Operation Crimson

By Noel Warr

The 1983 General Election is just weeks away when Special Branch discovers that at least one IRA terrorist cell is planning an attack on mainland Britain. DS Tom Ashton and his newly recruited DC, Charlie Ross, are suddenly at the heart of a police operation that leads them into a web of intrigue and danger. Some will emerge with acclaim and honours; others will not be so fortunate.

“Firearms teams, telephone intercepts, 24-hour surveillance. It was all getting rather surreal. If Bill Nevis had next asked him whether he liked his vodka martini shaken or stirred, he would not have been overly surprised...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326084295

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Operation Crimson

Operation Crimson

by

Noel Warr

Copyright

Copyright ©  Noel Warr 2014

eBook Design by Rossendale Books: www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN: 978-1-326-08429-5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To Ellen, Daniel, Grace and Alice without whose support

this book would never have been written

Acknowledgements

My thanks to John Hayes who cajoled me into writing this book, supported me during it’s creation, and offered sage advice on its completion; and to all the men and women of Special Branch. We live in a safer world thanks to their efforts.

Tuesday 10th May 1983

Tom Ashton stared at the entrance to New Scotland Yard with some trepidation. He was not unique in this of course. Many famous, and indeed infamous characters had approached the headquarters of London's Metropolitan Police with varying degrees of concern. But whereas most such qualms had been borne in the mind, Ashton's were on a much humbler, physical plane. The truth was that he had a raging hangover, and it was the prospect of navigating the Yard's revolving entrance doors that gave him reason to pause. He waited until there was a gap in the steady flow of people into the building and for the doors to be still, before entering an individual pod and gently pushing the bar to revolve the door. Unfortunately he had failed to account for the counter-flow of personnel, and whilst he was slowly revolving into the building two large police officers on urgent business forcefully exited sending Ashton into the reception area at a far greater speed than his condition warranted. The conflicting centrifugal forces upon his stomach and head threatened spectacular results but fortitude and several deep breaths saw him through the crisis and enabled him to reach the sanctuary of a bench reserved for visitors.

He darted a glance towards the receptionist and the security guard on duty but neither seemed to have noticed his discomfort. Once internal equilibrium had been restored he stood up and walked towards the right hand bank of lifts marked floors 10-19. As he approached the inner lobby the security guard moved to block his path and in clipped tones said 'Can I see your ID sir?'

Ashton stared balefully at the man and started fumbling in his inside jacket pocket only to see the guard dissolve into laughter quickly followed by the receptionist.

'Bloody hell Tom, you were pissed last night' said the guard.

'Pissed? He was slaughtered' screeched the receptionist amidst her hooting. 

Ashton's divorce had been finalised the previous day and he had spent the evening deadening the resultant emotions in The Tank, Scotland Yard's own in-house bar. It was so named because it was a windowless room that resembled in appearance, decor, and often smell, the cells known as tanks that drunken prisoners were placed in to sober up when brought into London's police stations. It was not a place that Ashton regularly frequented, but it did allow Scotland Yard's finest to get drunk away from the public gaze and therefore away from any potentially compromising repercussions. The downside to this of course was that, whilst the public did not witness an officer's carousing their co-workers most certainly did, and whilst the strong tradition of the police looking after their own prevented any serious recriminations, it did not stop the irreverent humour that was such a key part of the police mentality.

Ashton therefore had to suffer the barbs of the receptionist and security guard in the knowledge that there would be far worse to come when he finally reached his Squad office. He took what he considered to be a reasonable amount of abuse and then with a wan smile entered the lift and pressed the button for the 19th floor. Never before had he been so grateful for the slow passage of the Yard's lifts. A couple of young women got in at the 10th floor, quickly appraised his condition and exited giggling at the 14th floor, but otherwise he reached the 19th floor unharmed.

The walk to his Squad office would of course be a different matter. He had to pass a number of other offices along the corridor that ran as an internal rectangle around the entire floor, but he had arrived forty minutes before the scheduled start of 10am and so hoped to avoid too many comments at this delicate stage of his recovery. Indeed the plan appeared to have been a success when, with only one door to get passed he heard a voice cry 'Ah, Detective Sergeant Ashton I presume. Why don't you step into my office? Oh, and close the door behind you'.

The person sitting behind the desk was a small, neatly dressed man of about 50 who on first appearance looked far more like a clerk or a librarian than a Detective Inspector in Special Branch. Yet it was this very appearance that had enabled Frank Collins to carry out a number of operational roles that had led him to become a legendary figure within the Branch. Not of course that many actually knew the details of those operations; in the areas that SB operated in secrecy was paramount, even within its own ranks. But reputation and standing were built upon hint and discretionary whispers, and Frank Collins was the subject of many, many such comments.

