.

  Kerr wants to know how she has use of the boat but Robyn is in full flow again about her Belfast project. By the time she makes her move water is lapping against the hull on the rising tide. ‘Shall we?’ she says, lifting her blouse over her head and shaking her hair free. This cracks them up, for they are the words Robyn had used the very first time, on the floor of Kerr’s Ford Transit in a field outside Skegness. It had been noisy outside as well as in, with rain hitting the roof like shrapnel and a German rock band blasting them from six coaches away.

  They leave a trail of clothing on their way to bed and she joshes him as he stubs his toe. When they have found their rhythm she rolls on top, pacing him, arching her back, then taking his hands from her breasts and interlocking their fingers. Through a gap in the curtains Kerr can see Hammersmith Bridge, suspended in the dusk like a giant Meccano set, but she pulls him back to her. ‘Just me,’ she says, urgently. ‘Only me.’ Her body quickening, she grips his hair, holding his head still. She wants their eyes to connect, too, but there is something unfathomable behind hers that transcends the sex and disconcerts him.

  The boat lifts from the mud as they climax and floats with a bump against its mooring, which makes them collapse with laughter. A second later, with Robyn tight against his chest, a shadow dances across the bed from the window. Footsteps patter above them, then Kerr hears a scrabbling from the stern as Robyn stretches over him and screams something in Italian. Throwing his head back he sees a flash of long blonde hair, then scooter girl’s pink shoes as she snatches Robyn’s bag. Kerr scrambles from the bed, shouts at Robyn to stay put, grabs his clothes and gives chase.

  Naked on deck, Kerr searches for the thief. The strength is ebbing from his erection but there is enough light and life to raise a cheer from the nearest drinkers. The girl is sprinting along the path, heading for the motor scooter. Kerr pulls on his trousers, slips into his shoes and leaps from the flood wall.

  As he runs past the pub, he sees pillion boy turn to look at him, then yell into the girl’s ear as the engine fires and they shoot away. Pulling up his zipper Kerr feels the lump of Robyn’s car key in his pocket. He weaves, half-naked, between a clump of evening walkers and cyclists, charging for the Polo.

  Robyn’s key fob is defective, costing him valuable seconds, and the Polo is boxed in. Wrestling with the door lock he hears the echo of the scooter’s buzz as the thieves escape. With no space to turn around, Kerr spins up the towpath in reverse, then throws a handbrake turn in a shower of grit and dust.

  As he shoves the stick into first he clocks the scooter at the junction with Hammersmith Bridge Road. The boy is shouting into the blonde curtain of hair again, urging her on. Recklessly accelerating into the traffic they brake hard to avoid colliding with a tipper truck, then try to overtake a 209 bus as they funnel between the suspension towers onto the bridge.

  Kerr forces his way into the main drag. Pressing the horn, on headlights and hazards, he skims past a line of traffic and forces a white van off the road. The driver flashes him, lighting the target in Kerr’s sights. On the bridge’s apex fifteen car lengths away traffic has come to a halt with the scooter trapped behind the bus, giving Kerr a clear run.

  Accelerating on a collision course, Kerr snaps on his seatbelt. Then he realises the thieves are not kids at all. The boy has dismounted and faces Kerr in the firing position of the professional gunman, legs apart, arms outstretched, gripping a pistol in both hands. Beyond him the girl revs the scooter and he can see Robyn’s bag strapped across her chest.

  As Kerr swerves, he hears the crack of the first shot. The bullet makes a clean hole in the windscreen, smashing the mirror, grazing Kerr’s left temple and thudding into the rear seat. The damage is serious, but Kerr is not thinking about Hertz as he rams his foot to the floor. The second shot is rushed. It pings off the engine block, enters the driver’s compartment and exits within an inch of Kerr’s left calf. The girl steers the scooter to safety past the bus, leaving her partner alone on the bridge.

  Kerr brakes hard but the Polo is still doing twenty when it collides with the bus, the seat belt scorching his skin as he is thrown forward, his head finishing off the windscreen. He releases his belt and rolls from the car, crawling along the tarmac to the back of the Polo. The gunman is less than five paces away, between the bus and the two massive suspension chains. No sign of the girl. Passengers are crying with fear as they stream to the south bank and safety.

  The gunman is in the firing position again as Kerr gives a roar and charges him. Another pair of shots, then Kerr is on him, wrenching at the weapon with both hands. It is a Glock, probably the same model used by his team. Kerr rips it towards the sky, then down with a sharp twist, tearing the gunman’s trigger finger from its socket.

  Kerr’s attacker howls with pain. He is well built, but Kerr’s adrenaline makes him the stronger. As the Glock clatters to the road Kerr has his right hand against the gunman’s throat, banging his head against the chain. Traffic is still rumbling northwards and the bridge sways beneath Kerr’s feet. He drags the gunman by the hair onto the footway and throws him against the handrail, forcing him backwards until his face is framed by the river.

  Then, from nowhere, the girl’s arm is tight around Kerr’s neck, the barrel of the Glock cold and hard against his temple. Her strength surprises him as he pitches himself against her, crushing her against the chain. A bone cracks but she still has the gun and ducks onto the road. She knows the firing position, too, and looks calm as her accomplice joins her. Kerr grabs the rail, preparing to take his chances in the river.

  The silence is broken by a loud hissing sound coming from a black rectangular box on the tarmac beneath the Polo, followed by a stream of grey smoke. Kerr reacts instinctively. ‘Bom
b!’ he yells, the terror in his assailants’ eyes telling him they already know. As he moves to deal with the threat Robyn sprints from his right, firing pepper spray at the terrorists. They cover their eyes and escape along the side of the bridge as Kerr springs to the bomb, shouting at Robyn to get down.

  The device is the size of a shoe box but heavy as a brick, and Kerr slides it onto the palm of his hand like a valuable piece of china. It must have fallen from the car in the crash and the magnet sticks to Kerr’s watch. He uses up precious seconds clambering back to the footway, then catapults it over the rail like a discus thrower. The bomb explodes a second later, its fragments peppering the top of the bridge.

  The terrorists have reached the scooter, four cars beyond the bus. Kerr wants to arrest them but Robyn grips him tight. The buttons on her blouse are all wrong and there is no sign of her bra. Gently taking the pepper spray, he shoots her a quizzical look.

  Behind them, blood streaming from his face, the bus driver hurries along the stalled traffic, yelling at everyone to get off the bridge. At the north approach a police car is stranded, its blue light reflecting on the water. Ignoring his bloodied face and chest, Kerr lies on the tarmac to check the Polo for a second device. Clear. He takes Robyn’s hand as they walk slowly down the pathway to meet a pair of overweight cops lumbering towards them. ‘Sorry about this,’ he says, suddenly hit by a cold stab of fear.

  Robyn looks at him hard. ‘What makes you think this was about you?’

  Chapter One

  Monday, 10 October, 11.13, Finsbury Park

  The safe house lay within shouting distance of Finsbury Park mosque and the spot where, in the shadow of 9/11, radical cleric Abu Hamza had preached hate in the street while traffic found an alternative route. It was hidden in the basement of a three-storey Victorian semi and had its own private access, a slanting brown door built into the flight of steps to the main entrance. The space was cramped for the two young men who lived there, and they had to take it in turns to occupy the bed, the unlucky one making do with a futon. A black recycling bin and overgrown shrubs in pots filled the narrow front yard, leaving the basement in perpetual gloom. The sun occasionally found its way through the bars of the rotting sash window, but on this rainy morning the terrorists had tacked a bed sheet to the frame as they worked beneath a single low energy bulb.