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Synopsis
Inspector Carlyle has a new partner in crime . . . but for how long?
When a fortune in uncut diamonds are nicked by a group of soldiers, Carlyle teams up with Captain Daniel Hunter of the Military Police to hunt them down. But Hunter has come up against this crew before and they are not going to let him stand in their way a second time.
The investigation is turned upside down when Hunter's family are kidnapped by the gang. The inspector has to look on helplessly while the military policeman goes off on a personal mission of revenge. As events spiral horribly out of control, Carlyle faces a terrible choice: does he let Hunter take matters into his own hands or should he try and bring his new partner to justice?
'A cracking read' BBC Radio 4
'Fast paced and very easy to get quickly lost in' Lovereading.com
Release date: February 2, 2017
Publisher: Constable
Print pages: 310
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All Kinds of Dead
James Craig
CONFIDENTIAL: Not for onward circulation
The incident took place in Uruzgan Province, Afghanistan, approximately twenty-three months ago. A group of Taliban fighters were intercepted approaching a settlement on the outskirts of Deh Rawood, an area approximately 400km south-west of Kabul.
The group were engaged by an Apache helicopter gunship before the troops on the ground, members of the Ground Task Force of the Special Operations Expeditionary Force conducted a damage assessment. During that process, six officers discovered two combatants. Both had been hit and seriously wounded by cannon fire from the Apache. The officers are accused of denying the unidentified prisoners first aid. Dragging them under the cover of some trees, the soldiers allegedly waited until the helicopter had left the area before both men were executed.
Soldier A, the commander of the patrol, is accused of having fatally shot both wounded men in the chest.
The incident was recorded with a head-camera worn by another of the accused, Soldier B.
The third accused man, Soldier C, is allegedly heard asking if he can shoot one of the captives in the head.
All three men have begun a court-martial at Upper Moldean Military Court Centre in Northamptonshire. The case hinges on the contents of the helmet-camera video. According to the prosecution, this shows that A, B and C conspired to murder the injured insurgents.
All three men deny murder.
All three have an otherwise unblemished military record. They have received strong testimonials from their Commanding Officer, as well as from other senior military figures, several of whom have spoken out in the press. Each has been awarded the OSM (Operational Service Medal) for the Afghan Campaign. Soldier A is one of only four soldiers to have been awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery during the current campaign in Afghanistan. He is the only recipient who currently remains in service.
Three other soldiers – D, E and F – feature in the transcripts. They are not facing trial.
The investigation into the incident was conducted by a team from the Special Investigation Branch (SIB) of the Royal Military Police, led by Captain Daniel Hunter. Judge Desmond Dunne, Judge Advocate General, has ruled that the SIB report, along with the video itself, should not be publicly released, on the grounds that it could be used as propaganda by terrorists, both in the UK and overseas. However, in response to the massive media interest – and to stall the risk of a leak – a heavily edited written transcript of the video (see below) has been made available online at the MoD’s website.
The court-martial is approaching its conclusion. It has been adjourned for further psychological reports to be completed.
Key:
Square brackets [ ] are the speech analyst’s marks.
Round brackets ( ) signify that the analyst has a lower confidence in the words recorded.
Three dots . . . denote unintelligible speech.
?Soldier B – question mark denotes lower confidence in attribution.
Glossary
AH – Apache helicopter.
Browners – dead (as in the rhyming slang, ‘brown bread’).
FFD – First Field Dressing.
HIIDE – A HIIDE camera takes images of fingerprints, irises and other details.
Nine-liner – request for helicopter casualty evacuation.
PGSS (Persistent Ground Surveillance System) – British observation balloon.
Ugly – Apache helicopter.
The footage starts with the patrol waiting at the edge of a field of tall crops. An Apache helicopter is audible overhead. The soldiers are heard complaining about being ordered to carry out a damage assessment after the helicopter attack on a group of insurgents who had been spotted approaching a village through a partially cultivated field.
The wounded insurgents had been shot at with 139 30mm anti-tank rounds. Lying on the ground, covered in blood, they were seriously injured but still alive when discovered by the patrol. The patrol dragged the two men across the field and into a wooded area nearby before the alleged executions took place.
The figures record the elapsed time from the beginning of the recording. The transcript begins with unintelligible speech and radio traffic before a man, thought to be Soldier B, begins to talk.
00:00:03
?Soldier B: Come on.
D: . . .
B: Bollocks.
E: . . .
00:00:09
D: . . .
F: . . . shit . . .
D: . . .
00:00:11
A: . . . any more of this?
E: [coughs].
C: . . . cunt.
00:00:18
D: Fucking bastard.
E: [coughs].
00:00:19
A: That, ladies and gentlemen, is what a direct hit looks like.
F: [laughs] You know when you’ve been Tangoed.
A: An FFD ain’t gonna help them.
E: You are fucked, boys.
D: Fucking browners, the pair of them.
00:00:32
B: How long will we have to wait for these fuckers to die?
A: We’ve got time.
E: . . .
[Vocalizations, probably from insurgents].
00:00:40 D:
Fucking whining bastard. Not much of a fucking suicide bomber, are you?
[Laughter]
B: Dickhead.
00:00:47
C: We got a PGSS on us?
A: Move them both over there.
E: Come on.
00:01:05
D: . . .
E: That’ll do. That’ll do.
F: Mm.
00:01:18
D: . . .
E: . . . waste of fucking time.
00:01:32
C: Anybody wanna offer first aid?
D: No.
00:01:34
B: No.
E: . . .
00:01:36
C: I’ll put one in his head, if you want.
D: [laughs]
E: [laughs]
00:01:40
A: Like that wouldn’t be fucking obvious.
F: You’d have to give back your OSM.
D: [Laughs]. They might give you another one.
00:01:54
D: Want me to send a nine-liner?
B: . . .
[Radio].
