Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER SIX

Cowper sat silently in the Lost and Found Room, staring blankly though the cracked lenses of his glasses, his gaze fixed on a point in space eighteen inches from the front of his bloodied nose. He was surrounded by unclaimed bicycles, forgotten briefcases, mysteriously abandoned stereos and wallets and prosthetic limbs and prams, great stacks of dusty detritus, labelled and shelved, logged and left to moulder year after year, unclaimed, unwanted. Manchester’s flotsam and jetsam all washed up here eventually — and, with his broken glasses and blood-streaked face, Cowper fitted in perfectly: just another piece of junk in need of a home.

Does the same go for me? thought Sam, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the interview instead of on himself. Am I just another bit of lost luggage? Is that why I feel this urge to move on? Am I no more at home here than all this forgotten junk? He shook his head to clear it. Concentrate. You’ve got a job to do.

Sam sat himself down across from Cowper and placed a set of typed pages neatly on the table in front of him. But Gene Hunt was in no mood for sitting. He paced, tigerlike, up and down, back and forth, behind Cowper’s back. His eyes glowered dangerously. If he’d had a striped tail, he would have swished it menacingly. His blood was still up after the chase and the shootout, and he was making no effort to calm himself down. It was only a matter of time before he’d kick off, and the interview would degenerate into a chaos of clenched fists and loosened teeth and squished testicles. But, for as long as he could manage it, Sam was determined to see that some degree of professionalism was adhered to.

‘Right, then,’ said Sam, maintaining a controlled, neutral tone. ‘Your name is Cowper. At present, that’s all we know about you. We want to know a lot more. So let’s start at the beginning. Would you state your full name, please?’

Cowper kept his eyes fixed on the dead air in front of his face. He twitched not so much as an eyelid.

‘Come on, let’s not muck about,’ Sam prompted. ‘Your full name, Mr Cowper.’

Nothing.

‘Are you refusing to state your full name, Mr Cowper?’

Silence.

‘I see. Would you be willing to cooperate with this interview if you had a solicitor present? It’s your right to request one.’

Not a flicker.

‘Mr Cowper, you do understand that keeping silent will do you absolutely no good whatsoever,’ Sam went on. ‘Eventually, with or without your cooperation, we will obtain all your personal details — who you are, where you live, who you associate with. Sitting here in silence, you’re achieving nothing but wasting everybody’s time.’

‘And winding one or two of us up,’ put in Gene, pausing for a moment to glare down at Cowper. ‘Winding one or two of us right up.’

After a menacing pause, Gene resumed his slow, dangerous pacing.

But Cowper said nothing, didn’t move a muscle, barely even blinked.

Sam sighed and opened the police file on the table in front of him. ‘Very well, then, Mr Cowper. If you won’t answer questions directly, let’s see if we can coax you into responding by some other means. I have here an inventory of items recovered from your van. It’s quite an Aladdin’s cave. Allow me to read it to you. If you want to respond at any time, please do. Okay?’ He paused. Still nothing. ‘Okay, then. At the time of your arrest you were found to be in possession of — and this is an impressive list, Mr Cowper:

‘Item one: a Steyr fully automatic pistol with four rounds unfired and three spare clips of ammunition. That’s the gun you discharged at DCI Hunt at the arrest scene.

‘Item two: an AR-18 ArmaLite assault rifle. The old IRA favourite, the “Widowmaker”. Now that’s the one you discharged at both DCI Hunt, myself, our fellow officers and various members of the public two days ago in the council records office. We know because the rounds recovered from the crime scene positively match the fifty-three rounds found in your van. Feel like telling us anything about that? Do you want to deny that it’s yours? Were you looking after it for a friend? Mm? Still don’t want to say anything? Then we shall continue.

‘Item three: six and a half pounds of Semtex plastic explosive, delivered to you by the Deerys just prior to your arrest. Again, it’s identical to the Semtex found in the ladies’ toilet at the records office.

‘Item four — you still don’t want to say anything, Mr Cowper? Okay. Item four: ten detonators and eight coils of electrical wire, which — no surprises here — also match the detonators and wire found at the council office.

‘Item five: a balaclava, identical to the one worn by the mystery gunman in the council office.

‘Item six; a jacket, also identical to the one worn by the mystery gunman in the council office.

And, just on a hunch, Mr Cowper, I’m going to add one more item. Item seven: you, Mr Cowper — the mystery gunman himself. Same height, same build, same round glasses, and a mass of evidence to directly link you to the crime scene. Now then, given everything that I’ve just explained to you, can you now see how it would be in your interests to start talking, Mr Cowper? You’re in serious trouble. Silence won’t help you.’

