Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER SEVEN

A heavy door clanged, a key rattled in the lock, and Brett Cowper was left to ponder on the class struggle in the confines of a cell. Sam noticed that, on being escorted out of the Lost and Found Room, Cowper had left a trail of blood spots all along the tiled floor. Looking down at them, Sam felt intense discomfort; as long as coppers like Gene Hunt interrogated suspects with their fists, how could they confidently take the moral high ground over the likes of Brett Cowper? It was hard to counter accusations of fascism when officers insisted on behaving like the Gestapo.

‘Somebody’s doughnut’s been dripping,’ Gene intoned, suddenly looming over Sam and smearing a dot of blood with the toe of his patent-leather loafer. ‘Don’t fret, Sam. That dotty bird with the hearing aid and the mop’ll sort it out in the morning. You’ll be able to eat your dinner off that floor by the time she’s done.’

Sam shrugged and moved away. He wasn’t in the mood to lock horns with Gene again. He was getting sick of the same old routine of trying to explain acceptable police procedure while Gene posed and postured and came back at him with insults.

‘Whatever, Guv,’ he said as he headed along the corridor. ‘Whatever.’

‘Hey, don’t you walk away from me, Tyler,’ Gene said. ‘It were the crash that split him open. And it weren’t me who stuck a pellet in him, if you recall.’

Again, Sam shrugged, but Gene wasn’t satisfied. He loped round and positioned himself in front of Sam, blocking him.

‘Don’t you get the hump with me,’ he said. ‘I know what’s bugging you. You’re soft, Sam. Worse than a girl — like a bloody … a bloody …’

He cast around, struggling to find the right word.

‘Faggot?’ suggested Sam, his voice tired. ‘Ponce? Poofter? Nancy boy?’

Gene stuck out his chest, raised himself grandly to his full height, and glowered.

‘I only tapped him in there. He weren’t cooperating. And he was getting decidedly cheeky.’

‘Save it, Gene — I’m not Discipline and Complaints, you don’t have to justify yourself to me.’

‘Nor to anyone else, neither,’ Gene said, straightening his none-too-straight tie. ‘You want angels with snow-white wings, you’ll have to wait for Christmas. Next time some murdering scumbag sets off a bomb in the local shopping centre and we’re scraping some poor kiddy’s mummy off the ceiling, ask yourself then how much respect the Brett Cowpers of the world deserve.’

‘Guv, like I said, I’m not D amp;C. Let’s see if we can dig up anything on the Red Hand Faction.’

They swept into the CID room. It was a thrumming hive of policing. Chris was hard at work frowning blankly at a pile of paperwork that had got muddled beyond all hope. Ray was unsuccessfully hiding a tatty magazine full of big tits behind a telephone directory, which he suddenly pretended to scrutinize for a number.

‘The thin blue bloody line,’ Gene muttered, glaring about at his team as he strode through to his office. ‘Listen up, ladies. The Red Hand Faction. I want facts, I want figures, I want anything you can dig up about them. Who are they? Where’d they come from? Do they like broccoli? Are they leg or tit men? I want everything you can give me, capisce? I shall be waiting patiently in my boudoir. Do not disappoint.’

He stomped into his office and back-kicked the door shut behind him.

‘Boudoir?’ asked Chris, looking up from his confused paperwork and frowning even deeper. ‘What’s wrong with his office?’

‘It’s French for “office”, you pillock,’ said Ray.

‘I thought that was “bureau”.’

‘A bureau’s a thing with drawers in it.’

‘Drawers? You mean like knickers?’ And then suddenly Chris’s face brightened and he cried out, ‘French knickers! French knickers go in the bureau de la boudoir! Eh, that sounds dead exciting, like.’

Sam felt his energy draining out of him. He was not in the frame of mind to listen to this. He headed for the canteen and, thankfully, found it practically deserted. The gloomy array of pasties and rolls that sat yellowing behind a sheet of grubby glass did not appeal to him, so he slotted a five-pence piece into the drinks machine and punched the button. The machine gurgled like a vomiting tramp and puked out tepid brown liquid into a tiny paper cup. Sam looked down at the filthy brew and thought longingly of frothing cappuccinos, thick rich americanos, creamy lattes.

I never thought I’d see the day when I missed Starbucks, he thought.

His body suddenly yearned for a big fat frappuccino, smothered in caramel sauce, dripping with cream.

Anything to eat with that, sir?

I’ll have a chicken-and-pesto ciabatta. No, make that a ham, tomato and mozzarella toasty. And one of those big fat cookies with milk chocolate chunks in it.