'I won't compound your physical misery too much Tom' said Collins in a far more gentle voice, 'nor will I add to the cause of that misery by dwelling upon the past other than to ask how Jessica is taking all of this'.

Ashton grimaced at the mention of his, now, ex wife. 'OK I guess. We had a chat after the Court hearing. Seems her job at the art gallery suits her. No doubt she is meeting all the right kind of people there, now that she doesn't have to put up with dull coppers anymore'

Collins refrained from commenting that, given Ashton's commitment to his work (one of the reasons that he was rapidly gaining a significant reputation of his own within the Branch, but also one of the prime causes of his divorce) Jessica had always had to find entertainment amongst those from her own set. Instead he merely shook his head; a gesture that could be taken to convey a number of meanings and one that Collins had long cultivated for just such an effect.

After a moment for the gesture to mature, Collins said 'Now, are you up to work today or do you want to sign out on enquiries in South London?' As Ashton lived in South London this was a polite way of asking whether he wanted to crawl back to his bed.

'No I've got a couple of things to follow up on thanks, and I need to pop down to training to find out about this new probationer you have lumbered me with. He's starting on Monday isn't he?'

'Ah, yes, well, now that you have brought the subject up' said Collins looking far more uncomfortable than a man of his seniority and dignity was used to ' I think you will find that he may be appearing a little earlier than that'

'How much earlier?' asked Ashton who was not too hung over to miss such prevarication.

'Well, I would say about six days'

'But that's today' cried Ashton after an indecent pause for the necessary maths.

'Quite true' smirked Collins ' Indeed you may well find him waiting for you in the squad room even now. He seemed quite a decent lad when we had our little chat a few minutes before you lurched into view, although quite how the powers that be think we are going to use a 6'2" ex- public school boy with ginger hair, and a very English accent on the Irish Squad I really don't know.'

'Please tell me all of that is just an example of your strange and vindictive sense of humour' pleaded Ashton.

'Sorry, every word the truth. If you remember through your current miasma there is to be a General Election in a month's time. The new intake's initiation week has been cancelled and as we have already lost four DCs from the Squad to ministerial protection I thought it better that your new man start straight away.' Collins paused and stroked his moustache, another of his well practised mannerisms, before adding' and whilst I promised not to add to your current misery I'm afraid that I have been instructed to remind you that your record with probationers is not good, that you will be closely scrutinised in this new endeavour, and that as DC Ross is considered a potential candidate for accelerated promotion, the Branch hierarchy expects him to complete his probation with flying colours.'

Ashton braced himself for the inevitable morning after comments when he entered the Irish Squad office (or B Squad as it was officially called), but all was strangely quiet. A number of his colleagues were there but they all seemed intent upon their work, or at least their tea and sausage sandwiches and so he focussed on the five desks that formed the enquiry section of which he was in charge. Lounging in Ashton's chair, at Ashton's desk, was a young man that could only be DC Ross. He appeared to be all arms, legs and copper coloured hair and was talking in a loud, well-modulated accent to Sue Taylor, one of the other Detective Constables on the section. He looked up as Ashton approached and said 'Hello, I'm Charlie Ross. You must be Dickie Head. Those kind officers over there told me what you looked like. Very good description too. A chap of medium height, as broad as he is tall, wiry dark hair, with a pale, sweating complexion and grouchy expression; sorry their words not mine. I say though, you haven't seen this DS Ashton have you. I'm supposed to report to him and by all accounts he's a real shit. Even the lovely Sue here says that he is a poisonous little creep, and a Northerner into the bargain.'

Ashton could only goggle in disbelief. His scrambled brain was trying to formulate a reply when someone started to snigger and then the whole room was engulfed in a barrage of laughter and cheering. Ross smiled with them until he began to sense that perhaps everything was not as it should be, and one look at Ashton's face, which even in his current condition had taken on a dangerous crimson hew, merely confirmed this impression. All of Ashton's pain now focussed on the one person who was below him on the slag heap of life, someone who he could justifiably savage and who could offer no excuse, let alone reproach.

'Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany me outside Mr Ross' said Ashton.

'Look' cried a voice, 'its Dick Head and Dickie Head'

'Now then Tom, don't be too hard on the lad' chortled Dave Reece, the DS in charge of one of the other sections on the squad' 'he was only telling the truth '.