‘You’re wasting your time, Tyler,’ Gene growled. ‘Cowper’s the strong silent type. Leastways, he thinks he is. But I’ll get him talking. ’Coz you see, Cowper, you ain’t down South no more, poncin’ about with all them Financial Times-reading, wine-drinking, Play for Today-watching sausage jockeys. This is Manchester, son. This is CID. This is A-Division. This is my manor.’

Gene slammed his massive fist down on the table.

‘You’ve heard the evidence, you toffee-nosed dipstick! So, if you wanna keep your ball sac attached to the rest of your anatomy instead of residing somewhere uncomfortably far down your oesophagus, drop the Trappist-monk routine and start talking. Name. State your name. In full. Say it!’

Arrogantly, completely unconcerned, Cowper tilted his head and coldly observed Gene through two circles of fractured glass.

‘Name, Cowper. Say your name. Say your chuffin’ name!’

Cowper opened his mouth, paused for few moments, and then, with a joyless smile, said quietly, ‘You’ll start bashing me again whether I cooperate or not. That disinclines me to make things easier for you.’

‘Bashing?’ breathed Gene, bringing his face close to Cowper’s. ‘Who said anything about bashing? I don’t bash. I’m not a basher. I’m more a sort of … Well, hard to put into words, really. It’s simpler if I demonstrate.’

Gene moved suddenly and with surprising speed. In the blink of an eye, his powerful hand was clamped vicelike around Cowper’s genitals. Cowper scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his cheeks and forehead flushing in agony, the chair clattering over behind him. Gene tightened his grip as if he were squeezing juice from a lemon, and then, in a well-honed manoeuvre, gave such a ferocious twist that it sent Cowper sprawling to the floor, sweating and gasping.

‘Bet you’re wishing you’d agree to have a brief present now, am I right?’ said Gene, sniffing the palm of his hand and then wiping it contemptuously on the back of Cowper’s shirt. ‘On your feet.’

Cowper groaned and moved. With effort, he began to drag himself upright. But suddenly Gene launched a ferocious kick to his chin that snapped Cowper’s head backwards and sent him slamming into the wall. His glasses shot off and skittered away across the floor.

‘I said on your feet, you idle sod!’ Gene barked.

This time, Cowper glowered up at him hatefully, a reddening bruise starting to spread across his chin. His mouth worked silently for a moment, then out fell a fragment of tooth.

‘You’d have waited six months for that on the NHS,’ said Gene. ‘Now, get yourself off the floor. And pick that chair up. I won’t have my interview room looking like a tip.’

Slowly, painfully, Cowper set the chair back on its legs, all the time keeping his eyes on Gene in expectation of another blow. But Gene was controlled now, his breathing regular, the volcano of his temper once more under some sort of control.

‘Put your specs back on,’ Gene ordered.

Hunched and stiff-jointed like a man three times his age, Cowper hobbled over to where his John Lennon glasses lay on the floor. As he reached down for them, Sam noticed that Cowper’s hands were shaking.

He’s getting scared now, thought Sam. Gene’s getting to him. But damn it! This isn’t any way to carry out an interview.

It was only with effort that Cowper managed to hook his spectacles back over his ears and settle them on his nose. He looked across at Gene, then at Sam, and then back at Gene — and allowed a slow, insolent smile to tug at his lips.

Have I read Cowper wrong? Sam wondered, watching that smile. Is he in mild shock? Is that why his hands were shaking? Is he prepared to endure anything Gene dishes out to him and still keep his mouth shut? Or is that smile all a front?

‘Right, then,’ said Gene. ‘You’ve got your eyes back. Now, sit yourself down.’

Cowper did so, wincing.

‘Lovely. Now then, let’s try over again. My name’s DCI Gene Hunt. This is my colleague, DI Sam Tyler. And who, pray, might you be, young man?’

Cowper made a weak, gravelly, croaky noise.

‘Speak up, son, I got waxy sylph-likes.’

‘Brett … Brett Cowper.’

‘Brrrett Cowper,’ Gene declared, deliciously rolling the r. ‘We got there in the end. Brrrett Cowper. What an enchanting name. I can’t imagine why you’ve been so shy about sharing it.’

‘You’re not Irish, are you?’ put in Sam.

‘English. London.’

‘So what’s your connection with Michael and Cait Deery?’

Cowper gave Sam a sullen look. ‘What’s my connection? Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Well, what is obvious is that the Deerys are supplying you with IRA weapons and explosives,’ said Gene. ‘And if your name was Paddy O’Reilly and you had a voice loik dat noyce Val Doonican fella I’d have no hesitation in banging you up as a Provo. My colleague, however, has suspicions that you’re something else entirely, something with a fancy logo and letters I can’t remember.’

‘The RHF,’ said Sam. ‘You painted those letters in red on the council office wall, along with a red hand. What’s all that about? What does it mean?’

