A Real Job: A David Hurst Story

By David Lowe

Following an investigation in 1996 Detective Sergeant David Hurst and his friend Detective Constable Steve Adams receive death threats from the Provisional IRA. Many years after the 1998 Good Friday Peace Agreement in Northern Ireland being signed, both officers forget about the death threat until they are shot at outside the Old Bailey courts in London. After seeing members of that IRA cell following Hurst when visiting family in Liverpool, while making enquires including seeing one of their old Irish informants the officers come across intelligence revealing the Irish dissident group, the Real IRA are trying to mount a terror campaign in mainland Britain.

As there is an ongoing investigation by Hursts team into an Al Qaeda plot to attack cities in England and as the killings start by the Real IRA, with resources stretched time is against Hurst and Adams to find out who is financing the Real IRA, what the Real IRA's main target of attack is and to stop them.

Closely based on David Lowe's experiences as a detective in Special Branch's Counter-Terrorism Unit, A Real Job has a stark reality feel to it as it takes you inside the Counter-Terrorism Unit as they carry out their investigations

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467896856

Book preview

Chapter One

Crumpsall, Manchester,

22.40 hours, 25th October 1996

Death comes to us all in the end, but Detective Constable Steve Adams didn’t think it would come knocking so early in his life. Twenty-two years of age and only two months into his posting with Special Branch, at times Steve’s keenness to make a good impression bordered on recklessness. Being his first operation investigating four experienced targets of the Provisional IRA’s English Brigade planning to attack locations on mainland Britain, he knew the obs spot he volunteered to take was the most dangerous. Nestling behind a set of well established rhododendron bushes in the large back garden of an Edwardian built detached house, owned by an Irish republican sympathiser, unseen by the targets, there was the added peril of being out of sight of his colleagues.

The four targets were not his immediate concern. Deafening bursts of static interrupting the constant radio traffic from his colleagues caused Steve to snatch the small receiver out of his ear. Replacing it, the radio went eerily silent. Frantically turning the channel changer back and forth to see if anyone could pick up his transmissions, Steve’s concentration switched from observing the targets to desperately getting his only lifeline to work. Ignoring the rule of not transmitting from his position unless he could draw his weapon and safely relay to other members of the team movement from the targets, Steve’s voice raised incrementally with each radio check. Cut off from his colleagues, the solitude increased his anxiety.

Unaware of two pairs of hands reaching through the bushes towards him, in frustration Steve started tapping the radio. Suddenly aware of a rustling sound, before he could react two men grabbed him and dragged Steve out from his hiding place. Being in the darkest part of the garden, he could not see who it was. Caught by surprise, Steve began pulling back. With the men’s combined strength being greater, he couldn’t stop being kicked behind the knees. Causing him to fall, Steve made out the figure of a third man standing directly in front of him who started laughing as he said, ‘Just where we were told the fucker would be.’ Still too dark for Steve to make out who it was, the distinctive Belfast accent confirmed it was one of the four targets. Before he realised how life threatening this situation was, Steve’s world went black.

Consciousness slowly returning, distant incoherent sounds became louder and clearer as simultaneously a pain in his head became sharper. Slowly opening his eyes, Steve found himself lying on his side on the patio at the rear of the house. Remembering what had just happened, a power surge went through his body as his senses were heightened to the extreme. The limited light coming from the open back door leading from the patio to the kitchen confirmed it was three of the Irish targets who found Steve. With Sean McCrossan holding him down, straining his neck, Steve looked up to see Pat Quinn standing over him looking at something in his hand. Rory O’Byrne was stood next to him holding Steve’s Special Branch issue Berretta Cougar pistol. The throbbing pain in his head told Steve he took a blow rendering him unconscious during which time they must have searched him. Having been dragged across the lawn to the rear patio, Steve remembered from the operation’s briefing this was a blind spot to the neighbouring houses. Quinn looked at the pistol. ‘That’s Special Branch issue alright,’ he said handing it back to O’Byrne, ‘and just like our man said, this fucker’s warrant card says he’s in Greater Manchester Police.’ Quinn started kicking Steve’s back as he spoke, ‘So Stephen fucking Adams from Special Branch, we know you’re not alone. Where are the other peelers?’

