by N C Mander
Mo caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Nick was right. He looked terrible – exhausted with dark bags under his eyes.
‘When do you think we’ll have a report from forensics?’
‘Mid-morning at the earliest, I suspect. I’ll give you a call when we have it.’
‘Thanks.’
The two men descended the stairs. Outside on the pavement, the bright evening light caused Mo to blink after the gloom of the house. Another police car had arrived, out of which spilled two forensic investigators, already suited up in their blue protective garments. They ignored Doug and Mo as they hurried into the house.
‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Doug.
‘See you then,’ replied Mo. He moved off in the direction of the tube station. He looked up as he passed number sixteen to see the grandma he had spoken to earlier, staring at him wide-eyed. He smiled at her, a tacit apology for his earlier deception, but she quickly dropped the net curtain and scurried away from the window.
Chapter Ten
1233, Friday 30th June, Moniedubh Estate, nr. North Ballachulish, Lochaber
Donald huffed his way up the side of the ben. He had escaped the mausoleum early, shortly after the dawn light had crept across the moorland. He looked innocuous enough, albeit slightly anachronistic in his tweeds, knee-high socks and flat cap, which contrasted with the Gortex’ed and Lycra’d hikers, climbers and trail runners who frequented the tracks and passes of the Highlands. He whistled, and the lurcher loped across the hillside toward him. The sun was threatening to break through the rug of light grey cloud, and the air was heavily scented with a Highland summer. He breathed deeply, catching his breath after the climb. There were certain things, like that heady smell and this magnificent view, he would miss when he left. But they were small sacrifices.
Standing at the peak of the ben, he remembered, with a jolt, that the last time he’d been up there was with Edison. It had been the moment when everything had changed.
Ahead of a hunting party he was hosting for some of his most important contacts, he had invited his protégé to the family estate a day before his distinguished guests’ arrival. It had felt like the right time to bring Edison into the family business. The business had started as a modest affair. Some years earlier, Donald had seen an opportunity to realise his long-held ambition to unshackle himself from Elizabeth and her family’s money. Trade had been brisk, and he soon found himself struggling to meet demand. He needed additional support to continue servicing the voracious appetites of his clients. There seemed no end to their hunger for drugs, amongst other things, and his own pool of agents abroad couldn’t service the demand. He needed Edison’s help, well connected as he was in the Middle and Far East and having a huge network of contacts. Plus, he had the technical wizardry to support the furtherance of the business. Hughes needed his surrogate son’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the Dark Web to keep up with demand.
In the early morning light, Hughes and Edison had left Moniedubh and hiked to the top of the hill that overlooked the estate. There, he’d poured two drams of his favourite whisky from his hip flask, offering one to Edison. He was hoping to toast their new venture together, but as he had recounted his business operations to the young man, to his horror, Edison’s body language had changed. The trusting warmth that had existed between them since their first meeting in Oxford, more than a decade earlier, evaporated into the cold Scottish air. He had begun to back away from Hughes, the tin cup of whisky spilling its contents onto the heather as his arms fell slack at his sides, and disbelief consumed him.
He had followed Edison back to the manor house, trying to recant, suggesting the whole story had been a ploy to test Edison’s commitment to the Service as he embarked on the next stage of his career. He had recently been promoted and was on a fast track for a head of section role. But he knew at the time that Edison wasn’t buying it. He would have to rely on the young man’s affection for him. He spent the whole of the weekend reminding Edison of his role in shaping his illustrious career at MI5 as he introduced him to the ambassadors, politicians and senior civil servants who descended on his home that weekend.
It had been a subdued party as Hughes struggled to cover his tracks.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he recalled being asked by the Turkish ambassador, as he’d pulled him aside to express his frustration at the lack of the hospitality he’d become accustomed to at Moniedubh. ‘I’m only in the country a few times a year, and I didn’t bring my god-daughter here for the pleasure of your company alone.’
It had been the first time he’d met her. Wonderful and beguiling, she had been the only good thing to come from that ill-fated weekend. The memory of meeting her drew him back to the present. He was due a phone call from her any moment and before they spoke, he needed space to think. To take stock of the circumstances.
The events of Thursday at Billingsgate hadn’t made the twenty-four-hour news channels. However, it had drawn unwanted attention to his business activities, according to one of his contacts at the Met. He was confident that his involvement couldn’t be traced, but he was worried about his plans, the wheels for which were well in motion, being derailed. He needed the money from the imports. He was desperate to get out of Scotland to join her in London. He had his eye on a mansion flat in Knightsbridge, recently listed on a property website, but it came at a price. His phone rang and he felt his spirits lift, recognising her number.
‘Hello, my love,’ he answered.
‘Well, hello, sexy,’ the voice on the other end of the phone breathed.
‘I miss you, my darling. Did you get my gift?’
‘Yes, roses! My favourite. You really do spoil me.’
‘I’m worried, my dear. I think reopening the route has drawn more attention to us than expected.’