Ashton turned on his heels and strode out of the office followed by a now disconsolate DC Ross. This was not how his first day in Special Branch was supposed to start. Two months after the end of his probationary period as a uniform PC there had been a announcement in 'Police Orders', the Met's internal bulletin sheet, that applications were invited for recruitment to Special Branch.  A couple of months later he had sat and passed the written examination; a few weeks after that he had survived the interminably long interview conducted by a board of sadistic senior officers; and at 8am this morning had finally found his way through the labyrinthine security system that surrounded the Branch. Once there he had discovered that the initiation course that he and his fellow recruits were due to commence had been cancelled and that he alone was to report to B Squad  whilst everyone else went off to take up duty at Heathrow Airport. Then once in the Squad room, presumably through sheer nervous excess, he had started to play up to the public school image that had dogged him ever since he had joined the police two and half years ago, and he had now apparently grossly insulted the man who was to be his guide, mentor, and ultimately judge, as a Special Branch officer.

Ross stood in the corridor outside DI Collins' office whilst Ashton went in. He heard a short exchange; DI Collins came out, and with a rueful look waved Ross in before wandering off towards the Squad room. Charlie felt that he would have far preferred it if the fatherly Collins had stayed. A view that was much increased when he entered the room and looked at Tom Ashton. Ross may have been taller than his Sergeant, but when he looked closely he realised that Ashton was a solid mass of muscle, and that his square shape was entirely due to the broad shoulders and chest that were now unnaturally rigid. Ross took a deep inward breath and waited for the explosion that was clearly about to engulf him. He was therefore totally unprepared when Ashton started to smile. The smile spread into a grin that may even have gone as far as a chuckle had his head not prevented such excess.

'You really are a naive prat, aren't you' said Ashton.

'Yes, I am so sorry Sarge' said Ross ' I can't imagine how I fell for that. I'm not usually such a fool, although my Mother...'

'Aye, well, lets leave Mrs Ross for another occasion and concentrate on how you are going to redeem yourself shall we. You've been in the Job long enough to know how judgmental coppers can be, and to know that it's far easier to win a reputation as a prat than it is to lose one. They were looking to get at me of course, but you gave them a much easier target by acting like that. Now DI Collins will be making sure they don't carry it too far, but you are still going to have to take some stick. Best you keep your head down, your ears open and your mouth shut for a while and hope they find something else to amuse themselves with.' Ashton could have added that SB was a far less acerbic environment than many police departments, and that, as it prided itself on treating its entire staff as being part of one big family, it was unlikely that Ross would be truly terrorised. He could have added that, but his condition would not allow such generosity of spirit. Instead, after a few further pithy words as to Ross' future, or lack of it if he didn't mend his ways, he merely concluded by saying 'Now bugger off, find yourself a desk that does not have DS Ashton marked on it, and book yourself out a CID diary from the admin office. Oh and Charlie' added Ashton.

'Yes Sarge?'

'My name is Tom. We stick to first names in the Branch, at least amongst the DCs and DSs, although that is based on the belief that we are all intelligent adults...'

'Yes thanks Sarge, er I mean Tom, sorry '

'Yes so you should be, and on your way ask DC Taylor to come and see me, will you'.

Ashton turned Frank Collins' hard-backed chair towards the window. Spread out before him was the whole of west London with the Thames wandering across the middle of the panoply from Chelsea Bridge right out to Staines and beyond. The views from the huge 19th floor windows never failed to fascinate him, and as a country boy who had never even been to London before he had joined the Metropolitan Police at 18, he was still in awe of the vastness of the Metropolis. He was still staring at the dome of Brompton Oratory when Sue Taylor walked in.

'The lovely Sue', Ross had described her as, and there was indeed something about her that provoked carnal desire in many of her colleagues. She was aware of this, but certainly didn't play up to it, or at least not too much. Ashton considered her to have a great deal of potential and had already recommended her to a friend on the covert operations squad as being one to keep an eye on. She had that rare ability in a good looking woman of being willing and able to dress down, of being able to mask her attractiveness so that she could pass unremarked in the street.

'Delusions of grandeur Tom, sitting at the Governor's desk?' As an opening remark from someone who had just called their supervisory officer a poisonous little creep, even in jest, this was pretty rich, but Sue Taylor knew that despite his intimidating looks and his occasional loud bark, DS Ashton only exhibited any real viciousness on the sports field.  She also knew that he liked her and although that appreciation had always remained at a professional level, she was not above wishing that at some time in the future, preferably when they were not working so closely together, that appreciation might move to another plane.

'You mocked the North?' asked Ashton, who was very proud of his roots.

'No, of course not' Taylor replied ' I would never do that now would I duck'.

Ashton grimaced at her parody of his accent which, even after 12 years in London, could still lapse into the distinctive Derbyshire dialect.

'Hmm. So what time did you leave last night?' he asked

'If you are asking whether I was I still there when you made an idiot of yourself by starting to solicit every female in The Tank, then the answer is no. You weren't the only bloke getting randy last night, and by 9 O'clock that place wasn't fit for any decent woman.'