When Quinn stopped kicking him, Steve said nothing. The shock at hearing someone from Special Branch was passing information on to the Provisionals partly anaesthetised his discomfort. Taking his cue from Steve’s silence, O’Byrne started kicking him and said, ‘Yer man here asked you a question. Now fucking answer it. Where are the other peelers?’

Looking up, he saw Quinn with his head slightly to one side gesturing he was impatiently waiting for an answer. This was the closest he had been to the Irishman. Ignoring the pain, Steve was momentarily fascinated at the hardness ingrained in Quinn’s facial features making the Irishman looked much older than twenty-five. ‘I’m not waiting all fucking night,’ Quinn said, once more kicking Steve at the base of his spine, ‘where’s the other peelers that’s watching the house?’

With fear causing Steve’s stomach to churn, he felt physically sick. Knowing the Provisional IRA saw themselves as soldiers in the fight for Irish freedom, at the thought of being the next casualty in this war he began baulking. Now in a fight for his life, with bile he brought up dribbling from his mouth, his mind raced as to how he could get out of this situation. With Quinn continuing to kick him, Steve sensed McCrossan ease his grip on him. With his primeval will to live enhanced by the betrayal, he gathered a strength he never knew he had. Rolling away from McCrossan, Steve started getting to his knees. Being the first of the three to react, Quinn brought the officer’s resistance to a swift end. Pushing past O’Byrne, he quickly stepped over to Steve, pistol whipping him before he could get onto his feet. As a loud thud reverberated in Steve’s head, it was followed by a sharp pain and a loss of control of his limbs.

Knocking him semi-conscious, being repeatedly punched about the head and body forced the conscious half to frantically but incoherently work overtime as the instinct to survive kicked in. Unable to think clearly, the shouts of his captors became inaudible to Steve’s ears. Helplessly groping around on the patio’s paving stones, the blow to his head seemed to cut off the signals his brain was sending to his legs. On his knees and scrabbling to pick himself up, Steve’s hair was violently pulled back. Struggling to overcome the fuzziness in his head he sensed something sticky trickling down the back of his neck. Reaching out to see what it was Steve’s hand was forcefully pulled down by his side. Slowly, the myriad of flashing yellow dots punctuating his sight disappeared allowing him to see more clearly the stark reality facing him. ‘I’m losing my patience with you Mister Adams,’ Quinn said pointing a pistol at Steve’s head, ‘You’re fucking going nowhere. So stop fucking us about and tell us how many other peelers are watching the fucking house?’

With the clipped Belfast accent enhancing Steve’s fear, as terror gripped his body numbness replaced the pain. Opening his mouth slowly, in a quiet drawl Steve, said, ‘The others have gone. There’s only me here.’

McCrossan kicked Steve viciously in the ribs. Clutching his side, the detective let out a cry as he fell from the patio onto the cold, damp grass. Repeatedly kicking Steve with such force it lifted the officer’s torso off the ground, he shouted, ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

‘Leave him Sean. We’ll get nothing out of him that way,’ O’Byrne said, raising the officer back to his knees.

Placing the tip of the pistol’s barrel against Steve’s left temple, Quinn said, ‘I fucking warned you, don’t piss us about, where’s the other peelers?’ The two men looked at each other. As Quinn slowly pulled back the pistol’s hammer his piercing stare betrayed an indifference if the officer lived. ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t fucking tell us, I’ll blow your fucking head off.’

Knowing it would cost him his life, he was determined not to give them any information regarding the whereabouts of his colleagues. Looking up once more at Quinn then glancing over at the shorter but more stocky built McCrossan who was holding a revolver by his side, Steve tried to work out which one was going to carry out the summary execution. As he did, uncontrollable tears started trickling down his face. Annoyed at showing weakness in front of his adversaries Steve tried to remain dignified. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and mouthed silently to the mental picture of his wife and daughter, ‘I love you.’

Two shots rang out.

Quinn’s body fell on Steve. Amazed he was still alive, he opened his eyes. Pushing the lifeless body off him two more shots quickly followed. Looking up, he saw McCrossan fall to the ground clutching his stomach, dropping his pistol on the lawn. Three bright orange flashes briefly lit up the unseasonably cold autumn darkness as more shots were fired towards O’Byrne who was running away towards the back of the garden. Vaulting over the garden wall, he disappeared out of view.

‘Stevey, are you alright?’ a familiar voice shouted. The Liverpool accent that at times grated on Steve’s nerves was now one of the most pleasing sounds he had ever heard. Shaking uncontrollably, continuous waves of relief were sweeping through his body. Gathering his senses he saw Detective Constable David Hurst standing over Quinn.

