‘You know them?’
‘I’ve seen their handiwork.’
McCreath grunted and looked around the room. ‘Then you know this place won’t stop them. Nor will the two plods on the door.’
‘You think they’ll come inside? Why would they risk it?’
‘Because they’re mental, that’s why. I’ve seen their type before — even served with one or two like them. They get off on proving how tough they are, thinking they can go through anything or anyone. If Deakin sets them on a target, that’s all they need.’
‘And you think he’s set them on you?’ He sounded deliberately sceptical; he wanted McCreath to become unsettled, even angry. It would lead to the truth that much quicker.
McCreath blinked. ‘Of course. I bugged out, didn’t I? Left his cosy hotel and fancy meals and legged it back here. It was saying I didn’t want to play his game or take his money. He wouldn’t like that. If they can’t get me in here, they’ll wait for me to go out. . just like they did Pike.’
Harry ignored that for the moment; he wanted to get McCreath talking about the Protectory. ‘Tell me about Deakin; how you met him.’
‘Will it help my court martial?’
‘I can’t guarantee that, but your cooperation will certainly be taken into account. Did he order Neville Pike killed?’
‘He’s the only one who could have. I’m not sure he’s all there, to be honest; there’s something behind his eyes, know what I mean? I saw the same thing in some of the prisoners taken in Afghanistan, even in some of the subcontractors out there. Like they’re living on a hair-trigger, waiting to blow. But he’s different when he’s talking; then he’s all good ideas and friendly, just like you want to hear when you’re on the run. Then, when I heard about Pike, I just. . I decided it wasn’t for me.’ He shifted in his seat as if embarrassed to admit it. A faint burst of shouting sounded somewhere in the building, muffled and distant. A door slammed followed by another, and the overhead lights flickered.
Harry glanced at the constables, but they hadn’t reacted. In a busy station like this, shouting was the norm, doors slamming a sound everyone learned to live with day and night.
‘How did you get in touch with him in the first place?’
‘I didn’t.’ McCreath’s breathing rate had increased and his fingers were tapping out a rapid staccato rhythm on the table surface. His nails, Harry noted, were bitten down to the quick. ‘I was bunking with an ex-army mate in Antwerp after leaving Selly Oak.’
‘That’s where you had treatment?’
‘Yes. The place got on my wick. . people coming and going like it was a bloody theme park. . charity visitors treating us like a bunch of mental cases, doing their good fucking works. . It finally got to me when one woman spoke louder to me because I’d been wounded — can you believe that? She thought because someone mentioned trauma I was a bleeding cabbage case. Then there were the therapists and psych people, all telling us how we’d soon recover and how we had to stay positive, how it’d be all right in the end and look at how some amputees were even trekking to the North frigging Pole and climbing mountains on their false fucking legs!’
As McCreath started breathing faster, gradually becoming more and more worked up, one of the constables shifted his feet and prepared to step forward. But Harry held up a hand. He had to see where this would lead. McCreath was venting his frustration. If they shut him down now, he might never tell them what they needed to know.
McCreath gradually regained control. He took a deep breath, placing his hands flat on the table and shaking his head. Then he continued in a calmer voice. ‘I’d had enough so I got up and walked out. When I got to Antwerp, my mate said he knew someone who could help me; someone he said was part of a group who helped out guys like me. I thought he was taking the piss. Next thing I know, this guy Deakin’s at the door, saying he was from the Protectory, like it should mean something. I mean, it sounded like some sort of loony religious order to me. I nearly told him to piss off, thinking what could a bunch of bible bashers do to help me?’ His head came up as a dull concussion sounded. ‘What was that?’ This time the two guards looked at each other.
Harry said to them, ‘Can you call the desk from here?’
The ginger-haired constable shook his head. ‘From out in the corridor if we have to. Why?’
Harry stood up and signalled McCreath to get to his feet. ‘I think we’ve got company. That was a stun grenade. The station’s under attack.’
‘What?’ The second officer laughed. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. This is Brixton nick-’
‘He’s right.’ It was the ginger guard. ‘I’ve heard them before. . used them, too. Recognize the sound.’
Suddenly McCreath was coming round the table and nodding animatedly, his face draining of colour. ‘He’s right. It’s Zubac and Ganic. They’ve come for me. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way.’
‘Where does this corridor lead?’ Harry asked, pointing away from the noise.
‘To some stairs, a storage room and more cells. But we can’t leave here.’
‘You want to stay, be my guest.’ Harry walked over and kicked the door. It shook in the frame. Solid but not solid enough to withstand grenades or bullets. ‘They’ll come through that like cheese and they won’t be using stun grenades. We need to get out of here. Now.’
‘There are the cells,’ said the second guard. ‘The doors are reinforced with rolled steel. We’d be safe in there.’
But his colleague shook his head. ‘No way. They’d blast right through them, too. Anyway, we’d be trapped.’
The second guard opened the door and peered out. Two bangs sounded, muffled but closer, followed by another concussion, this one causing a small vibration through the walls. ‘There’s people running,’ he reported. ‘I can see them through the security door at the end.’ He looked pale but calm. ‘Follow me, yeah?’
Harry grabbed McCreath by the arm and hustled him out, and pushed him along the corridor in the wake of the two guards. More bangs and some screaming this time. As they reached a junction in the corridor and the constables disappeared, he felt a ripple effect in the air followed by a blast of sound, and a sliver of wood flew past him and bounced along the floor.
THIRTY-TWO
‘
Ganic pulled the safety ring on one of the M84 stun grenades and paused, glancing at Zubac. The time delay fuse on the device was a maximum of two seconds once the safety lever was released. Enough time to step back and avoid the worst of the blast, but too short for any hero to scoop up the grenade and throw it back. He nodded at the nearest camera, then mouthed the words, ‘What about the cameras?’ Then he flicked the safety ring away and hurled the M84 round the corner of the corridor, ducking back before it could explode.
‘Forget them.’ Zubac mouthed back with a grin, checking his weapon. ‘So we get famous. . our faces on television. You don’t like that?’
If Ganic understood the words, his reply was drowned out as the grenade’s blast filled the corridor, the sound wave snapping around the walls and intensified by the confined space. The vivid flash of light lit the air, adding to the confusion, then it was gone. The sound of tinkling glass in the background was almost musical but it was doubtful that any of the policemen or support staff in the corridor was able to appreciate it.
Zubac stepped wide round the corner, his weapon held two-handed, knees slightly bent. Two officers were on their knees, hugging their ears in agony and confusion. Further along, a short, plump woman in a white shirt and dark skirt was sitting inelegantly against one wall, mouth open in shock, eyes closed tight.
One of the officers looked up and saw Zubac. His eyes fastened in disbelief on the Ruger. Coughing, he reached instinctively for his waist. Zubac shot him in the throat.
The officer fell back, a telescopic baton rolling away from his hand.
Zubac shook his head at the man’s idiotic courage, and the two attackers advanced along the corridor, Ganic