00:02:02
B: We’re waiting for [name of comrade] to er – . . . may well be dead. [Speaking on radio].
C: . . .
00:02:05
F: . . . stopped breathing.
B: For fuck’s sake.
D: Don’t. Yeah.
00:02:08
E: . . . just . . . him.
[Laughter]
F:
Yeah. That might . . .
?E: Yeah.
00:02:13
A: Fuck it, he’s done.
D: Yeah.
C: You’re dead, son.
00:02:19
A: Hello, one zero, one four. [Speaking on radio].
B: . . .
00:02:25
B: Cunt shooting at us.
00:02:28
D: Twats.
00:02:33
A: Administering first aid to these er – individuals, they’re er – passed on from this er world, over. [Speaking on radio].
00:02:46
A: . . . Okay, er we’ll try to biometrically enrol these guys as best we can and we’ll gather what er – intelligence we can before moving back. [Speaking on radio].
?E: [Clears throat].
D: . . .
00:03:12
A: Right, get the – get the HIIDE camera out, see if you can get a picture of him, minus all the – stuff.
00:03:16
C: Where’s the Ugly?
B: Headed north.
?A: Yeah?
B: Deffo.
00:03:28
[GUNSHOT #1 – This is the moment when A allegedly shoots the first prisoner].
F: Fuck. [Distant voice].
E: (What was that?) [Distant voice].
D: (Don’t know) [Distant voice].
00:03:29
F: . . .
00:03:35
E: . . .
00:03:59
[GUNSHOT #2 – This is the moment when A allegedly shoots the second prisoner].
00:04:05
A: Shuffle off this mortal coil, you cunts.
D: . . .
E: Fuck.
00:04:20
A: Obviously, gents, this doesn’t go anywhere.
B: Roger that.
A: I’ve just broke the Geneva Convention, big time.
C: What happens in Vegas.
D: . . .
B: Their numbers came up.
F: . . .
D: . . .
00:05:08
A: Yeah, they’re, er – fully dead now [Speaking on radio].
A: (Yeah, roger.) . . . [Response from radio].
00:05:14
B: [laughs] All kinds of dead.
E: Stupid fuckers.
F: Dead, dead, dead.
‘Why is that dog trying to shag the grass?’
‘Huh?’ Dominic Silver made a point of finishing his newspaper article before looking up. A group of soldiers were being court-martialled, accused of killing a couple of Taliban terrorists. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to do? Frowning, he struggled to make sense of the story.
‘That dog . . .’ John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police Inspector and all-round animal-phobe, took off his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a paper napkin.
Looking over the top of the Daily Mail, Silver took a moment to locate the mongrel in question. The sorry-looking animal appeared to be some kind of terrier. Whatever its lineage, the mutt was squatting down on the tattered lawn, ten yards or so from where they were sitting, and was vigorously thrusting its private parts into the ground, with what looked like a cheery grin on its face.
‘You gotta get it where you can,’ Dom reflected, quickly returning to his newspaper. ‘One more reason why you should never sit on the grass. Fuck knows what you might catch.’
Carlyle finished cleaning his specs and placed them back on his nose. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ he harrumphed.
‘Maybe,’ Dom casually suggested, ‘you should go over there and arrest the dog for public indecency.’
‘Ha fucking ha.’ Retrieving the paper cup sitting next to him on the bench, Carlyle poured the last of his green tea on to the ground. Careful not to get any drops on his coat, he tossed the cup towards the rubbish bin situated at the end of the bench. For once, his aim was true. However, the bin was full to overflowing so the cup simply bounced off a discarded 2-litre Coke bottle and landed on the tarmac. With an exaggerated sigh, Carlyle struggled to his feet, picked up the cup and stuffed it as far into the mound of waste as it would go. Returning to his seat, he eyed the dog, which still appeared to be pleasuring itself. ‘Maybe I should call the RSPCA.’
‘And what would they do?’ Dom asked, hiding his grin behind the pages of his paper. ‘Send a dog-catcher?’
‘It’s his sunburn,’ said a voice.
‘Eh?’ The inspector looked round to see an elderly-looking bloke trundling towards them on a chestnut-brown mobility scooter. The guy was wearing a bush hat and a pair of outsized sunglasses. His grubby yellow T-shirt bore the legend Stop the War.
Which particular war are we talking about? Carlyle wondered as he clocked the two large bottles of Strongbow cider bouncing about in the wire basket perched on the front of the scooter.
The man came to a halt three feet in front of the bench. His sunburned knees stuck out from the bottom of baggy green Bermuda shorts. A pair of red Crocs finished off the ensemble nicely.
Taking one hand off the scooter handle, the man gestured towards the rutting dog. ‘Joey was lying out in the sun too long, last week,’ he explained, ‘and got badly burned; he’s in quite a bit of discomfort.’ One cue, the dog finished whatever he was doing and wandered over to inspect the newly planted flowerbeds.
‘He looked like he was enjoying himself,’ Dom pointed out.
The man shook his head. ‘He’s in pain. His skin underneath, it’s really sensitive.’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.’
‘You should keep him under control,’ Carlyle muttered, sounding a bit like Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells. ‘Grumpy old man’ was not a very appealing persona but one that he was effortlessly growing into. ‘Someone’s bound to complain about such lewd behaviour.’
Lewd behaviour? Dom stifled a titter.
‘He’s only a dog,’ the man objected.
‘You,’ Carlyle said, ‘are responsible, as his owner.’
The man frowned. ‘He’s in pain.’
‘This is Berkeley Square, not . . .’ Carlyle tried to think of a more appropriate venue for Joey’s performance. Nowhere came to mind. ‘It’s Berkeley Square,’ he repeated.
The old guy looked genuinely offended. ‘Don’t be so bloody heartless. You wouldn’t call the Rozzers over a poor sick dog, would you?’
Before Carlyle could respond, Dom stuck out a thumb. ‘He is the police.’