‘Fuck me, you cut that fine,’ Steve said struggling to get to his feet while looking at the lifeless Quinn who, only moments earlier was prepared to take the officer’s life, ‘a few seconds more and they would’ve killed me.’

‘I knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer the radio,’ David said. With both hands on his pistol’s grip, fearing he could still be a threat to their safety he was running to the back of the garden to search for O’Byrne.

Not able to forget the words we were told and our man was right, David’s words didn’t register with Steve who shouted out angrily, ‘They knew I was here, they fucking knew.’

Stood at the garden wall David Hurst momentarily stopped looking for O’Byrne. ‘They knew?’ he said looking at Steve in disbelief, ‘How the fuck did they know?’

‘One of them said they were told exactly where I was and that I was Special Branch. Someone from our side tipped the bastards off we’re here.’

‘Are you saying it was one of ours?’ David asked with a tone of incredulity as he continued to search the area at the rear of the garden.

Steve didn’t answer. Standing in the middle of the garden he was too relieved to be alive. The fact it was still a dangerous situation as two of the four targets were unaccounted for eluded him. Emotions running wild, the thought he nearly died because one of their own was passing on intelligence to the Provisional IRA was becoming too much for his shattered nerves to contemplate.

The thick clouds allowed only limited moonlight to filter through enhancing the darkness of the night making it harder for David to look for O’Byrne. Unable to find him, as the fourth member of this terrorist cell was still unaccounted for David ignored his gut reaction to tend to Steve, ‘Where’s McElvaney?’ he said looking back at the house.

‘I don’t know. He most probably ran out the front of the house after hearing the gunfire.’

‘You could be right. We’d better be careful he doesn’t come back. If he meets up with O’Byrne and comes back, they won’t be too happy I took out two of theirs,’ David said walking over to Steve. Guiding his close friend to the edge of the patio, using the light coming from the open kitchen door he looked at Steve and said, ‘Jesus! You’re face is a fucking mess and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig at the back of your head. Are you OK?’

Steve placed his hand to the back of his head. Feeling the area around his blood matted hair, he touched the wound. Being tender he winced. Looking at the blood he smeared on his hand from the cut, Steve said, ‘They whacked me over the head a couple of times after they found me, then I got a good kicking.’ The adrenaline in his body began to ebb causing him to incrementally feel pain all over his body. Placing his hand on his ribcage Steve said, ‘I think they’re broke.’

‘Pat, did you kill the fucking peeler?’ a voice shouted from inside the kitchen.

Raising his pistol, David turned in an instant to see a man inside the kitchen approaching the back door leading straight onto the rear patio. Six foot tall and in his early twenties with distinctive blonde hair, the officer instantly recognised Daniel McElvaney. On hearing the shots, the Irishman thought it was his comrades killing the police officer they had been tipped off was watching them. This fourth member of the terrorist cell had not gone out of the front of the house as Steve suspected. He was stood in the doorway, his right hand behind his back.

‘Armed police! Stand still. If you don’t do as I say you’ll be joining your mates lying here,’ David shouted training his pistol at the tall Irishman. He couldn’t tell, but assumed McElvaney was armed. An assumption enhanced at not being able to see the Irishman’s right hand. Annoyed at his sloppiness in accepting Steve’s word, the word of a man who was not thinking straight, David knew he should have looked for McElvaney before tending to Steve. With McElvaney’s gaze fixed on the detective’s Berretta pistol pointing at him, David shouted out, ‘Slowly, bring you right hand from behind your back.’

Weighing up his options, McElvaney stayed rigid. Beyond David he saw two of his comrades lying on the floor. It dawned on him he couldn’t rush the officer or make any sudden movement without being shot. McElvaney’s inactivity seemed like an eternity. His patience wearing thin, David shouted, ‘Do as I fucking say or I’ll kill you as well.’

‘OK, OK, don’t shoot,’ McElvaney shouted back, trying to make sure the officer could not see his right hand fidgeting behind his back above the belt of his denim jeans.

‘Do as I say and I won’t?’ David shouted back.

‘I can see I’m fucking going nowhere. I’ll do as you say,’ McElvaney said hoping the officer would momentarily drop his guard.

