The sirens of the patrol cars blotted out the screaming of the Minister’s wife as she lay over the body. They’d been diverted there just ninety seconds before with the brief message, ‘Man shot in Belgrave Square.’ The two constables were still mentally tuned to the traffic blockages at the Knightsbridge underpass as they spilled out into the street. George Davies, twenty-two years old and only three years in the Metropolitan police, was first out. He saw the woman, the body of the man under her, and the brain tissue on the steps. The sight stopped him in mid-stride as he felt nausea rising into his mouth. Frank Smith, twice his age, screamed, ‘Don’t stop, move,’ ran past him to the huddle on the steps, and pulled the Minister’s wife from her husband’s body. ‘Give him air,’ he yelled, before he took in the wrecked skull, the human debris on the flagstones and the woman’s housecoat. Smith sucked in the air, mumbled inaudibly, and turned on his knees to the pale-faced Davies ten paces behind him. ‘Ambulance, reinforcements, tell ’em it’s big, and move it fast.’ When Smith looked again at the Minister’s wife he recognized her. ‘It’s Mrs Danby?’ he whispered. It was a statement, but he put the question into it. She nodded. ‘Your husband?’ She nodded again. She was silent now and the children had edged close to her.
Smith took the scene in. ‘Get them inside, Ma’am.’ It was an instruction, and they obeyed, slowly and numbly going through the door and off the street.
Smith got up off his knees and lumbered back to the squad car.
‘Davies, don’t let anyone near him. Get a description.’
On the radio he put out a staccato message: ‘Tango George, in Belgrave Square. Henry Danby has been shot. He’s dead, from all I can see. Ambulance and reinforcement already requested.’
The street was beginning to fill. The Ministry driver of the Austin Princess had recovered from the initial shock and was able to move the car into a parking-meter bay. Two more police cars pulled up, lights flashing, uniformed and CID men jumping clear before they’d stopped. The ambulance was sounding the warning of its approach on the half-mile journey from St George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner. The Special Patrol Group Land-Rover, on standby at Scotland Yard, blocked the south side of the square. One of its constables stood beside it, his black, short-barrelled Smith & Wesson.38 calibre in his hand.
‘You can put that away,’ said his colleague, ‘we’re light years too bloody late.’
At Oxford Circus the man debated quickly whether to break his journey, head for the Gents and take the magazine off his Kalashnikov. He decided against it, and ran for the escalator to bring him up from the Victoria Line to the level of the Central Line. He thought there would be time to worry about the gun later. Now distance concerned him. His mind was still racing, unable to take in the violence of the scene behind him. His only reaction was that there had been something terribly simple about it all, that for all the work and preparation that had gone into it the killing should have been harder. He remembered the woman over the body, the children and the dog on the pavement, the old woman he had avoided on the pavement outside the house. But none of them registered: his only compulsion now was to get clear of the city.
The first reports of the shooting reached the Commissioner’s desk a mile away at Scotland Yard at 9.25. He was slipping out of his coat after the chauffeured drive from Epsom when his aide came in with the first flashes. The Commissioner looked up sharply, noting there had been no knock on his door, before the young officer was in front of him, thrusting a piece of paper at him. As he read the message he saw it was torn at the bottom, ripped off a teleprinter. He said, ‘Get me CI, Special Branch and SPG, here in five minutes.’ He went over to his desk, pressed the intercom button, announced sharply, ‘Prime Minister, please,’ and flicked the switch back.
When the yellow light flashed in the centre of the console the Commissioner straightened a little in his seat, subconsciously adjusted his tie, and picked up his phone. A voice remote, Etonian and clipped, said on the line, ‘Hello, Commissioner, we’re just raking him up, won’t be a second.’ Then another click. ‘Yes, right, you’ve found me. Good morning, Commissioner, what can I do for you?’
The Commissioner took it slowly. First reports, much regret, your colleague Henry Danby, dead on arrival in hospital. Seems on first impression the work of an assassin, very major police activity, but few other details available. He spoke quietly into the phone and was heard out in silence. When he finished the voice at the end of the line, in the first-floor office overlooking Downing Street and the Foreign Office arch, said ‘Nothing else?’ ‘No, sir. It’s early, though.’ ‘You’ll shout if you want help — army, air force, intelligence, anything you need?’
There was no reply from the Commissioner. The Prime Minister went on: ‘I’ll get out of your hair — call me in half an hour. I’ll get one of our people to put it out to the Press Association.’
The Commissioner smiled to himself bleakly. A press release straight away — the political mind taking stock. He grimaced, putting his phone down as the door opened and the three men he’d summoned came in. They headed critical departments: CI — the élite crime investigation unit; the Special Branch — Scotland Yard’s counter-terrorist and surveillance force; and the Special Patrol Group — the specialist unit trained to deal with major incidents. All were Commanders, but only the head of the SPG was in uniform.
The Commissioner kept his office spartan and without frills, and the Commanders collected the armless chairs from the sides of the room and brought them towards the desk.
He spoke first to the Special Patrol Group Commander and asked him abruptly what was known.
‘Not much, sir. Happened at 9.07. Danby comes down his front steps regular time, regular everything — he’s waiting for the Ministry car. A man steps into the street on the other side, and lets fly, fires several shots, multiple wounds, and runs for it in the direction of Victoria. Not much good for eye-witnesses at this stage, not much about. There’s a woman on the pavement had a good look at him, but she’s a bit shocked at the moment. We’ve got he’s about five-eight, younger than middle-aged, say thirtyish, and what she calls so far a pinched sort of face, dark hair. Clothes aren’t much good — dark trousers under a biscuit-coloured mac. That’s it.’
‘And the gun?’
‘Can’t be definite.’ It was the Special Branch man. ‘Seems from what the woman said it’s an AK47, usually called a Kalashnikov. Russians use it, VC in Vietnam, the Aden people, the Black September crowd. It’s Czech-designed, quite old now, but it’s never showed up here before. The IRA have tried to get them into Ulster, but always failed. The Claudia — that fishing boat up to the gills in arms — was running them when intercepted. It’s a classic weapon, semi-automatic or virtually automatic — 400 rounds a minute, if you could get that many up the spout. Muzzle velocity around 2000 feet a second. Effective killing range comfortable at half a mile. The latest version has a folding stock — you could get it into a big briefcase. It’s accurate and doesn’t jam. It’s a hell of a weapon for this sort of thing. Its calibre is fractionally bigger than ours so it fires Iron Curtain ammo, or ours at a pinch. We’ve found four shell cases, but no detail on them yet. It’s got a noise all of its own, a crack that people who’ve heard it say is distinctive. From what the woman said to the people down there it fits with the Kalashnikov.’