‘Yeah?’ The man looked him, unconvinced.
‘I am the police,’ Carlyle said solemnly.
‘Haven’t you got better things to do than harass my poor Joey?’ Shifting in his seat, the man looked around, as if searching for some assistance in dealing with the two jokers making fun of his dog. But the end of lunch hour had largely emptied the park, and none of the remaining visitors showed any interest in coming to his aid.
No, not really. Carlyle watched Joey stop what he was doing and head towards a pair of Chinese tourists eating their lunch on a bench in the mini-pagoda that stood in the centre of the park. Taking up a position in their line of sight, the dog waited expectantly for a morsel of hamburger.
‘He’s begging now,’ Carlyle spluttered.
‘Leave the poor little sod alone.’ Dom stood up. ‘Everybody gets hungry after sex. It’s all the calories you burn.’ He turned to the man on the scooter. ‘I bet that must be sore.’
The man nodded. He looked genuinely upset. ‘Joey’s really been suffering.’
Carlyle rolled his eyes. He hadn’t schlepped halfway across town for a discussion regarding a dog’s sunburned privates.
Ever the humanitarian, Dom was far more sympathetic. ‘I’m sure you can get some kind of ointment for the problem,’ he told the man. ‘Ease the discomfort. He needs to leave it alone.’
So do we, Carlyle observed.
The guy looked round the square. Expensive office space rose up on all sides, broken only by the occasional gentleman’s club and luxury car dealership. ‘And where am I going to find a vet round here?’
Dom turned and raised an enquiring eyebrow to the inspector.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Carlyle huffed. ‘How would I know? Animals are not my thing. I’ve never owned so much as a goldfish in my entire life.’
Shaking his head, Dom pointed in the direction of Oxford Street. ‘Just take Joey to Superdrug. There’s one at the top of Davies Street. I’m sure that the pharmacist will be able to give you something for his . . . problem.’
With a grunt, the man put the scooter into reverse, sending it shooting across the grass. Conducting a wide U-turn, he went off in search of his four-legged friend.
‘I quite fancy one of those.’ Carlyle nodded at the scooter. ‘It looks quite nippy; handy for getting around.’ Turning towards Dom, he realized that his mate was already heading towards the park exit. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘Wait for me!’
‘I’ve got to get back to the Gallery,’ Dom replied, over his shoulder. ‘Fiona will be wanting her lunch.’
Fiona? Carlyle wondered. Who’s Fiona? ‘Fair enough,’ he said, jogging after him.
What the hell was that beast doing? Discarded newspaper on one side of him, empty coffee cup on the other, Daniel Hunter tried to take up sufficient space to deter anyone else from joining him on the bench. After the best part of half an hour sitting in the park, the only thing that had caught his attention was the eccentric dog. Daniel watched with wry amusement as the uninhibited animal finished its . . . rutting on the grass and then went off in search of other diversions. No one else in the park seemed to bat an eyelid. That was the thing about London, everyone was wrapped up in their own little world. No one paid the slightest attention to what was going on around them. The city was a funny place; as a country boy, he wasn’t sure if he would ever really get used to it.
By now, lunchtime was over. The office workers had gone back to their desks and only a handful of folk remained loitering in the square. Daniel quickly pegged the old guy on the electric scooter as the dog’s owner. No one else looked like they would have the time or inclination for looking after a dog. Of course, the mutt could be a stray but he doubted it. As a rule, you didn’t see many strays roaming the streets of Mayfair.
Scooter-man finished his conversation with a couple of guys on a bench on the far side of the park and headed for the pagoda-type building where the dog was now being fed titbits by a couple of tourists. Trundling across the gravel, the man manoeuvred his scooter next to the dog. From his hand gestures, Daniel could see that he was making a half-hearted attempt to scold the dog for its shameless panhandling. Bowing its head, the animal looked suitably contrite. After a nod in the direction of the tourists, the man reached down and scooped up his pet. Placing it in the basket on the front of the scooter next to a couple of bottles of cider, he drove off, making for the exit on the west side of the park.
As he watched the unlikely duo traverse the zebra crossing leading to Hill Street, Daniel caught sight of Mel coming the other way.
‘At last!’ He gave her a wave but, head bowed, marching forward, she had yet to notice him. Her determined strides underlined that she was the best part of fifteen minutes late. Tutting like an old woman, Daniel let his hand drop back by his side.
Timekeeping was not one of his wife’s strengths. It drove him mad. Whereas he would always be five minutes early for any rendezvous, Mel was never knowingly on time. Daniel simply couldn’t comprehend her mindset. How hard was it to be on time for things? All it required was a bit of thought and some forward planning.
When they had been courting, Melanie Ward had never been less than twenty minutes late for a date. Once, she had made him wait an hour and twenty-five minutes outside the local picture house. When she finally turned up, Mel smiled sweetly and claimed that he had got the time wrong. Daniel had been furious – he had never done that in his life. They were supposed to be going to see Avatar. To this day, he had never seen the film and never would. Mere mention of the title made him bristle with frustration.
Ten years and two kids later, she was still always late. He had never been able to shake the idea that she did it on purpose, just to wind him up. It was something that caused more than a few arguments between them.
Now, however, was not the time for a row. Daniel was only going to be home for a short time. Tonight would be the first time he had slept in his own bed for almost a week. And the last too, for God knows how long.
Walking through the gates, Mel finally looked up. Spotting him, she upped her pace, an embarrassed grin on her face. As she came closer, he could see fatigue etched into her face. Her skin was deathly pale and the rings under her eyes were so dark it looked like her mascara had smudged. Bloody hell, Daniel thought, you need a break. His wife looked completely knackered. That was not so surprising. To all intents and purposes, she had been playing the role of single parent for the last two years, with minimal support from friends and family.