‘Slowly, bring your right hand from behind your back with the palm facing me.’

Able to hold the grip of the point thirty five revolver tucked into the back of his denims, McElvaney drew the weapon. Bringing it from behind his back, it glistened briefly in the kitchen light.

Seeing he was armed David’s automatic instinct to open fire kicked in. As he had been watching the Irishman’s right hand, David’s aim had dropped slightly. Missing McElvaney’s arm by millimetres the Irishman dropped the revolver. Knowing the police were trained to give a double tap, he immediately threw his hands up in the air just as David was about to squeeze the trigger for a second time.

In a fraction of a second David had raised his pistol and was aiming it squarely at McElvaney’s chest as he was about to take the second shot. Resisting the temptation to take the shot, David’s discipline and training was stronger than his instinct. ‘You fucking bastard! Keep your hands up and slowly take five paces towards me onto the patio,’ David said as part of him wanted McElvaney to make a sudden movement so he could kill him. Knowing the killing would not be murder because he would have acted in self-defence, he warned McElvaney, ‘One sudden movement from you, you twat and you’ll be definitely joining your two fucking mates.’

Hearing the shot fired re-booted Steve’s police training. Pushing his pain to one side he ran over to David who was keeping his eyes firmly on McElvaney. Sensing Steve standing alongside him, moaning from one of the targets lying on the lawn got louder. ‘One of them’s still alive,’ David said to Steve, ‘Go and check and make sure they can’t get us. I’ll get this one down on the floor. Don’t worry, if he doesn’t do as I say, I’ll blow the bastard away.’

While David dealt with McElvaney, Steve walked over to the two men on the lawn. Seeing his weapon that O’Byrne found on him and dropped in panic when he ran off, he picked it up. Seeing the safety catch was still on explained why O’Byrne couldn’t return fire when David opened up on Quinn. Switching the safety catch off, he looked at McCrossan who was rolling slightly on his side clutching his stomach. That, along with his moaning, told Steve he was alive. Noticing McCrossan’s pistol lying a few yards from him, to make sure he couldn’t reach for it Steve kicked it across the lawn away from the Irishman.

Walking quickly over to Quinn, Steve knelt down by his body. Seeing the large exit wound from the front of the skull and a lifeless stare from Quinn’s eyes that were still open, Steve still placed his fingers on the Irishman’s neck. As he suspected, there was no pulse. Seeing his warrant card next to the body he picked it up. With the pain getting worse, Steve put his hand on his ribs as he stood up and started walking over to McCrossan. Looking over to make sure David was alright, seeing McElvaney laying face down on the patio, arms outstretched with David standing over him, he knew his friend was in control. McCrossan was still holding his stomach when he looked up at Steve who started kicking the Irishman’s ribcage shouting, ‘How do you like it, you Irish bastard?’

Hearing the screams coming from McCrossan, without taking his eyes off McElvaney, David shouted over to Steve. ‘Leave him! Let’s get McElvaney sorted first.’

Steve stopped kicking McCrossan. Walking over to assist David he said, ‘I was only checking to see if the fucker’s still alive.’ Standing over McElvaney, Steve put his pistol away in his shoulder holster. Crouching down to search him, the pain in his ribs was getting worse causing Steve to grimace.

Sensing Steve might treat him the same way he had McCrossan, McElvaney said, ‘I told you, I’ll do as you say.’

Pausing for a moment, Steve looked at David and said, ‘I don’t remember giving him permission to speak.’ Looking at the IRA man lying on the patio by the open back door, he could taste blood coming from cuts inside his mouth. Reminding him how close he was to not seeing his wife and child, the officer’s blood chilled once more.

‘Steve! Leave it mate,’ David said sensing his friend was about to lose his temper again, ‘Cuff him and I’ll call for an ambulance for the one that’s still alive.’