‘Oh Donny, we discussed this already, don’t worry about that. They can’t trace you, and even if they do, you can fix it, can’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Donald answered confidently, but sometimes he wondered how many more favours he could call in from his high-flying friends, no matter how debauched the dirt he had on them.
‘Anyway, it was important. We cannot exfiltrate you,’ she giggled at the use of the word – Donald knew how sexy she thought being a spy was, ‘without the money.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Donald’s confidence swelled as she spoke of his escape from Elizabeth and the life in which he felt so trapped. ‘But what about the collateral? The captain?’
‘I can assure you he has been dealt with.’
‘Do you know how?’
‘Money, probably, it’s usually money. You should know that, my darling.’ She laughed, a tinkling, seductive laugh that Donald couldn’t resist.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘There is one thing that worries me though,’ she said. Donald could imagine her pretty brow furrowing.
‘What is that my darling?’
‘This Steven Edwards. The new employee at the bank. He seems to be snooping around the Ethereum trading platform with a little too much interest.’
‘What does he look like, this Steven Edwards?’ Donald asked seeing an opportunity to corroborate the story he had received from Tony on Scott Edison’s new job.
‘Very tall, broad-shouldered, messy dark hair, his eyes are …’ she broke off to consider her description.
‘Intelligent, piercing, blue?’ Donald suggested.
‘Yes, exactly.’
Donald drew a long breath.
‘Do you know this man, my love?’
‘Only too well. He works for MI5.’
She squeaked on the other end of the line. ‘We must do something. They are coming after you again, my darling!’
‘No, no, there is nothing to worry about. I’m just an investor in the fund. That’s perfectly legitimate. As you said, we have covered our tracks well elsewhere.’
‘I am sure I might know someone who could sort that problem for us,�
� she urged him.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I could ask someone to, well, stop him from digging around in our affairs.’
Donald was taken aback by the subtext implicit in her proposal. He hated Scott Edison for all that had passed between them, for his betrayal and the way he had let him down. He wanted the man to suffer, certainly, but the suggestion that one of her contacts might orchestrate a hit on him was a step too far. ‘No, no, my love, that would be a very bad idea. Play it cool with Mr Edwards, but don’t let on that you know who he is. That could be very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.’
‘Ok, my darling Donald. You always know what’s best. I must go, my love.’
‘Let’s speak a little longer, my darling. Let’s speak of cheerier things.’
‘No, no, I must get back to work.’
Donald let her go as pangs of hunger were beginning to stab at his gut. He regretted setting out that morning in such a rush. The anticipation of speaking with her had driven him from the house without breakfast. Looking out over the moors, shafts of sunlight picked out the path he would take. It would bring him down into Ballachulish, where he would have lunch.
Sir Hughes contemplated the view before him. The beauty of Scotland never failed to astound him. He still had some lingering concerns about the captain of the trawler, even though he had been assured that the risk had been contained. He was a liability, no matter how much money her contacts had supplied.
Donald whistled, a high-pitched sound that brought Angus bounding to his heels. ‘Come on, my lad,’ he said to the dog and set off in the direction of the village where he hoped a cheddar ploughman’s and a pint would be waiting for him in the pub. ‘I think we’re back on track, Angus,’ Donald said, and the dog looked up at him, wagged his tail and trotted along beside him until they reached the sleepy village of Ballachulish on the shores of Loch Leven.
Chapter Eleven
2356, Saturday 1st July, Internet Relay Chat
*
1526, Sunday 2nd July, New Scotland Yard, Westminster, London
Mo’s weekend had been tedious. Dutifully, he’d arrived at Scotland Yard each day, as instructed by Kat, to keep tabs on the investigation. There was a tangible sense of unease growing in the incident room. The discovery of the bomb factory had put everyone on edge. Nick, having recently become a father, had somehow wangled a weekend’s leave and Doug, back under the watchful eye of his commanding officer, was a lot less friendly toward Mo than he had been when they’d met in the West Ham van. The whole team were looking into the West Ham address, extra bodies had been drafted in from other units to help with the investigation, but even with the inflation in manpower, they weren’t getting very far.
Michael Colchester wafted in and out, barking requests for new information every few hours. The updates provided were limited, and the lack of progress was testing Colchester’s patience. He became increasingly snappy as the weekend bore on. On Sunday, his frustrations boiled over.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he shouted across the incident room. Mo looked up startled by the verbal assault.
‘Mo Hussein, MI5.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do your lot think we need babysitting through this?’ Members of the investigatory team who’d been focused on their computer screens surreptitiously raised their heads to observe the altercation. Colchester crossed the incident room, eyes bulging and leaning in to speak, he brought his large nose uncomfortably close to Mo’s. ‘I will advise at the earliest opportunity should anything pertinent to your enquiries arise,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Thank you. But I’m happy to observe and save you the additional hassle of providing updates to my service.’
Colchester bristled. ‘Thank you, sir, are the words you’re looking for, I think.’