Not for the first time, Daniel felt ashamed. He knew that he hadn’t pulled his weight at home for a long time now. Mel deserved better. So did the kids. So did he, for that matter. What was the point of having a family if you never saw them?
Pushing the jumble of unhappy thoughts to the back of his mind, he got to his feet and stepped towards her, holding out his arms. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, yourself,’ Mel smiled, stepping into his embrace.
Pulling her towards him, Dan closed his eyes, breathing in her perfume, as she kissed him gently on the lips.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, once they slid apart.
‘Are you?’ Daniel tried to sound nonchalant as they sat back down. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
She gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘Liar.’
‘It wasn’t that much.’ By your standards, at least.
‘There was a security alert on Oxford Street.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘I doubt it,’ Mel said. ‘At any rate, I haven’t heard a bang. It’s probably just some traffic problem or other. Whatever it was, it was a right pain. I had to go all the way round by Regent Street. Otherwise, I would have been on time.’
‘Mm.’
‘Well, just about.’
‘Don’t worry. My train was late, anyway,’ he fibbed again. ‘I’ve only just got here myself. How long have we got? What time is pick-up?’
Mel checked the time on her phone. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve still got half an hour.’
‘Fine. Want to get a coffee?’
‘Nah. I’m okay.’ She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s nice just to be able to sit down for a moment, without having to rush about.’
‘Yeah.’ He gave her a squeeze back.
‘The kids will be thrilled to see you when they come out of school.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ Now it was Mel’s turn to fib. The truth was that she didn’t want to get the kids’ hopes up; it wouldn’t be the first time their father had let them down at the last minute. It wasn’t that he was an unreliable man, far from it. It was just that his job was ultra-demanding and the Army made no allowances for family life. ‘You should have worn your uniform. You know they get a kick out of seeing you in it. I’m sure it would have gone down well with Mr Fry too.’
‘The headmaster? I thought he had retired last summer.’
‘No, not till the end of this year. You know how impressed he was that you were a Redcap.’
‘Yeah. It certainly helped get us through the interview.’ It was a conversation they’d had many times before. Bagging not one but two places at any Central London school required ruthlessly exploiting any connection or asset you had. When Daniel had walked into Dr Alfred Fry’s office in his Royal Military Police uniform, the old fella’s face had lit up. Even before they had shaken hands, Daniel had known the kids would get in.
‘I’m sure he’ll be at the gates. It would have been nice if you’d had it on.’
Irritated, Daniel tugged at the collar of his North Face jacket with his free hand. With the fleece lining, it was a bit too warm for the time of year but he would wear it on all but the hottest days; it was his off-duty uniform. ‘I don’t like wearing the uniform when I don’t have to,’ he mumbled. ‘Too conspicuous.’ Britain had long since stopped being a country where members of the military were shown proper respect. He was fed up with being accosted by wankers who felt they had the right to walk right up to you to give you a piece of their mind about everything from the ‘so-called War on Terror’ to the ‘dictatorship of the military-industrial complex’.
Mel nodded. She had heard it all before. ‘I understand.’ She gave his hand another squeeze. ‘The kids’ll just be happy to see you. That’s the main thing.’
‘Yeah.’
For a while, they sat in silence, each simply enjoying the pleasure of the other’s presence.
Groaning inwardly, Hunter watched as the dosser came towards them, an expectant grin on his face. He was a tall guy, in his thirties perhaps, with a thick beard and eyes that lacked focus. In one hand was a bottle of cheap Australian red wine. It was as close to empty as made no difference.
Jimmy Gallagher eyed the couple sitting on the bench and smiled to himself. Jimmy knew every type of person that turned up in the square. He could calibrate the likelihood of each one putting their hand in their pocket down to a fraction of a percentage point. The bloke wouldn’t want to know; the woman, however, was a racing certainty.
Seeing the scowl on the bloke’s face, Jimmy addressed his remarks to his good lady wife. ‘Spare a few pence for a cuppa, love?’ The accent was more West Country than West End.
Before Mel could stick a hand in her pocket, Daniel waved him away angrily. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered with a robotic insincerity, meaning, Bugger off.
Sensing the woman’s hesitancy, Jimmy stood his ground. Every second of compound embarrassment was money in the bank.
‘Here you go.’ Mel fished a few coins out of her pocket and handed them over. She didn’t know precisely how much it was but it certainly wouldn’t come close to covering the cost of a latte in the Starbucks across the road.
‘Thank you.’ Jimmy gave Daniel a small smirk of triumph before shuffling off in search of his next target. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘What did you do that for?’ Daniel asked as he watched the dosser line up his next target. ‘He’ll just use the money to stay pissed.’
‘Poor bloke.’
‘Poor bloke, my arse.’
‘Daniel Hunter,’ she admonished him. ‘How do you know he’s not an ex-serviceman?’
‘Pfff.’
‘You’re the one always pointing out how ex-soldiers are more likely to end up homeless than normal people.’
Normal people. ‘Okay, okay.’ He watched the dosser get short shrift from a guy in a suit with a copy of the Financial Times under his arm. Presumably used to such rebuffs, the tramp wandered off without any protest. ‘You’re right.’
Satisfied with the admission of defeat, Mel graciously moved the conversation on. ‘How was Hereford?’
‘Hereford,’ he sighed, ‘was fairly routine.’
‘Must have been nice to have a simple one, for a change.’
‘You can say that again. Three SAS guys went out for a night on the tiles and put a couple of the locals in hospital. No one disputed what happened. I handed the report over to the Camp Commandant all signed, sealed and delivered. Job done.’
‘So what happens to the SAS guys?’
‘They’ll get three months in MCTC, something like that.’ The Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester was England’s only military prison. It was built to house 500 service personnel convicted of various offences; the current population was 782, and rising. Daniel had spent a decent part of the journey back to London trying to work out how many of the buggers in there he’d put inside personally. His best guess was eighty-four, give or take. ‘Then it will be back to active service.’