Updating the control room of the situation David Hurst kept his gun trained on McElvaney while Steve felt around the back of his trouser belt. Not being in the pouch, he realised one of the targets had also taken his handcuffs. Taking hold of McElvaney’s hands Steve overlapped them and placed them on small of the Irishman’s back. Putting his weight on them, he leant into McElvaney’s back and said to David, ‘The fuckers have taken my cuffs as well, hand me yours.’ With the pistol in his right hand, David Hurst kept it aimed at McElvaney while with his left hand David Hurst took the radio away from his ear and placed it in his coat pocket then reached out to the back of his denim jeans. Undoing the pouch, he released his handcuffs and held them out. His sight permanently fixed on McElvaney, Steve reached out. Feeling for the handcuffs, he took them off David. As he began to put them on the Irishman’s wrists he said, ‘Don’t move or you’ll know about it.’ Once the handcuffs were around the wrists, Steve tightened the handcuff ratchets so tight they dug into McElvaney’s flesh, puncturing his skin. As blood started to trickle from his wrists, McElvaney turned his head and looked at the officer. ‘I told you not to fucking move,’ Steve shouted, punching the IRA man hard in the face. Turning to David he said, ‘You saw him resisting arrest didn’t you?’

‘Too right I did. They never learn do they?’

Helped to his feet by Steve, with blood streaming from his nose, McElvaney glared at the two officers. As David put his pistol back into his shoulder holster, the Irishman said, ‘You English bastards.’

Pointing to David, Steve said, ‘Get it fucking right, he’s half Irish.’

Leaning into David’s face, McElvaney said, ‘If you can kill an Irishman, you’ve no Irish blood in you. You’re a dead man and that’s no threat.’ Then emphasising each word, he chillingly whispered into David’s ear, ‘that’s a fucking promise.’

Chapter Two

Warwick Lane, London,

17.10 hours, Wednesday,

27th June, present day

Peter Hurst entered the Trafalgar Arms pub in Warwick Lane, close to the Old Bailey courts in London. On seeing his twin brother, David Hurst got out of his seat and walking over to him said, ‘Peter over here, I’m glad you could make it.’ His trial adjourned for the day and carrying his bag containing his barrister’s wig and gown, Peter Hurst decided not to go straight back to his chambers. With the case David’s counter-terrorism team were involved in having come to an end, he sent his twin a text message telling him to join him in the pub. Inseparable as children, with David living and working in the north-west of England and Peter living in London, as adults they rarely got the opportunity to see each other. Unable to hide the joy at seeing his brother, smiling broadly, David said, ‘Let’s get a drink first, then I’ll introduce you to the team.’

Now a detective sergeant in Greater Manchester Police’s Special Branch Counter-Terrorism Unit, David’s detective inspector, George Byrne, MI5’s northern region senior intelligence officer, Craig MacDonald and MI5 police liaison officer, Debbie Heron had already joined David and his team in the Georgian built pub. Celebrating the conviction of two Al Qaeda terrorists they arrested during an operation several months earlier, the group were sitting on the bench seats in the rear of the room the original frosted glass said was the Lounge.

As they walked to the bar Peter said, ‘You all seem happy. I assume it was a positive result?’

‘One got three life sentences to run concurrently with a recommendation to serve a minimum of thirty years, the other got fifteen years, so I’d definitely call that a good result.’

‘Seeing how there were no other trials from the Manchester area running at the Old Bailey, were you part of that terrorist case that’s been in the news the last couple of weeks?’

‘Yes,’ David said after ordering the drinks.

‘How come your squad got involved with terrorists? Was there a drugs link?’

‘Something like that. We only had a minor role in the case,’ David said dismissively, hoping Peter would change the subject. Only telling his family he was a detective in a CID department he never told them he investigated terrorist crimes.

‘Still, that’s some result and just as well seeing how it was such a high profile case. There are hordes of news reporters camped out on the Old Bailey’s steps getting ready for the six o’clock bulletins,’ Peter said looking behind him. ‘I can see Steve Adams and George Byrne, but the one I’m looking forward to meeting is Debbie. I’m keen to meet the woman that’s turned my big brother’s head. Where is she?’

‘I’m right here,’ a female voice said next to him. Peter turned to see a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a dark suit, with well groomed dark shoulder length hair. Used to making accurate first impressions of the many clients he met, while admiring her soft facial features betraying a comfortable upbringing, there was something about her he could not put his finger on. Clearly a confident person, there was something in her eyes exuding the similar unnerving look his brother had. Holding out her hand she said, ‘You must be Peter. It’s nice to finally meet you.’

‘You too Debbie,’ Peter said. Shaking hands with her, he continued looking her up and down. Having only images of Debbie based on her voice from brief telephone conversations when he rang David’s flat in Ancoats, Manchester, he wondered how a privately educated ambassador’s daughter could end up with his brother raised in one of the poorest areas of Liverpool.