‘It’ll rot your teeth, that will.’

Annie had appeared beside him, and it was only then that he realized he was pouring an endless torrent of white sugar into his lukewarm coffee.

‘And if the sugar doesn’t rot them there’s always the guv,’ said Sam, thinking of Cowper dribbling out the shattered fragments of his teeth in the Lost and Found Room.

Annie frowned at him, not comprehending, but Sam just waved his comment away.

‘Ignore me, Annie. I’m just letting things do my head in. I tell you, the intellectual level in this department hovers somewhere between the Beano and Carry On Camping. Present company excepted, of course.’

‘But of course. Mind if I pull up a pew?’

‘Be my guest.’

Annie seated herself beside him. ‘You look like you’ve got the worries of the world on your shoulders.’

‘It can certainly feel like that.’

‘Do you want to talk about it, Sam? You were going to say something to me the other night, when we were in the Arms. Something important.’

Sam nodded, shook his head, then shrugged.

‘What’s the matter, Sam? Don’t you want to say it now?’

‘Not now, Annie. I mean, not right now, not here. And not in the bloody Railway Arms either, with all those herberts leering over us.’

‘Then we need to find somewhere else, then, don’t we? Somewhere a bit more private. I mean, if there’s something special you need to say.’

The doors to the canteen banged open and a couple of uniformed coppers strode in, braying with laughter at some filthy joke. Sam sighed. Annie reached across and laid her hand on his.

‘If you haven’t spotted it,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m trying to get you to invite me out on a date.’

‘And if he don’t fancy you, luv, I’m free next Thursday,’ one of the uniformed prats put in, and his mate bared his teeth at this and hee-hawed like a donkey.

Sam pulled his hand away from Annie and swigged back the last of his coffee in one mouthful.

‘That tasted like crap,’ he spat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘This place doesn’t know the first thing about a decent cup of coffee. Hey, you!’ And he shot an angry glance across at the unformed coppers. ‘Either of you know what a cappuccino is? Eh? Tell you what, a fiver to either one of you who can even spell “cappuccino”.’

‘For a fiver, you’re on,’ the donkey-toothed bobby answered back. ‘Right then. What was it again?’

‘Cappuccino.’

‘Easy. K-a-p-o-’

‘The Beano and Carry On flamin’ Camping!’ Sam yelled, hurling his crumpled coffee cup aside and storming out.

‘Well it’s gotta start with K, don’t it?’ the copper called after him.

Sam strode down a corridor, then stopped. He waited for Annie to catch him up, which eventually she did.

‘This place …’ he said to her.

‘Don’t let it do your head in, Sam.’

‘I don’t. I really don’t. Well actually, I do. I try not to. But even so, Annie — this place!’

‘If a soppy bird like me can hack it here without going off her trolley, then I’m sure a big, hairy, muscleman like you can manage.’ Annie smiled at him. ‘You think I take it to heart, the crap that flies around me every day I come in here? You think I rise to the bait every time I get a stupid comment or a hand up my skirt or rubber jonnies left on my desk?’

‘Rubber jonnies? Jesus, Annie! If that’s Ray up to his old routine again-’

‘Sam, shh.’

‘I mean it, Annie, I’ll have him up before a bloody tribunal. I’ll have him bumped straight back to uniform and send him back out on the beat like a-’

But Annie silenced him with a finger rested against his lips.

‘You’re not listening, are you?’ she said softly. ‘I survive here because I keep my head clear. I’m me, no matter what the guv says, or Ray or Chris or whoever, and don’t forget that for one second. I keep myself sane, Sam. And I want you to keep sane, too.’

Hesitatingly, with reluctance, she removed her finger from Sam’s lips.

‘If I’m sane,’ Sam said, looking her in the eyes, ‘and some days that’s a pretty big if — but if I am sane, Annie, I know who I can thank for it.’

Sam found that Annie’s face was only inches from his own. With her eyes fixed on his she gently chewed her bottom lip.

‘Let’s talk, Sam — just you and me,’ she whispered.

‘Yes. Let’s do that. But not here.’

‘No. Another time.’

‘Another time … Always another time.’

‘Don’t be like that, Sam,’ Annie breathed. ‘All good things to them who wait.’

‘To them who wait …’ he said, under his breath. ‘Yeah. So they reckon.’

Very carefully, he lifted his hand and touched the sleeve of her jacket. Slowly, he ran his fingers down her arm, lightly the skimming the cheap polyester of her sleeve, until he reached the warm skin of her wrist.

‘Well, then,’ Annie breathed. ‘What about that date?’