‘They always take them back, don’t they?’
‘Not always.’
‘No, but most of the time.’
‘Why wouldn’t you? A lot of time, effort and money goes into recruiting and training these guys in the first place. If you throw them back on to the streets, all that goes to waste.’ He looked up, trying to pick out the tramp, but the man had disappeared from the park. ‘Plus, they’ll probably cause more trouble out here than if they stay in uniform.’
‘But they broke. . .
The incident took place in Uruzgan Province, Afghanistan, approximately twenty-three months ago. A group of Taliban fighters were intercepted approaching a settlement on the outskirts of Deh Rawood, an area approximately 400km south-west of Kabul.
The group were engaged by an Apache helicopter gunship before the troops on the ground, members of the Ground Task Force of the Special Operations Expeditionary Force conducted a damage assessment. During that process, six officers discovered two combatants. Both had been hit and seriously wounded by cannon fire from the Apache. The officers are accused of denying the unidentified prisoners first aid. Dragging them under the cover of some trees, the soldiers allegedly waited until the helicopter had left the area before both men were executed.
Soldier A, the commander of the patrol, is accused of having fatally shot both wounded men in the chest.
The incident was recorded with a head-camera worn by another of the accused, Soldier B.
The third accused man, Soldier C, is allegedly heard asking if he can shoot one of the captives in the head.
All three men have begun a court-martial at Upper Moldean Military Court Centre in Northamptonshire. The case hinges on the contents of the helmet-camera video. According to the prosecution, this shows that A, B and C conspired to murder the injured insurgents.
All three men deny murder.
All three have an otherwise unblemished military record. They have received strong testimonials from their Commanding Officer, as well as from other senior military figures, several of whom have spoken out in the press. Each has been awarded the OSM (Operational Service Medal) for the Afghan Campaign. Soldier A is one of only four soldiers to have been awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery during the current campaign in Afghanistan. He is the only recipient who currently remains in service.
Three other soldiers – D, E and F – feature in the transcripts. They are not facing trial.
The investigation into the incident was conducted by a team from the Special Investigation Branch (SIB) of the Royal Military Police, led by Captain Daniel Hunter. Judge Desmond Dunne, Judge Advocate General, has ruled that the SIB report, along with the video itself, should not be publicly released, on the grounds that it could be used as propaganda by terrorists, both in the UK and overseas. However, in response to the massive media interest – and to stall the risk of a leak – a heavily edited written transcript of the video (see below) has been made available online at the MoD’s website.
The court-martial is approaching its conclusion. It has been adjourned for further psychological reports to be completed.
Key:
Square brackets [ ] are the speech analyst’s marks.
Round brackets ( ) signify that the analyst has a lower confidence in the words recorded.
Three dots . . . denote unintelligible speech.
?Soldier B – question mark denotes lower confidence in attribution.
Glossary
AH – Apache helicopter.
Browners – dead (as in the rhyming slang, ‘brown bread’).
FFD – First Field Dressing.
HIIDE – A HIIDE camera takes images of fingerprints, irises and other details.
Nine-liner – request for helicopter casualty evacuation.
PGSS (Persistent Ground Surveillance System) – British observation balloon.
Ugly – Apache helicopter.
The footage starts with the patrol waiting at the edge of a field of tall crops. An Apache helicopter is audible overhead. The soldiers are heard complaining about being ordered to carry out a damage assessment after the helicopter attack on a group of insurgents who had been spotted approaching a village through a partially cultivated field.
The wounded insurgents had been shot at with 139 30mm anti-tank rounds. Lying on the ground, covered in blood, they were seriously injured but still alive when discovered by the patrol. The patrol dragged the two men across the field and into a wooded area nearby before the alleged executions took place.
The figures record the elapsed time from the beginning of the recording. The transcript begins with unintelligible speech and radio traffic before a man, thought to be Soldier B, begins to talk.
00:00:03
?Soldier B: Come on.
D: . . .
B: Bollocks.
E: . . .
00:00:09
D: . . .
F: . . . shit . . .
D: . . .
00:00:11
A: . . . any more of this?
E: [coughs].
C: . . . cunt.
00:00:18
D: Fucking bastard.
E: [coughs].
00:00:19
A: That, ladies and gentlemen, is what a direct hit looks like.
F: [laughs] You know when you’ve been Tangoed.
A: An FFD ain’t gonna help them.
E: You are fucked, boys.
D: Fucking browners, the pair of them.
00:00:32
B: How long will we have to wait for these fuckers to die?
A: We’ve got time.
E: . . .
[Vocalizations, probably from insurgents].
00:00:40 D:
Fucking whining bastard. Not much of a fucking suicide bomber, are you?
[Laughter]
B: Dickhead.
00:00:47
C: We got a PGSS on us?
A: Move them both over there.
E: Come on.
00:01:05
D: . . .
E: That’ll do. That’ll do.
F: Mm.
00:01:18
D: . . .
E: . . . waste of fucking time.
00:01:32
C: Anybody wanna offer first aid?
D: No.
00:01:34
B: No.
E: . . .
00:01:36
C: I’ll put one in his head, if you want.
D: [laughs]
E: [laughs]
00:01:40
A: Like that wouldn’t be fucking obvious.
F: You’d have to give back your OSM.
D: [Laughs]. They might give you another one.
00:01:54
D: Want me to send a nine-liner?
B: . . .
[Radio].
00:02:02
B: We’re waiting for [name of comrade] to er – . . . may well be dead. [Speaking on radio].
C: . . .
00:02:05
F: . . . stopped breathing.
B: For fuck’s sake.
D: Don’t. Yeah.
00:02:08
E: . . . just . . . him.
[Laughter]
F:
Yeah. That might . . .
?E: Yeah.
00:02:13
A: Fuck it, he’s done.
D: Yeah.
C: You’re dead, son.