Seeing him eye her up and down, Debbie said, ‘Well, am I what you imagined me to be?’

Embarrassed at being caught staring at her, he said, ‘Oh no.’ Gathering his composure, he added, ‘I was thinking how you look too much of a lady to be with that brother of mine.’

‘I heard that,’ David said passing him a pint of bitter. ‘Here you are love,’ he said passing Debbie a glass of red wine. As Peter went to take a sip, his brother patted him forcefully on his back saying, ‘Get that down your neck.’

Causing Peter to spill his beer, he began wiping his tie and turned to Debbie. ‘It’s certainly not his manners that you see in him.’

Compared to David, she noticed Peter’s Liverpool accent had softened to a point of non-existence. That was not the only difference. Being non-identical twins, apart from having fair hair to Peter’s dark hair, David was a good five inches taller and Debbie reckoned he was around twenty pounds heavier than Peter. ‘He can be well mannered when he wants to be. He’s just showing off in front of that lot over there,’ Debbie said looking over towards the rest of David’s team, who were getting louder the more they drank.

‘How come he’s not unveiled you to the family yet?’ Peter asked, surreptitiously taking in every one of Debbie’s features knowing his mother and sister would want to know every minor detail.

‘Every time we plan to go over to Liverpool or come down here to meet you something’s cropped up at work, so it’s been really difficult to arrange anything. A job’s coming up where I’m assisting David’s team, so hopefully I’ll finally get to meet your parents. You work with Craig MacDonald’s brother, Alistair don’t you?’ Debbie asked changing the subject.

‘Yes. We share the same office at chambers, but not for much longer. I got some good news this morning, but I think I should tell our David first. Would you excuse me for a moment?’

‘Of course,’ Debbie said turning to David who was talking to one of his team, ‘David, Peter’s got something to tell you.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re pregnant,’ David said laughing, ‘Seriously, it’s good news I hope?’

‘I received a letter from the Lord Chancellor’s office this morning. I’m now Peter Hurst QC.’

Hugging Peter with spontaneous delight, David said, ‘That’s great news. Have you told Mum and Dad yet?’

‘Yes, I rang them as soon as I heard. I’ve told our Siobhan as well. I tried to contact you, but you must have already been in court as your mobile went straight onto voicemail. Siobhan’s organising a do for me in Liverpool this weekend. Now your trial’s over, I’d love it if you and Debbie were there.’

David looked over at George and shouted, ‘Boss, my little brother heard this morning he’s now Queen’s Council. The family are having a celebration this weekend. I take it you’ll let me have the weekend off?’

Sitting in the far corner surrounded by David’s team, George was unable to get up. Raising his glass to Peter, due to the raucous chatter of the officers, he was forced to shout over, ‘Congratulations Peter, from what David tells me it’s well deserved.’ He looked at David and added, ‘Of course you can have the weekend off.’

Forcing his way through the legs of his seated colleagues, spilling his drink as he did so, Steve Adams made his way to Peter and said, ‘That’s another cause for a celebration. I’ll get some shorts in. Davey, give us a hand.’ Ignoring the conventional protocol of waiting politely to be served, they forced their way through the predominantly dark suited clientele to the front of the bar. Dismissing the murmurs of mild protest, Steve took money out of his trouser pocket and leant over the bar to attract the attention of the bar staff who were struggling to serve the large numbers of customers. ‘I think they’ve had an unexpected rush on, there’s only two serving. I wonder where everyone’s suddenly come from,’ he said trying to catch the eye of the staff.

David looked at his watch and said, ‘It’s nearly half five so I’m assuming they’ve come here after work.’ As he spoke, his eye was attracted to a small man with a stocky build in his forties standing by the doorway of the public bar on the opposite side of the partition of the lounge area. Having no drink in his hand, he didn’t appear to be with anyone else in the pub. Walking a few paces to his left, then turning round and walking a few paces back to the door looking all around him, he was acting as if he wanted to be noticed. As the man looked up at the ceiling David recognised the man’s face. For a moment he struggled to remember where he knew him from.

‘What’s Peter drinking,’ Steve asked David, who did not reply. Noticing his friend’s eyes transfixed on someone in the public bar, he looked over. Seeing the same man, Steve recognised him instantly. The gates of his episodic memory opened as memories of that autumn night in 1996 came flooding back. Once more he smelt the dampness of that night as the fear he felt when Quinn, McCrossan and O’Byrne stood in front of him returned. Prominent in his mind was Quinn’s gun barrel pointing at him. Unable to take his eyes off the man he shouted out, ‘It’s McCrossan!’