He felt her hand slip comfortably into his, felt their fingers interlace, felt the soft pressure.

And then, quite suddenly, he had disengaged his hand from hers and took a step back. Annie frowned.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t want any more moments between us ruined by this place. You … You matter too much to me for that.’

He saw her face flush with colour, and for a moment she averted her eyes, self-conscious but flattered. It pleased him to see her react like this.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to work before the gorilla realizes we’re playing hooky and starts rattling the bars of his cage.’

Sam fought the instinct to take her hand again. Instead, he held the door open for her so she could go ahead of him. She smiled, as much with her eyes as with her mouth, and led the way. They returned to the CID room in silence.

‘We’ve drawn a blank, Guv,’ Ray declared. ‘We’ve been digging up files from all over — Home Office, MI5, the works — and not a thing on these Red Hand Whatsits. Zilch.’

Grim-faced and scowling, Gene was behind his desk, leaning back in his seat, his barrel chest and rounded gut straining at the nylon of his shirt. Sam, Annie, Ray and Chris were all crowded into his office.

‘No record of them anywhere?’ asked Gene. Ray shook his head. ‘Can we be totally sure they really exist? How do we know they’re not just a figment of Cowper’s nasty little imagination?’

‘I think the Red Hand Faction is very real,’ said Sam. ‘There’s enough of them to put Michael and Cait Deery over a barrel. The Deerys supply arms to the IRA — they know what they can expect if they start siphoning those arms off to anyone else. Whatever the Red Hand Faction is, it’s big enough and scary enough to coerce the Deerys into playing along. They wouldn’t be frightened by Cowper if he was just some delusional clown working on his own. They certainly wouldn’t start dishing out rifles and Semtex to just anyone without a damn good reason.’

‘Or a damn bad one,’ said Annie.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean, Brenda?’ asked Gene.

‘It means the Deerys wouldn’t give in to open threats, Guv. It stands to reason. Nobody pushes the IRA around. But what if the RHF had some hold over the Deerys that was personal — something they’d risk their own lives for? What if the Red Hand Faction was holding a member of their family or something?’

‘Cowper said something to the Deerys about “babysitting”,’ said Sam. ‘He could have been referring to a hostage.’

Gene mulled this over, knocked back another Scotch and said, ‘So, we’ve got an influx of illegal guns and Semtex flooding in from over the Irish Sea. We’ve got not one but two lots of terrorist organizations, both wanting to blow the Fred Bassets out of the lot of us — plus a possible kidnap case. And all I’ve got to work with is you four.’ He glugged out a refill of Scotch. ‘And you wonder why I need a tipple at teatime.’

‘Guv, I’ve been thinking,’ said Annie. And, getting in there quick before Gene or Chris or Ray could make a sarcastic remark, she said, ‘This Red Hand Faction. You know they make me think of? The Baader-Meinhofs.’

‘You shouldn’t be thinking of them, you dirty mare,’ sniggered Ray. But then he caught Gene’s eye, saw that blokey comments weren’t currently being appreciated, and shut himself up. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

Annie went on, ‘The Baader-Meinhof gang. The terrorists in Germany, Guv. Left-wing anarchists or whatever.’

‘They claimed a lot of high-ranking Nazis escaped justice after the war and disappeared into well-paid jobs in finance and industry,’ Sam said. ‘So they decided to bring the whole government down.’

‘They spout the same sort of stuff as Brett Cowper,’ said Annie, ‘about smashing the state, calling the police fascists.’

‘Eh up? Fascists? The police?’ piped up Chris, looking genuinely hurt. ‘But we’re the good guys.’

‘Depends which side of the fence you’re standing,’ said Ray.

‘I think Annie’s onto something,’ said Sam. ‘If it’s a revolution the RHF is after, they’ve picked the right time. The country’s in a mess. Strikes, industrial action, inflation going through the roof. Anyone looking to cook up a popular uprising could find a lot of support out there.’

‘Uprising?’ Chris frowned, looking concerned. ‘Revolution? Give over! It couldn’t happen here.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Sam, ‘but that won’t stop them trying.’

‘Kidnapping,’ Gene mused, looking into his Scotch glass. ‘Blowing things up. Killing people.’ He knocked back his drink and reached for yet another refill. ‘We’ve got to nip these loonies in the bud. The IRA are more than enough for us to be dealing with, and, besides, they got there first. I’m not having these Kraut-inspired, Red Handed Adolf-come-latelys goose-stepping their pinko lederhosened arses all over the pitch an’ all.’

‘Guv, your racism’s becoming confused,’ commented Sam.