00:02:19
A: Hello, one zero, one four. [Speaking on radio].
B: . . .
00:02:25
B: Cunt shooting at us.
00:02:28
D: Twats.
00:02:33
A: Administering first aid to these er – individuals, they’re er – passed on from this er world, over. [Speaking on radio].
00:02:46
A: . . . Okay, er we’ll try to biometrically enrol these guys as best we can and we’ll gather what er – intelligence we can before moving back. [Speaking on radio].
?E: [Clears throat].
D: . . .
00:03:12
A: Right, get the – get the HIIDE camera out, see if you can get a picture of him, minus all the – stuff.
00:03:16
C: Where’s the Ugly?
B: Headed north.
?A: Yeah?
B: Deffo.
00:03:28
[GUNSHOT #1 – This is the moment when A allegedly shoots the first prisoner].
F: Fuck. [Distant voice].
E: (What was that?) [Distant voice].
D: (Don’t know) [Distant voice].
00:03:29
F: . . .
00:03:35
E: . . .
00:03:59
[GUNSHOT #2 – This is the moment when A allegedly shoots the second prisoner].
00:04:05
A: Shuffle off this mortal coil, you cunts.
D: . . .
E: Fuck.
00:04:20
A: Obviously, gents, this doesn’t go anywhere.
B: Roger that.
A: I’ve just broke the Geneva Convention, big time.
C: What happens in Vegas.
D: . . .
B: Their numbers came up.
F: . . .
D: . . .
00:05:08
A: Yeah, they’re, er – fully dead now [Speaking on radio].
A: (Yeah, roger.) . . . [Response from radio].
00:05:14
B: [laughs] All kinds of dead.
E: Stupid fuckers.
F: Dead, dead, dead.
‘Why is that dog trying to shag the grass?’
‘Huh?’ Dominic Silver made a point of finishing his newspaper article before looking up. A group of soldiers were being court-martialled, accused of killing a couple of Taliban terrorists. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to do? Frowning, he struggled to make sense of the story.
‘That dog . . .’ John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police Inspector and all-round animal-phobe, took off his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a paper napkin.
Looking over the top of the Daily Mail, Silver took a moment to locate the mongrel in question. The sorry-looking animal appeared to be some kind of terrier. Whatever its lineage, the mutt was squatting down on the tattered lawn, ten yards or so from where they were sitting, and was vigorously thrusting its private parts into the ground, with what looked like a cheery grin on its face.
‘You gotta get it where you can,’ Dom reflected, quickly returning to his newspaper. ‘One more reason why you should never sit on the grass. Fuck knows what you might catch.’
Carlyle finished cleaning his specs and placed them back on his nose. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ he harrumphed.
‘Maybe,’ Dom casually suggested, ‘you should go over there and arrest the dog for public indecency.’
‘Ha fucking ha.’ Retrieving the paper cup sitting next to him on the bench, Carlyle poured the last of his green tea on to the ground. Careful not to get any drops on his coat, he tossed the cup towards the rubbish bin situated at the end of the bench. For once, his aim was true. However, the bin was full to overflowing so the cup simply bounced off a discarded 2-litre Coke bottle and landed on the tarmac. With an exaggerated sigh, Carlyle struggled to his feet, picked up the cup and stuffed it as far into the mound of waste as it would go. Returning to his seat, he eyed the dog, which still appeared to be pleasuring itself. ‘Maybe I should call the RSPCA.’
‘And what would they do?’ Dom asked, hiding his grin behind the pages of his paper. ‘Send a dog-catcher?’
‘It’s his sunburn,’ said a voice.
‘Eh?’ The inspector looked round to see an elderly-looking bloke trundling towards them on a chestnut-brown mobility scooter. The guy was wearing a bush hat and a pair of outsized sunglasses. His grubby yellow T-shirt bore the legend Stop the War.
Which particular war are we talking about? Carlyle wondered as he clocked the two large bottles of Strongbow cider bouncing about in the wire basket perched on the front of the scooter.
The man came to a halt three feet in front of the bench. His sunburned knees stuck out from the bottom of baggy green Bermuda shorts. A pair of red Crocs finished off the ensemble nicely.
Taking one hand off the scooter handle, the man gestured towards the rutting dog. ‘Joey was lying out in the sun too long, last week,’ he explained, ‘and got badly burned; he’s in quite a bit of discomfort.’ One cue, the dog finished whatever he was doing and wandered over to inspect the newly planted flowerbeds.
‘He looked like he was enjoying himself,’ Dom pointed out.
The man shook his head. ‘He’s in pain. His skin underneath, it’s really sensitive.’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.’
‘You should keep him under control,’ Carlyle muttered, sounding a bit like Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells. ‘Grumpy old man’ was not a very appealing persona but one that he was effortlessly growing into. ‘Someone’s bound to complain about such lewd behaviour.’
Lewd behaviour? Dom stifled a titter.
‘He’s only a dog,’ the man objected.
‘You,’ Carlyle said, ‘are responsible, as his owner.’
The man frowned. ‘He’s in pain.’
‘This is Berkeley Square, not . . .’ Carlyle tried to think of a more appropriate venue for Joey’s performance. Nowhere came to mind. ‘It’s Berkeley Square,’ he repeated.
The old guy looked genuinely offended. ‘Don’t be so bloody heartless. You wouldn’t call the Rozzers over a poor sick dog, would you?’
Before Carlyle could respond, Dom stuck out a thumb. ‘He is the police.’
‘Yeah?’ The man looked him, unconvinced.
‘I am the police,’ Carlyle said solemnly.
‘Haven’t you got better things to do than harass my poor Joey?’ Shifting in his seat, the man looked around, as if searching for some assistance in dealing with the two jokers making fun of his dog. But the end of lunch hour had largely emptied the park, and none of the remaining visitors showed any interest in coming to his aid.