Cowper’s eyes flicked between Gene and Sam, and then, through a mask of dried blood and developing bruises, he smiled. A cold, lopsided, impertinent smile. It was enough to trigger Gene’s fuse and he lunged forward, ignoring Sam’s protests, and dragged Cowper up by his neck, bringing him close enough to kiss him. But, before he could speak, Cowper beat him to it.

‘Do it, fascist! You can break every bone in my body but you won’t break my will. I’m a soldier of the Red Hand Faction. All you can do is make a martyr of me. I’m ready to die for the cause of freedom. So go on then, you bastard, do it! Do it!’

Gene threw Cowper back down into his chair. For a moment, Sam thought he would lay into him with both fists, perhaps grab hold of Cowper’s arm where Sam had shot him and rip the wound wide open. But, although Gene was breathing heavily through his nostrils like an enraged bull, he somehow restrained himself.

‘Keep talking, Cowper,’ he panted. ‘The Red Hand Faction — what is it? Who else is involved? What are you — a bunch of bomb-chucking Trots, is that it?’

But Cowper suddenly began to sing — coldly, confrontationally — words to the tune of the Socialist ‘Internationale’.

And if those cannibals keep trying

To sacrifice us to their pride,

They soon shall hear the bullets flying,

We’ll shoot the generals on both sides.

Gene shook him as if he meant to break his spine. ‘Names. I want names, not sing-a-long-a-Lenin.’

So comrades, come rally,

And the last fight let us face.

The Red Hand Faction

Unites the human race.

Now Gene had been provoked beyond the limits of self-control. He hurled Cowper against a set of shelves. Cowper crashed to the floor, a torrent of unwanted junk cascading down onto him.

‘I don’t much go in for pinky anthems,’ Gene said, planting himself squarely over Cowper’s prone body, noisily cracking his knuckles. ‘I prefer Max to Marx. Good ol’ Bygraves. That’s my kind of singsong. Classics, like “The Ballad of Davy Crockett”.’

He grasped Cowper’s hair and dragged him to his feet.

And meet me on the corner …

A blow to the stomach doubled Cowper up.

And fings ain’t wot they used to be …

A blow to the face knocked him back against the wall.

‘And then there’s me favourite, “The Cowpuncher’s Cantata”,’ said Gene.

Perhaps the third blow would have broken Cowper’s jaw or shattered his already bloodied nose — perhaps Gene would have smacked away those little round glasses and pressed his thumbs against Cowper’s eyeballs — but Sam intervened. This was a police station. This was CID. This was England, damn it, not a Gestapo torture chamber. And the thought that Gene might break into a rendition of ‘You Need Hands’ was more than he could bear.

‘That’s enough now, Guv,’ said Sam.

‘Enough? I’m just getting going, Tyler. I ain’t even got on to “Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen by the Sea” yet. And he likes that one — don’t you, lad?’

‘I said that is enough, Gene. Lay off him. Let him speak.’

‘Let him speak?’ Gene snarled. ‘I don’t even feel inclined to let this shite-bag breathe. I’ve seen what bastards like him can do, Sam. Blokes blown to pieces. Women with their faces hanging off. Kiddies lying dead in the street. All so some jumped-up toerag who calls himself a soldier can say he’s struck a blow for freedom.’

Prising Gene away, Sam pushed Cowper back into his chair. He sat there, panting and dripping blood, his hair all over his face, the wire frames of his glasses now twisted into crazy corkscrews.

‘Okay everybody, let’s all just calm it down now, shall we?’ said Sam, seating himself opposite Cowper once again. ‘So, Brett, you’re not working for the IRA, you’re part of this Red Hand Faction. What are you guys, then — communists?’

Cowper snorted in derision.

‘Anarchists?’ Sam asked.

‘Students?’ prompted Gene. ‘Worse than students?’

Slowly, Cowper raised his head and said, ‘I’ll tell you what we’re not. We’re not cowards. We’re not obedient little sheep being led to the abattoir. Nor are we lackeys of the bourgeois fascist state and its corporate plutocratic overlords, growing fat on the blood of the world’s workers.’

Gene nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘Students, then.’

‘We’re not willing slaves to the elite neocolonial puppet-masters who keep jackbooted bullyboys like you dancing on the military-economic strings that dangle from the tips of their oligarchical fingers.’

Gene frowned, said, ‘Are you getting this, Sam? Can you translate for me? My Norwegian’s a bit rusty.’

‘World revolution — is that your thing?’ asked Sam.

‘Our thing?’ sneered Cowper. ‘Oh, listen to the little policeman. Yes, it’s our thing, if that’s how you want to phrase it.’

‘So how come you’re getting access to IRA arms?’ Sam persisted. ‘They’re not handing them over out of the goodness of their hearts. The Deerys certainly aren’t sympathetic to you.’

