‘And the conclusion?’
‘It’s not an amateur’s weapon. We haven’t traced them coming in here yet. If it is a Kalashnikov we’re not up against second division. If they can get one of these things then they’re big and know what they’re about.’
That struck the chord. All four stayed quiet for a moment; it was a depressing thought. A professional political assassin on their hands. It went through the Commissioner’s mind before he spoke that a man who troubled to get the ideal gun for the killing, the most popular terrorist weapon in the world, would spend time on the other details of the operation.
He lit his first cigarette of the day, two hours ahead of the schedule he’d disciplined himself to after his last medical check, and broke the silence.
‘He’ll have thought out his escape route. It’ll be good. Where are we, how do we block him?’
The murder squad chief took it up. ‘Usual, sir, at this stage. Ports, ferries, airports, private strips as soon as we can get men to them. Phone calls ahead to the control towers. I’ve got as many men as possible concentrated on tube stations, and particularly exit points on the outskirts. He went towards Victoria, could be the tube, could be the train. We’re trying to seal it, but that takes a bit…’
He tailed away. He’d said enough. The Commissioner drummed his desktop with the filter of his cigarette. The others waited, anxious now to get the meeting over and get back to their desks, their teams and the reports that were beginning to build.
The Commissioner reacted, sensing the mood.
‘Right, I take it we all accept Danby was the target because of his work in Northern Ireland, though God knows a less controversial Minister I never met. Like a bloody willow tree. It’s not a nut, because nutters don’t get modern Commie assault rifles to run round Belgrave Square. So look for a top man, in the IRA. Right? I’m putting Charlie in overall control. He’ll co-ordinate. By this afternoon I want the whole thing flooded, get the manpower out. Bank on Belfast, we’ll get something out of there. Good luck.’
The last was a touch subdued. You couldn’t give a pep talk to the three men he had in the room, yet for the first time since he’d eased himself into the Commissioner’s chair he’d felt something was required of him. Stupid, he thought, as the door closed on the Special Patrol Group Commander.
His yellow light was flashing again on the telephone console. When he picked up his phone his secretary told him the Prime Minister had called an emergency Cabinet meeting for 2.30, and would require him to deliver a situation report to Ministers at the start of their meeting.
‘Get me Assistant Commissioner Crime, Charlie Henderson,’ he said, after he’d scribbled down the message from Downing Street on his memory pad.
At a quarter to eleven the BBC broke into its television transmissions to schools, and after two seconds of blank screen went to a ‘Newsflash’ caption. It then dissolved to a continuity announcer, who paused, hesitated for a moment, and then, head down on his script, read:
Here is a newsflash. Just after nine this morning a gunman shot and killed the Secretary of State for the Social Services, Mr Henry Danby. Mr Danby was about to leave his Belgrave Square home when he was fired on by a man apparently on the other side of the street. He was dead on arrival in hospital. Our outside broadcast unit is now outside Mr Danby’s home and we go over there now to our reporter, James Lyons.
It’s difficult from Belgrave Square to piece together exactly what happened this morning, as Mr Henry Danby, the Social Services Minister, left his home and was ambushed on his front doorstep. The police are at the moment keeping us a hundred yards back from the doorway as they comb the street for clues, particularly the cartridge cases of the murder weapon. But with me here is a lady who was walking her dog just round the corner of the Square when the first shot was fired.
Q. What did you see?
A. Well, I was walking the dog, and I heard the bang, the first bang, and I thought that doesn’t sound like a car. And I came round the corner and I saw this man holding this little rifle or gun up to his—
Q. Could you see the Minister — Mr Danby?
A. I saw him, he was sort of crouched, this man in his doorway, he was trying to crawl, then came the second shot. I just stood there, and he fired again and again, and the woman—
Q. Mrs Danby?
A. The woman in the doorway was screaming. I’ve never heard such a noise, it was dreadful, dreadful… I can’t say any more… he just ran. The poor man was lying there, bleeding. And the woman just went on screaming… it was awful.
Q. Did you see the man, the gunman?
A. Well, yes and no, he came past me, but he came fast, he was running.
Q. What did he look like?
A. Nothing special, he wasn’t very tall, he was dark.
Q. How old, would you guess?
A. Not old, late twenties, but it was very fast.
Q. And what was he wearing? Could you see?
A. He had a brown mac on, a sort of fawn colour. I saw it had a tartan lining. I could see that he put the gun inside, in a sort of pouch. He just ran straight past me. I couldn’t move. There’s nothing more.
They’d told the man that simplicity would see him through. That if they kept it easy, with no frills, they’d get him back. He got off the train at Watford, and began to walk towards the barrier, eyes going 180° in front of him. The detectives he spotted were close to the ticket barrier, not looking down the platform, but intent on the passengers. He walked away from the barrier towards the Gents, went into the graffiti-scrawled cubicle, and took off the coat. He hung it carefully behind a door. He unfastened the shoulder strap, unclipped the magazine from the gun, took off his jacket and put the improvised holster back on. With the jacket over the top, the rifle fitted unseen close to his armpit. It gave him a stockiness that wasn’t his, and showed his jacket as a poor fit; but that was all. Trembling again in his fingers, he walked towards the barrier. The CID men, both local, had been told the Minister had been shot at home in Belgrave Square, they’d been told the man might have got away by Underground, they’d been told he was in a fawn-brown macintosh and was carrying an automatic rifle. They hadn’t been told that, if the killer was on the tube, his ticket might not have been issued at Victoria — could have been bought at another station during the journey. Nor had they been told the Kalashnikov could be folded. They ruled him out in the five yards before he handed over his ticket.
He walked away from them, panting quietly to himself, his forehead cold with sweat, waiting for the shout behind him, or the heavy hand falling on his shoulder, and felt nothing. He walked out of the station to the car park, where the Avis Cortina waited. He stowed the gun under his driving seat and set off for Heathrow. There’s no way they’ll get you if you stay cool. That was the advice.
In the late morning traffic the journey took him an hour. He’d anticipated it would, and he found he’d left himself ninety minutes for his flight when he’d left the car in the No. 1 terminal car park. He locked the car, leaving the rifle under his seat with its magazine along with it.
The police were staked out at all corners of the terminal. The man saw the different groups, reflected in their shoulder markings: Airport Police — AP, T. Division of the Metropolitan — T, and the Special Patrol Group men — CO. He knew the last were armed, which gave him a chilled feeling in his belly. If they shouted and he ran, would they shoot him?… He clenched his fist and walked up to the BEA ticket desk.