from a previous marriage. His second wife of thirteen months was young, attractive and Muslim, and had just given birth to their son. Her name was Nandeeta, and she was the daughter of wealthy, high-caste immigrants from New Delhi. Kerr had met Nandeeta once before, and described how he had witnessed her husband’s last moments. She listened to the story of Gallagher’s heroism until they told her there were no remains to identify. Then she screamed that the terrorists had stolen her husband’s soul.
With adrenaline flowing long after the endgame, detectives find different ways to wind down immediately after any dangerous operation. Like stand-ups buzzing after a late-night live performance, the young and unattached often prefer to hang out together, in the pub or briefing room, while battle-hardened veterans race home to make up for lost time with their families.
A few, like John Kerr, normally sociable and extrovert, prefer to reorient themselves alone. He arrived home shortly after four. His Islington apartment, on the top floor of a refurbished Victorian mansion block, had two bedrooms and a balcony overlooking Upper Street. It had a great view of the local market and Kerr had fallen in love with the place at first sight. Less flashy than the new-build apartments spreading out along the banks of the Thames, it retained masses of character, with high ceilings and ornate cornices. The style was contemporary, the décor neutral, and Kerr had changed scarcely a thing since moving in three years ago.
He could still taste the smoke and dust, and smell the burning. Waiting for the reaction to kick in, he poured a large brandy and opened the French windows onto the balcony. The light was failing, but the rain had lifted. Filling his lungs with cool air, he thought about the dead and injured. The body parts of four terrorists, two Trojans and a police driver were being laid out in mortuaries across London, as were those of four residents of the flats; they had been shredded by flying glass. The conviction that he could have prevented it filled him with sadness.
He knew the loss of life, of comrades and civilians, would have a profound effect on everybody. At such times, their immediate reactions might differ. But within hours, invariably, every single officer felt the same compulsion to return to work, to do something to mitigate the tragedy. Kerr discouraged this because he knew it made the families feel excluded, incapable of comforting or understanding their loved ones. Melanie, in particular, had been through hell in the past twenty-four hours, and badly needed to spend time with her husband and two young children. But whatever orders he and Jack Langton gave about rest and recuperation, Kerr was certain she would soon reappear at the Yard, alongside Alan Fargo, Justin and the others.
Back in the bedroom he dumped his clothes in the wash basket, threw his torn jacket aside and took a long shower. Collapsing on the sofa in his towelling robe, he switched on Sky News for the full story. The fleshy face of Derek Finch, counter-terrorism co-ordinator, filled the screen. Finch had a dual role. He was responsible for mounting national counter-terrorist investigations but, as overall head of SO15, he was also Paula Weatherall’s boss. While Weatherall’s officers worked invisibly behind the scenes to generate secret intelligence on extremist suspects, Finch’s much larger team of detectives investigated terrorist crime. Through their forensic examination of bomb scenes, interrogation of terrorist prisoners and pursuit of leads anywhere in the world, his officers linked the evidential chain, working with Crown Prosecution Service lawyers to prepare the case for trial. Weatherall’s job was to prevent the attack; but when the intelligence failed and the bombers got through, it was Finch’s task to extract every speck of evidence from the scene and track down other conspirators to the farthest corners of the globe.
Kerr
With adrenaline flowing long after the endgame, detectives find different ways to wind down immediately after any dangerous operation. Like stand-ups buzzing after a late-night live performance, the young and unattached often prefer to hang out together, in the pub or briefing room, while battle-hardened veterans race home to make up for lost time with their families.
A few, like John Kerr, normally sociable and extrovert, prefer to reorient themselves alone. He arrived home shortly after four. His Islington apartment, on the top floor of a refurbished Victorian mansion block, had two bedrooms and a balcony overlooking Upper Street. It had a great view of the local market and Kerr had fallen in love with the place at first sight. Less flashy than the new-build apartments spreading out along the banks of the Thames, it retained masses of character, with high ceilings and ornate cornices. The style was contemporary, the décor neutral, and Kerr had changed scarcely a thing since moving in three years ago.
He could still taste the smoke and dust, and smell the burning. Waiting for the reaction to kick in, he poured a large brandy and opened the French windows onto the balcony. The light was failing, but the rain had lifted. Filling his lungs with cool air, he thought about the dead and injured. The body parts of four terrorists, two Trojans and a police driver were being laid out in mortuaries across London, as were those of four residents of the flats; they had been shredded by flying glass. The conviction that he could have prevented it filled him with sadness.
He knew the loss of life, of comrades and civilians, would have a profound effect on everybody. At such times, their immediate reactions might differ. But within hours, invariably, every single officer felt the same compulsion to return to work, to do something to mitigate the tragedy. Kerr discouraged this because he knew it made the families feel excluded, incapable of comforting or understanding their loved ones. Melanie, in particular, had been through hell in the past twenty-four hours, and badly needed to spend time with her husband and two young children. But whatever orders he and Jack Langton gave about rest and recuperation, Kerr was certain she would soon reappear at the Yard, alongside Alan Fargo, Justin and the others.
Back in the bedroom he dumped his clothes in the wash basket, threw his torn jacket aside and took a long shower. Collapsing on the sofa in his towelling robe, he switched on Sky News for the full story. The fleshy face of Derek Finch, counter-terrorism co-ordinator, filled the screen. Finch had a dual role. He was responsible for mounting national counter-terrorist investigations but, as overall head of SO15, he was also Paula Weatherall’s boss. While Weatherall’s officers worked invisibly behind the scenes to generate secret intelligence on extremist suspects, Finch’s much larger team of detectives investigated terrorist crime. Through their forensic examination of bomb scenes, interrogation of terrorist prisoners and pursuit of leads anywhere in the world, his officers linked the evidential chain, working with Crown Prosecution Service lawyers to prepare the case for trial. Weatherall’s job was to prevent the attack; but when the intelligence failed and the bombers got through, it was Finch’s task to extract every speck of evidence from the scene and track down other conspirators to the farthest corners of the globe.
Kerr
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