Hearing his name, McCrossan looked over at David and Steve. Raising his right fore and middle fingers to his eyes, he then pointed at the officers. Having got their attention, he quickly sidled out of the doorway of the pub back onto the street.

Grabbing David’s jacket, Steve said, ‘The bastard’s been watching us. Come on!’ Pushing his friend towards the partition door separating the two bar areas, Steve began forcing his way through the crowded pub towards the bar opposite. Barging their way through the customers, not caring if they caused them to spill their drinks, all they wanted to do was get their hands on McCrossan. As the two officers came out of the doorway onto the pavement, they saw him running down Warwick Lane in the direction of the River Thames. Because of his diminutive height, they struggled to keep sight of the Irishman running through the sea of people making their way home from work.

Catching sight of McCrossan at the entrance to Amen Court, a side road running off Warwick Lane, Steve shouted to David, ‘There’s the fucker, he’s run into that side road down there.’

Seeing they had not lost McCrossan gave the officers extra impetus to run that bit harder. As Steve ran into Amen Court David grabbed him. Then bending forward with his hands on his knees, David was panting hard as the side effects of his smoking habit mixed with the beer he had been drinking took its toll. Breathlessly he said, ‘This could be a set up’. Straightening up, he placed his hands at the base of his spine and said, ‘After all these years it looks like the Provisional’s are calling in the death threat and they want us out in the open to do it.’

‘But we’ll lose him!’ Steve said starting to run down Amen Court.

‘Get back!’ David shouted after him, ‘Think about it.’

After working most of his service with David, Steve knew there were times not to question his judgement. This was one of them. Running back to the entrance into Amen Court, Steve joined his DS. Looking at the doorways leading to the numerous terrace connected small businesses in the Court, they strained their eyes for any movement that would betray McCrossan’s position. There was no sign of him or anyone else in the side road. Disconcerting for the officers was that while most of the offices were open, not one person could be seen by the windows. With Warwick Lane heaving with commuters, the stillness in Amen Court heightened the two men’s senses.

Hearing a buzz like a wasp flying by, Steve felt something go past his ear followed by a cracking sound above their heads. Looking up, he saw fragments of brick and mortar fly up in the air from the wall just above their heads. ‘The fucker’s shooting at us,’ Steve shouted grabbing David. Pulling him back, Steve took cover behind the MDG building in Warwick Lane as another bullet thudded into the brickwork of the building’s side wall. Looking at David, he took out his mobile phone. Pressing the number he stored for Metropolitan Police’s Counter-Terrorism Unit, SO15, while waiting for the call to be answered Steve said, ‘The fucker’s calling in that death threat alright.’

‘As we can’t hear any shots I reckon he’s using a silencer,’ David said, ‘That’s making it harder to work out where he is.’

Answering his call, Steve told SO15 what was happening. Thinking that McCrossan must have come out of a doorway to shoot at them, David tentatively looked around the corner of the building. Focusing mainly at doorways and windows, no one could be seen in the Court. ‘He must have run into one of the buildings across the way, but I can’t see where he is,’ he said looking back at Steve while keeping his body against the building.

‘Ok we’ll do that,’ Steve said to the SO15 officer on his phone. Terminating the call, he said to David, ‘SO15 want us to stay here. They’re calling CO19 for firearm support. I’ll ring Debbie. She can tell George. Have another look for the bastard. He’s still got to be around here somewhere.’

‘If he is, we’d better stop people crossing in case he starts shooting again,’ David said getting his warrant card out of his jacket pocket. Crossing Amen Court, he ran to the opposite pavement holding up the card with his right hand. Raising his left arm out in a shepherding manner he started shouting, ‘Police. Get back, there’s a man with a gun.’ With a look of fear in their faces, some stopped dead in their tracks. Two smartly dressed men wearing dark pin stripe suits carrying bags similar to what Peter used for work, who David guessed were young barristers, looked at the officer in a dismissive manner as they continued to walk across Amen Court. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ David shouted at the men showing them his warrant card, ‘I’m a police officer, get back. There’s a man with a gun down that side road.’ Reaching out to the men, he stepped out from the corner of the building. As he spoke, a loud pinging sound came from the paving stone by his feet resulting in small fragments shooting up in the air. Making the two men stop suddenly, colour drained from their faces as they looked at the officer. David turned round to see a small indention on the paving stone. Grabbing the two men, he pushed them over to the corner of the building ensuring they were out of the line of fire. ‘Stay there,’ David said. Pointing to a man with a shaved head wearing a tight fitting polo shirt revealing a build that looked like he worked out in the gym, thinking his size would command respect, David barked out, ‘You, stop anyone crossing the road.’