No, not really. Carlyle watched Joey stop what he was doing and head towards a pair of Chinese tourists eating their lunch on a bench in the mini-pagoda that stood in the centre of the park. Taking up a position in their line of sight, the dog waited expectantly for a morsel of hamburger.
‘He’s begging now,’ Carlyle spluttered.
‘Leave the poor little sod alone.’ Dom stood up. ‘Everybody gets hungry after sex. It’s all the calories you burn.’ He turned to the man on the scooter. ‘I bet that must be sore.’
The man nodded. He looked genuinely upset. ‘Joey’s really been suffering.’
Carlyle rolled his eyes. He hadn’t schlepped halfway across town for a discussion regarding a dog’s sunburned privates.
Ever the humanitarian, Dom was far more sympathetic. ‘I’m sure you can get some kind of ointment for the problem,’ he told the man. ‘Ease the discomfort. He needs to leave it alone.’
So do we, Carlyle observed.
The guy looked round the square. Expensive office space rose up on all sides, broken only by the occasional gentleman’s club and luxury car dealership. ‘And where am I going to find a vet round here?’
Dom turned and raised an enquiring eyebrow to the inspector.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Carlyle huffed. ‘How would I know? Animals are not my thing. I’ve never owned so much as a goldfish in my entire life.’
Shaking his head, Dom pointed in the direction of Oxford Street. ‘Just take Joey to Superdrug. There’s one at the top of Davies Street. I’m sure that the pharmacist will be able to give you something for his . . . problem.’
With a grunt, the man put the scooter into reverse, sending it shooting across the grass. Conducting a wide U-turn, he went off in search of his four-legged friend.
‘I quite fancy one of those.’ Carlyle nodded at the scooter. ‘It looks quite nippy; handy for getting around.’ Turning towards Dom, he realized that his mate was already heading towards the park exit. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘Wait for me!’
‘I’ve got to get back to the Gallery,’ Dom replied, over his shoulder. ‘Fiona will be wanting her lunch.’
Fiona? Carlyle wondered. Who’s Fiona? ‘Fair enough,’ he said, jogging after him.
What the hell was that beast doing? Discarded newspaper on one side of him, empty coffee cup on the other, Daniel Hunter tried to take up sufficient space to deter anyone else from joining him on the bench. After the best part of half an hour sitting in the park, the only thing that had caught his attention was the eccentric dog. Daniel watched with wry amusement as the uninhibited animal finished its . . . rutting on the grass and then went off in search of other diversions. No one else in the park seemed to bat an eyelid. That was the thing about London, everyone was wrapped up in their own little world. No one paid the slightest attention to what was going on around them. The city was a funny place; as a country boy, he wasn’t sure if he would ever really get used to it.
By now, lunchtime was over. The office workers had gone back to their desks and only a handful of folk remained loitering in the square. Daniel quickly pegged the old guy on the electric scooter as the dog’s owner. No one else looked like they would have the time or inclination for looking after a dog. Of course, the mutt could be a stray but he doubted it. As a rule, you didn’t see many strays roaming the streets of Mayfair.
Scooter-man finished his conversation with a couple of guys on a bench on the far side of the park and headed for the pagoda-type building where the dog was now being fed titbits by a couple of tourists. Trundling across the gravel, the man manoeuvred his scooter next to the dog. From his hand gestures, Daniel could see that he was making a half-hearted attempt to scold the dog for its shameless panhandling. Bowing its head, the animal looked suitably contrite. After a nod in the direction of the tourists, the man reached down and scooped up his pet. Placing it in the basket on the front of the scooter next to a couple of bottles of cider, he drove off, making for the exit on the west side of the park.
As he watched the unlikely duo traverse the zebra crossing leading to Hill Street, Daniel caught sight of Mel coming the other way.
‘At last!’ He gave her a wave but, head bowed, marching forward, she had yet to notice him. Her determined strides underlined that she was the best part of fifteen minutes late. Tutting like an old woman, Daniel let his hand drop back by his side.
Timekeeping was not one of his wife’s strengths. It drove him mad. Whereas he would always be five minutes early for any rendezvous, Mel was never knowingly on time. Daniel simply couldn’t comprehend her mindset. How hard was it to be on time for things? All it required was a bit of thought and some forward planning.
When they had been courting, Melanie Ward had never been less than twenty minutes late for a date. Once, she had made him wait an hour and twenty-five minutes outside the local picture house. When she finally turned up, Mel smiled sweetly and claimed that he had got the time wrong. Daniel had been furious – he had never done that in his life. They were supposed to be going to see Avatar. To this day, he had never seen the film and never would. Mere mention of the title made him bristle with frustration.
Ten years and two kids later, she was still always late. He had never been able to shake the idea that she did it on purpose, just to wind him up. It was something that caused more than a few arguments between them.
Now, however, was not the time for a row. Daniel was only going to be home for a short time. Tonight would be the first time he had slept in his own bed for almost a week. And the last too, for God knows how long.
Walking through the gates, Mel finally looked up. Spotting him, she upped her pace, an embarrassed grin on her face. As she came closer, he could see fatigue etched into her face. Her skin was deathly pale and the rings under her eyes were so dark it looked like her mascara had smudged. Bloody hell, Daniel thought, you need a break. His wife looked completely knackered. That was not so surprising. To all intents and purposes, she had been playing the role of single parent for the last two years, with minimal support from friends and family.
Not for the first time, Daniel felt ashamed. He knew that he hadn’t pulled his weight at home for a long time now. Mel deserved better. So did the kids. So did he, for that matter. What was the point of having a family if you never saw them?
Pushing the jumble of unhappy thoughts to the back of his mind, he got to his feet and stepped towards her, holding out his arms. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, yourself,’ Mel smiled, stepping into his embrace.
Pulling her towards him, Dan closed his eyes, breathing in her perfume, as she kissed him gently on the lips.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, once they slid apart.