‘I would say their demeanour towards you was positively chilly,’ added Gene. ‘You’ve got leverage over them. What is it?’

Cowper closed his swollen mouth and kept it closed.

‘We overheard your meeting with the Deerys,’ said Sam. ‘You said you were “babysitting” for them. What does that mean? You’ve got something they want — what is it? Is it a thing, or a person? Brett, it’s in your interests to cooperate. I can’t emphasize enough just how deep the shit is that you’re in right now. Helping us is helping yourself. Now tell us, Brett — what’s the deal between you and the Deerys?’

Silence.

‘Who else is in this Red Hand Faction of yours?’

Silence.

‘Where are they based? Where do they stockpile their arms? Where are they planning to strike?’

‘You said something just now,’ Cowper said quietly. ‘Something about the depth of the shit I was in.’

‘It’s a technical term,’ said Gene. ‘Police jargon. It means you’re in a pickle.’

‘You were right to say it,’ Cowper went on, ignoring Gene and keeping his attention fixed on Sam. ‘It’s the correct phrase. The only thing I’d add is that it’s not me who’s in the shit — it’s you. It’s both of you. It’s all of you. Everyone.’

‘The bomb in the toilet,’ said Sam. ‘Symbolic. A message. Society’s a toilet, and your RHF buddies are going to blow it all to smithereens. Am I right?’

‘What a bright little fascist you are,’ said Cowper. ‘You know, thirty years ago over in Spain, the anarchists fighting Franco used to hide bombs in bunches of flowers. We thought we’d rethink that little number for our own struggle — after all, like them, we’ve got a fascist dictatorship to bring down.’

‘Edward Heath?’ said Gene, incredulous. ‘A fascist? He’s a plummy twat, I’ll give you that, but fair play to the fella.’

‘A bomb in the toilet bowl,’ Cowper continued, ‘blasting away the scum and the filth; obliterating establishment vermin such as yourselves; ridding the world of the monetarist leeches and their truncheon-swinging lickspittles, in readiness for a new age of equality and justice.’

‘We’re not here to listen to political speeches, Cowper,’ said Sam.

‘Not Mr Cowper any more?’ smiled Cowper. ‘Is that the cue for your gorilla to lay into me again?’

‘I’m nobody’s bloody gorilla,’ barked Gene. ‘Least of all his. I’m the guv’nor.’

‘So, then, your Red Hand Faction is a paramilitary terrorist organization,’ continued Sam, ‘siphoning weapons and explosives off the IRA — God knows how — and equipping itself for an armed campaign.’

‘We can make better use of the IRA’s munitions than they themselves can,’ said Cowper proudly. ‘We have broader aims than they do. Besides, they don’t frighten us.’

‘So, you’re going to teach the IRA how to really blow up civilians?’

‘There are no civilians,’ said Cowper. ‘Not in this war. The battlefield is right here — right here, on these very streets — and the men and women of this city are the frontline soldiers. Manchester, Liverpool, London, it’s all the same. You’re either with us or against us. Nothing in between. No opting out, no conscientious objectors. There’s a line, you understand? There’s a line, and if you’re not on this side of it, then you’re on that side of it. It’s all very, very simple.’ And, looking directly at Gene he added, ‘Black or white. Right or wrong. Nothing in between.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ said Gene in a low, dangerous voice. ‘There’s me. I’m in between.’

And with that he turned and strode to the door.

‘Phyllis! One suspect ready for transfer to the cells.’ he boomed into the corridor.

Sam watched Cowper drag himself slowly and painfully to his feet. He scraped the sweaty hair from his face, peeling the strands from the sticky blood on his cheeks and around his mouth. Carefully — like a bookworm in his study — Cowper resettled the round glasses on his nose. Battered, bleeding and bang to rights, Brett Cowper stood tall — unrepentant, unafraid. Sam looked at him, and realized he was looking at a man every bit as motivated, fanatical, and single-minded as any IRA hitman. The Red Hand Faction were clearly deluded. They were most probably nothing more than a tinpot ragbag of misfits, political extremists and out-and-out lunatics, but they had bombs, and they had guns, and they had men like Brett Cowper to make up their numbers — men mad enough to blackmail the IRA, for God’s sake!

This RHF might be mad, but they’re dangerous, thought Sam. They’re every bit as dangerous as the IRA. Is this the storm we’ve got brewing? Two sets of bombing campaigns to deal with at once? Two sets of terrorists? Is that what we must face? Can we face it?

‘I said get this joker out of my sight and banged up in a cell!’ Gene yelled again, and this time officers came running, keys jangling. ‘I’d hate to lose my temper with him. I might find myself using intemperate language, and that would never do.’