Mo kept his mouth shut, thinking a discussion on whether rank was transferrable between services would not be good politics. Colchester shrugged, the wind taken out of his argument by Mo’s silence. He looked round at his team. ‘I’m going home,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Buzz me immediately if you find anything.’
Nothing happened that warranted calling the commanding officer nor to arouse Mo’s interest. He headed home, worried that his brief to shadow the Met was not going to add anything to the investigation as a whole. He felt impotent in the face of the threat that hung over London like a guillotine’s blade waiting to fall.
*
The incident room was bubbling with excitement when Mo arrived on Monday morning. Looking around, it was clear that Colchester wasn’t there yet. ‘What’s going on?’ Mo asked Doug.
‘Good news,’ Doug said. ‘We’ve got a lead on where the cell might have moved to and …’ he caught himself before ploughing on.
‘Nice. So,’ said Mo, ‘tell me everything.’
Doug was about to launch into the news when he appeared to think better of it. ‘Sorry mate, the super hasn’t been briefed yet. Probably shouldn’t …’ he trailed off, embarrassed, but Mo knew it was more than his job was worth to undermine Colchester’s command of the case.
‘When will he be in?’ Mo asked.
Doug looked at his watch. ‘Likely another half an hour.’
‘Time for a coffee and some breakfast then.’ Downstairs, in the cafeteria, as he waited in the short queue for a stale croissant and a strong cup of coffee, he sent a message to Kat.
On my way – came the reply within moments.
Having polished off his meagre breakfast, Mo went to the reception area where he hovered, waiting for Kat. She arrived a few moments later, unruffled by the dash from Thames House along a blustery Embankment, although he did detect hints of grey bags starting to develop beneath her eyes. She flashed her ID at the reception desk and was ushered through the security system.
‘So, what do you know?’ she asked as they hurried through the maze of corridors into the heart of the building.
‘Nothing. Colchester isn’t in yet. How was your weekend?’
‘Uh, don’t ask. I’ve called on every officer with agents embedded in extremist groups across the country for intelligence and drawn a blank at every turn. We’re combing CCTV from the docks for any sign of our targets arriving. Nothing.’
From a distance behind them, a voice familiar to Mo bellowed, ‘Oh God, the spies are multiplying.’ Kat and Mo turned to see Colchester bearing down on them. He reached them in a few strides, falling in step beside them. He looked down his nose at Kat as they all kept walking, ‘And who are you?’
‘Kat Cox,’ replied Kat coolly. ‘Lead Intelligence Officer, Counter-terrorism, MI5.’
Colchester grunted and said to Mo, ‘She’s your boss then.’
Kat replied, used to the institutional sexism prevalent in the upper ranks of the Met, ‘Yes, Mo is one of my officers.’ She carefully stressed the fact that Mo was one of a bigger team for which she was responsible. She was not, as Mo recognised, saying this in an egotistical way. She was simply and carefully asserting her authority with the senior police officer.
‘Well if you are the boss, then you had both better join the briefing,’ was Colchester’s curt repost. They turned the final few corners in silence before arriving in the incident room. On their entrance, the noise subsided. About a dozen officers and investigators turned expectantl
y to greet the superintendent. A few cast a quizzical glance at Kat.
‘What have you got for me, Sergeant Hulme?’ said Colchester.
Doug Hulme cleared his throat, ‘Well, sir, the squat we discovered on Friday is owned by a management company. The registered address for the firm, Barinak Holdings, according to Companies House, is in Wood Green. It’s run by two Turks – Murat Yousuf and Hakan Gurbuz. We haven’t got much information on their property inventory as yet, but the guys are working on it.’ He nodded at the men and women hunched over computer screens behind them.
The assembled company were silent for a moment, each of them turning these developments over in their minds, trying to spot the critical connection. Colchester was the first to speak, ‘We need to find the other properties to work out where the bomb factory has been moved to. We can get a warrant quickly enough.’
‘We need to be careful though,’ said Kat. ‘We don’t want to spook them.’
Colchester snorted, ‘Rich, coming from a spook. They know we’re onto them. That’s clear from their hasty relocation at the end of last week.’
‘Yes,’ said Kat, her voice steady, but her frustration at the Met officer’s arrogant attitude was mounting, ‘but we don’t want to back them into a corner, force them to play their hand.’
‘You mean blow central London sky-high. Of course not. We stop them first.’ Colchester looked at his watch. ‘I have a meeting with the commissioner. Good work, Doug. You’ll excuse me.’ He addressed Kat, ignored Mo, and left.
‘Thank you, Doug,’ said Kat, smiling. ‘Mo will stick around and keep us informed.’ Doug nodded. ‘Coffee at Thames House Mo, before they forget what you look like?’
Kat’s joke broke the tension that Colchester had created. ‘Let’s go,’ said Mo, then turned to Doug, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ Doug nodded again and set about updating the incident board with the information that he had just shared.