‘Are you?’ Daniel tried to sound nonchalant as they sat back down. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
She gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘Liar.’
‘It wasn’t that much.’ By your standards, at least.
‘There was a security alert on Oxford Street.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘I doubt it,’ Mel said. ‘At any rate, I haven’t heard a bang. It’s probably just some traffic problem or other. Whatever it was, it was a right pain. I had to go all the way round by Regent Street. Otherwise, I would have been on time.’
‘Mm.’
‘Well, just about.’
‘Don’t worry. My train was late, anyway,’ he fibbed again. ‘I’ve only just got here myself. How long have we got? What time is pick-up?’
Mel checked the time on her phone. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve still got half an hour.’
‘Fine. Want to get a coffee?’
‘Nah. I’m okay.’ She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s nice just to be able to sit down for a moment, without having to rush about.’
‘Yeah.’ He gave her a squeeze back.
‘The kids will be thrilled to see you when they come out of school.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ Now it was Mel’s turn to fib. The truth was that she didn’t want to get the kids’ hopes up; it wouldn’t be the first time their father had let them down at the last minute. It wasn’t that he was an unreliable man, far from it. It was just that his job was ultra-demanding and the Army made no allowances for family life. ‘You should have worn your uniform. You know they get a kick out of seeing you in it. I’m sure it would have gone down well with Mr Fry too.’
‘The headmaster? I thought he had retired last summer.’
‘No, not till the end of this year. You know how impressed he was that you were a Redcap.’
‘Yeah. It certainly helped get us through the interview.’ It was a conversation they’d had many times before. Bagging not one but two places at any Central London school required ruthlessly exploiting any connection or asset you had. When Daniel had walked into Dr Alfred Fry’s office in his Royal Military Police uniform, the old fella’s face had lit up. Even before they had shaken hands, Daniel had known the kids would get in.
‘I’m sure he’ll be at the gates. It would have been nice if you’d had it on.’
Irritated, Daniel tugged at the collar of his North Face jacket with his free hand. With the fleece lining, it was a bit too warm for the time of year but he would wear it on all but the hottest days; it was his off-duty uniform. ‘I don’t like wearing the uniform when I don’t have to,’ he mumbled. ‘Too conspicuous.’ Britain had long since stopped being a country where members of the military were shown proper respect. He was fed up with being accosted by wankers who felt they had the right to walk right up to you to give you a piece of their mind about everything from the ‘so-called War on Terror’ to the ‘dictatorship of the military-industrial complex’.
Mel nodded. She had heard it all before. ‘I understand.’ She gave his hand another squeeze. ‘The kids’ll just be happy to see you. That’s the main thing.’
‘Yeah.’
For a while, they sat in silence, each simply enjoying the pleasure of the other’s presence.
Groaning inwardly, Hunter watched as the dosser came towards them, an expectant grin on his face. He was a tall guy, in his thirties perhaps, with a thick beard and eyes that lacked focus. In one hand was a bottle of cheap Australian red wine. It was as close to empty as made no difference.
Jimmy Gallagher eyed the couple sitting on the bench and smiled to himself. Jimmy knew every type of person that turned up in the square. He could calibrate the likelihood of each one putting their hand in their pocket down to a fraction of a percentage point. The bloke wouldn’t want to know; the woman, however, was a racing certainty.
Seeing the scowl on the bloke’s face, Jimmy addressed his remarks to his good lady wife. ‘Spare a few pence for a cuppa, love?’ The accent was more West Country than West End.
Before Mel could stick a hand in her pocket, Daniel waved him away angrily. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered with a robotic insincerity, meaning, Bugger off.
Sensing the woman’s hesitancy, Jimmy stood his ground. Every second of compound embarrassment was money in the bank.
‘Here you go.’ Mel fished a few coins out of her pocket and handed them over. She didn’t know precisely how much it was but it certainly wouldn’t come close to covering the cost of a latte in the Starbucks across the road.
‘Thank you.’ Jimmy gave Daniel a small smirk of triumph before shuffling off in search of his next target. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘What did you do that for?’ Daniel asked as he watched the dosser line up his next target. ‘He’ll just use the money to stay pissed.’
‘Poor bloke.’
‘Poor bloke, my arse.’
‘Daniel Hunter,’ she admonished him. ‘How do you know he’s not an ex-serviceman?’
‘Pfff.’
‘You’re the one always pointing out how ex-soldiers are more likely to end up homeless than normal people.’
Normal people. ‘Okay, okay.’ He watched the dosser get short shrift from a guy in a suit with a copy of the Financial Times under his arm. Presumably used to such rebuffs, the tramp wandered off without any protest. ‘You’re right.’
Satisfied with the admission of defeat, Mel graciously moved the conversation on. ‘How was Hereford?’
‘Hereford,’ he sighed, ‘was fairly routine.’
‘Must have been nice to have a simple one, for a change.’
‘You can say that again. Three SAS guys went out for a night on the tiles and put a couple of the locals in hospital. No one disputed what happened. I handed the report over to the Camp Commandant all signed, sealed and delivered. Job done.’
‘So what happens to the SAS guys?’
‘They’ll get three months in MCTC, something like that.’ The Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester was England’s only military prison. It was built to house 500 service personnel convicted of various offences; the current population was 782, and rising. Daniel had spent a decent part of the journey back to London trying to work out how many of the buggers in there he’d put inside personally. His best guess was eighty-four, give or take. ‘Then it will be back to active service.’
‘They always take them back, don’t they?’
‘Not always.’
‘No, but most of the time.’
‘Why wouldn’t you? A lot of time, effort and money goes into recruiting and training these guys in the first place. If you throw them back on to the streets, all that goes to waste.’ He looked up, trying to pick out the tramp, but the man had disappeared from the park. ‘Plus, they’ll probably cause more trouble out here than if they stay in uniform.’
‘But they broke. . .
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