As the man nodded he would, David ran into the Warwick Lane waving his arms to stop the traffic. Sensing motorists may ignore what they would see as a mad man standing in front of them, he hoped the crowds of people gathering either side of Amen Court might make drivers realise something was wrong and stop. Ignoring David, the first few cars approaching the junction did not even slow down. They just sounded their car horns causing him to jump back onto the pavement. Seeing a gap in the traffic, David ran out into Warwick Lane frantically waving his arms to stop vehicles driving past Amen Court.

A white Ford Transit van was leading the next group of vehicles approaching from the traffic lights further down road. Seeing David stood in his path, the driver slammed the brakes causing an ear piercing screeching of tyres to drown out Steve’s shouts to David to get back onto the pavement. Making everyone in the area look at the vehicle, David could see the driver struggling to stop. Ignoring the fact the van may knock him down, he stood rigid in its path with his right hand raised giving the police stop signal he had been trained to do during his basic training when in uniform many years before. Watching the van get ever closer to his body David started mumbling, ‘Hail Mary full of grace our Lord is with thee, Hail Mary blessed are thou amongst women . . .’ Stopping inches from him and seeing how his prayer was answered quickly, David ran round to the van driver’s door that had the window down. Showing the driver his warrant card, he told the driver to remain where he was as a man in the side road was shooting at passers-by. David decided that was all the driver needed to know. No way was he going to tell the driver and those nearby that it was an Irish terrorist called McCrossan who was carrying out a death threat he made to the two officers many years ago.

With the traffic stopped and everyone, including the pedestrians looking at the two officers, in a moment of compete silence the sound of the Z Cars theme that Everton Football Club entered the pitch to at the beginning of their home games began echoing in the immediate area. Realising it was his mobile phone ring tone David reached into his jacket pocket. Seeing it was Debbie calling, he answered it. ‘Alright Debs.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, we’ve stopped the traffic and the pedestrians from crossing the junction,’ David said trying to look down the Court as safely as he could, ‘the bastard’s fired at least three rounds at me and Steve and as we couldn’t hear a shot being fired, we think he’s using a silencer. We know he’s in Amen Court but we can’t see what position he’s taken up.’

‘I’ve spoken to the Met. You’re to stay there until CO19 attend the scene. Once they’ve arrived we’ve arranged for transport to take you to Thames House where Jenny Richmond from MI5 will debrief you. Peter’s alright, he’s with me and once you and Steve have finished we’ll meet up at the hotel.’

‘OK, have you got an ETA for them?’

‘They should be with you any minute now.’ As Debbie spoke David became aware of sirens in the distance getting louder. ‘No heroics and I’ll see you at the hotel after you’ve finished at Thames House.’

‘OK love, I’ll see you soon,’ David said ending the call. Putting his phone back into his jacket pocket he could see two marked Metropolitan police cars with their lights and sirens on approaching the scene at speed. David walked over to the building opposite Steve and said ‘OK folks, you won’t have to wait much longer, armed police officers are arriving.’ With his back to the wall of the building, he cautiously stepped towards the corner of Amen Court and Warwick Lane. Peering around the corner he looked down the small side road, but still there was no sign of McCrossan. Explaining why they could not see anyone by the windows, it crossed his mind that McCrossan must have entered a building and taken its occupants hostage. He looked over to Steve who gave David a thumbs up.

The first police car came to a stop close to where David was standing. Turning round, he saw two uniform CO19 officers wearing baseball style caps and body armour carrying Heckler and Koch rifles running up to him. Showing them his warrant card, he said, ‘I’m DS Hurst . . .’ and as he briefed them the second car came to halt by Steve where the two armed officers took up positions, one each side of the entrance to Amen Court. Crouching down and pointing their rifles down towards the buildings in the narrow side-road, they took cover at the corners of the buildings making themselves a smaller target. By the