‘And so would yours in all this excitement,’ Gene yelled. ‘I want this Red Hand mob stamped out. Crushed. Like insects.’

He swilled back his Scotch and slammed the empty glass down hard on the desk, making Chris jump.

‘Get to it,’ he barked. ‘Leads. Names. You don’t nick villains by standing around in my office playing pocket billiards all day. Ray, take Chris and stake out the Deerys’ place. Stick to them like glue — I want to know everywhere they go, everyone they meet.’

‘Wilco, Guv,’ said Ray, mock-saluting, and he and Chris bustled out.

‘Annie!’

‘Yes, Guv?’

‘Get the hoover out. CID’s a bloody disgrace.’

Exchanging a knowing look with Sam, Annie said, ‘Yes, Guv’ and headed for her desk. Sam was about to follow her out when Gene told him to hold his horses.

‘You and me are going to have another word with Brett Cowper,’ he said, flexing his hands in readiness. ‘I want to know which one of the Deerys’ nearest and dearest they’re holding.’

‘You’re wasting your time with Cowper,’ said Sam. ‘Threatening him won’t get you anywhere.’

‘Who said anything about threatening?’

‘Guv, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’s expecting the bullyboy treatment from us. It’s why him and the RHF want to bring down the country. He’s a fanatic. He’d rather die a martyr than tell us anything.’

‘He’s also our prime lead,’ said Gene, ‘and I don’t intend to let him cool his heels in a police cell when he could be of use to us. The Deerys led us to Cowper, now Cowper can lead us to the Red Hand Whatchamacallits. We follow the links in the chain, Sam — it’s either that or we all sit about on our arses waiting for the bombs to start going off.’

Sam followed Gene out of his office and along the corridor, making for the cells.

‘He won’t talk, Guv.’

‘I’ll use my dusky charm.’

‘This isn’t the way to get information out of him.’

‘It’s worked wonders in the past.’

‘This is different. Maybe Annie should have a crack at him.’

Gene stopped dead in the corridor, fixed Sam with a look, and said, ‘Don’t let your gentleman’s appendage get in the way of you thinking like a copper, Sam.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh yes you do. This is isn’t a game we’re playing here. If we don’t start clamping down on this situation people are going to die, Sam. Innocent people — families, kids, fluffy bunnies hopping to the Co-op to pick up their weekly carrots — all blown to smithereens by bastards like Cowper in the name of some nutty revolution. The last thing you should be thinking about is improving your chances of a spot of leg-over with DC Bristols.’

‘That’s not fair, Guv, all I meant was-’

‘I know what you meant. You want me to see your potential bit of crumpet in action. You want me to slap a gold star onto her none-too-ample titty as a reward for good conduct and get you one step closer to the contents of her knickers. That’s what you’re thinking. Whereas me, Sam, I’m thinking about the job that needs doing. I’m thinking about the duty I’ve been entrusted with. I’m thinking about how to stop a bloodbath — a bloodbath on my streets, in my patch, right under my nose. So for the time being, Sammy-boy, sew your pants shut and start acting like a copper. You reading me?’

Gene turned sharply and strode towards the cells, yelling for the duty sergeant to get Cowper’s door open. The sergeant leapt up and unlocked the heavy cell door. The moment it opened, the sergeant gasped.

Gene stared into the cell and, after a few moments said, flatly and without emotion, ‘Oh botherino.’

‘What?’ said Sam. ‘Guv, what is it?’

He hurried forward, reached the open cell door, and looked in. Brett Cowper was lying face up in a pool of congealing blood, his eyes open and unfocused, his left wrist slashed. He had used a large, broken shard of his John Lennon spectacles, digging it into the flesh just below the heel of his hand and dragging it deeply along the length of his arm almost to the elbow. The artery had been split lengthways, like a segment of rubber hose.

‘A martyr to the cause,’ said Gene. ‘He weren’t bluffing.’

‘He’s still smiling,’ said Sam, looking down at the smug grin frozen on Cowper’s pale lips.

‘Loyal to the last. Like all fanatics.’

‘You’d have to be pretty devoted to your cause to blackmail the IRA.’

It was then that they noticed Brett Cowper’s last act before dying: his suicide note, his final political declaration. Beneath the small, barred window high up in the cell wall, a red handprint had been deliberately imprinted on the painted brickwork. Beneath it, also in blood, an R and an H had been shakily daubed in dribbling, running letters. The F was an illegible scrawl that trailed away. He had collapsed before completing it. But it didn’t matter. His point had been made, his martyrdom had been accomplished — and, in his way, Cowper had escaped from the clutches of the law for ever.