'So how do you know that's what I did then?' asked Ashton, already guessing the answer but hoping that he might be wrong.

'It's the big story in the women's loo of course' she said confirming all his worst fears. 'Some of the young girls from SB records didn't have the wit to get out in time, and there are apparently two who are especially upset at you; one because you propositioned her, and one because you didn't'

Taylor's broad grin did nothing to assuage the sharp pain that was now added to the dull ache in Ashton's head. He vaguely remembered talking to two girls, but actual details likes names and faces were far more difficult to pin down.

'Don't worry' said Taylor once she had fully enjoyed his suffering ' everyone knows that it was just a one off, and why you did it. Lets be honest, half the blokes in this place get like that every night and are far more offensive in their approaches than you are. Although now that I come to think about it you're pretty rubbish at talking to women at any time aren't you. I remember that time at The Red Lion...'

'Yes, thank you' said Ashton rather louder than he had intended ' the catalogue of my failings is no doubt a long and amusing one, but now is definitely not the time to discuss it. What I actually called you in here for was to see how you are getting on with that enquiry in Harrow, the one that came in through the anti-terrorist hot line'.

'You mean the Irish couple who were behaving suspiciously, constantly going in and out of their garage at strange times of the day, with cars coming and going at all hours?'

'Yes that's the one'

'Sorted' Taylor declared.

'What already. It only came in two days ago'

'Yes, but thanks to my investigative genius, and with a bit of help from a friendly neighbour, it all became quite clear. They are from Northern Ireland, and they do keep strange hours, but as they are both shift workers, Mary Connell is a Nurse and Declan Connell a PC at Wembley, that's not too surprising really. And as for going to their garage all the time its because they only moved into the house a few weeks ago and half their belongings are still in boxes. The real irony is that they moved to London to get away from the problems in Northern Ireland - they are both Catholic - and instead they end up being suspected of being terrorists themselves'.

'Why do people phone in with stuff like that?' asked Ashton

'Now Tom, you really aren't up to questions like that today are you' said Taylor with a particularly winning smile.

'No' replied Ashton, who was by no means immune to such a smile ' probably not even on a good day',

'Talking of stupidity' he continued after a reflective pause' I suppose I had better go and find our new recruit before he gets himself into any more trouble'

'Do you want me to show him round?' asked Taylor

'No thanks Sue, I'll do it myself. A bacon sandwich and large cup of tea are beginning to call to me, so I think we'll start in the canteen.'

Later Tuesday Morning

‘So you got your diary OK did you' asked Ashton after the said sandwich and first cup of tea had begun to make him feel somewhat more human. The canteen at New Scotland Yard differed from The Tank in that it was on the 4th Floor rather than the Ground Floor and therefore had the luxury of windows, but in terms of decor and ambience it was only by the smell of greasy food rather than stale alcohol that it was at all distinguishable.

'Yes thanks' said Ross ' though I don't understand why we have to keep so many records of where we are and what we're doing.' In contrast to their colleagues in Uniform, whose presence on duty was recorded on one composite duty register kept for the whole Station where they were based, each member of the Criminal Investigation Department, of which Special Branch Officers were numbered, had to maintain both an individual duty state and an even more detailed daily diary. In addition to this The Branch required its officers to sign on and off in a large book that was kept in the secure room where they stored the secret files that they were currently working on. This book recorded each officer in order of rank and then seniority, so that DC Ross had been firmly reminded of his status as the lowest of the low when he had signed in that morning.

'Oh its quite simple really' replied Ashton. 'Nobody trusts us, so the duty state lets your supervisor know where you are, or should be, at any given moment and your diary fills in the details so that you can claim expenses and overtime.  It is also the stick that the Job (as its employees generically referred to the police) can hit you over the head with if anything goes wrong'

'And the signing in book?'

'Oh that's just there because the senior officers on the 18th floor can't be arsed to walk up to the 19th floor to read the duty states' replied Ashton with the kind of rueful smile that Charlie Ross was beginning to recognise as an SB trademark.

'So I understand that you went to public school'

'Yes' sighed Ross, girding himself for the stereotypical remarks that usually followed such an admission ' but it was only a minor one. My father was in the Foreign Office, so my sister and I were sent to boarding schools in the UK when my parents were abroad, but as he never rose to any great eminence we were never destined for Eton or Benenden.'

'You shouldn't be ashamed of getting a good education Charlie, I think everyone should have the opportunity to improve themselves. It must have been tough though, being away from your Mum and dad so much.'

'Oh you get used to it after a while' lied Ross unconvincingly