THE UNWILLING SON an absolutely gripping mystery thriller that will take your breath away

by Jane Adams

  THE

  UNWILLING

  SON

  An absolutely gripping mystery thriller that will take your breath away

  JANE ADAMS

  Ray Flowers Book 2

  Originally published as Like Angels Falling

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2001

  as Like Angels Falling

  © Jane Adams 2001, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Jane Adams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-605-6

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  ALSO BY JANE ADAMS

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  For my mother.

  Thanks for all the stamps!

  And for my sister-in-law Rowena,

  the other trainee gardener.

  Part One

  Prologue

  Since that day he had kept the curtains closed and blocked out the sun. At night, he opened the window and switched on the single light, a naked bulb suspended from an ornate rose in the centre of his room. He would lie on his bed and watch the moths fly in through the open window and circle frantically around the harsh, unshaded lamp until they fell with scorched and broken wings onto the wooden floor.

  Like angels, he thought, like angels falling from the sky, as they had on that final, terrible day.

  He could not recreate the images he’d seen, the ones the artist had painted on the vaulted ceiling and the curving walls. He had neither the means nor, at that time, the skill, though the images had burned so deep into his brain he need not even close his eyes to see them. But, instead of paint, he had taken the broken wings of his moths and pinned them lovingly to his bedroom walls, mimicking the visions of the falling angels, and his hand became the hand of God, pointing the way to their salvation, leading the way back to the burning, cleansing light.

  * * *

  There had been two survivors from that night. Two they knew about, that was.

  The first was an old man, who had spilt what was left of his life blood when they lifted the beam from his legs. The second was a five-year-old girl. She had been trapped under debris right at the centre of the house. They released her three hours after her world had blown itself apart and she had walked away, unmarked, a tiny figure in a short white nightgown, blonde hair falling to her waist.

  She had rarely spoken since that night. They had called her Katie, after the wife of the officer who had pulled her from the wreckage. They never knew her real name. The neighbours swore they’d not seen the child before and there had been little of a personal nature left inside the house. Everything that might give clues to identity had been burned on a garden bonfire the afternoon before.

  It was eleven years later, on a dull February day, when Katie walked into her foster mother’s living room and spoke to her.

  ‘He’s coming back,’ she said.

  Chapter One

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  The video was of a youngish man. George put him perhaps in his middle thirties, though he had an ageless look that could have meant anything from twenty-five to forty. It was a pleasing face, handsome in a boyish, not quite finished way, framed by a mane of untidy red hair. But it was the eyes that compelled attention. Deep, melting brown, with more than a trace of humour. The eyes and the sweet, self-deprecating smile.

  The production values were first-rate, but the presentation was simple, almost basic. The young man sat in an old armchair. Off to one side, a picture window showed a view of open sea and clear blue sky. He smiled at his audience, eyes seeming to meet theirs, and he spoke softly, explaining as he must have done a thousand times.

  ‘You know, it’s all a matter of timing. If I’d been some young girl in the hills above Fatima or a cranky little thing fresh from the fields of Domrémy, come to lead the troops to victory, I’d probably be headed for sainthood by now.

  ‘If I’d even been religious it would have helped. As it was, I was a half-grown, more-than-half-cynical kid, living on an anonymous, sprawling, concrete-infested estate on the outskirts of an equally uninspiring Midlands town. I just happened to look out of the wrong window at the wrong moment, and that was it. Life as I knew it chopped off in its prime, and no one had even asked me if I minded.

  ‘I was fifteen years old at the time. Gangly, awkward, growing out of my body and prone to teenage spots and an over-endowment of grease in my hair. Just another kid, tortured by hormones and doing my best to escape the attentions of adults and the war games played by my peers.

  ‘I didn’t ask to see whatever it was I saw. True, in my heart of hearts I might have wanted to be different, to be marked out from the general herd in some way. But this way? This was the last way I’d have chosen and that’s the truth of it.’

  The man on the screen froze as George pressed pause
on the remote control.

  ‘The Prophet, Martyn Shaw,’ he said.

  ‘So-called prophet,’ his companion said, nodding. ‘You know much about him?’

  George shook his head. ‘Only what I’ve seen in the media. I know a branch of his order came under investigation, oh, a couple of years ago, something to do with insider dealing I believe, but I had no involvement in that.’

  ‘The deaths, ten, eleven years ago. You heard about them?’

  ‘Of course. The papers and the television were full of it.’

  ‘Twelve dead. They blew themselves apart. And two others killed themselves last year.’

  George frowned. Looking at his friend, he wondered where all of this was leading. ‘If memory serves, this one, Martyn Shaw, he took over after that, didn’t he? Wasn’t their original leader, Daniel Morgan, among the dead?’

  ‘That was never proved. Some of the bodies were little more than fragments and they’d gone to great lengths to get rid of personal items. They’d posted what they claimed was a list of “the blessed”, as they called their suicides, to The Times, but we know for a fact that it was falsified. Even the sex of the victims didn’t match.’

  ‘We?’ George queried. ‘Patrick, you’ve been retired three years now and I’d have been told if they’d recalled you. So who’s “we”?’

  Patrick sighed and reached for the remote to stop the video. ‘Parents,’ he said. ‘We’re parents. We formed a sort of support group about a year ago.’ He glanced awkwardly at George. ‘Well, Barbara joined it and I suppose I got dragged along if we’re going to be accurate.’

  ‘Your daughter?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘She went to one of their introductory things. Some meditation session they held at that place of theirs near Oakham. Went on the Friday night a normal, sane person and by Sunday she was one of them. We’ve barely seen her since, George. That was eighteen months ago. Babs is going frantic. Mitch writes, but she won’t come home. She’s even given up her job to go and work in one of their damned communes. We’re at the end of our rope.’

  He got up, scooping his whisky glass off the arm of his leather chair and crossing to the sideboard. He poured another, double measure, and gestured towards George. ‘Refresh your glass?’

  ‘No, no thank you. I’m fine. How old is Mitch, Patrick? It’s been some time . . .’

  His friend laughed shortly. ‘Oh, no, you’re not giving me that. Mitch is no baby, I know. She was twenty-four this year, but she’s a naïve twenty-four. A mere kid.’

  George nodded, considering. He had rarely seen Patrick so agitated. They had worked together both at the Home Office and in the Diplomatic Protection Group, but he’d not seen his friend and one-time colleague in well over a year, closer to two now he thought about it, and it occurred to him suddenly that Patrick had grown old. Patrick had passed through almost the same career route as George. Ex-army, transferring to the DPG, their paths diverging only when Patrick moved over to work for MI6 and George joined Eric Dignan and other members of the DPG in what Dignan affectionately called his Corporation — men and women drawn from all branches of the Service who acted as consultants and liaised between the different branches of British and overseas undercover operations. He had seen little of Patrick after that and even less since he retired.

  George pressed play on the video recorder and the man on screen moved once more, gesturing with his left hand as though reaching out towards his audience.

  ‘I’m not saying that this is the only way,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps, for many, it’s not even going to be the right way, but what I am saying to you is this. Come to our meetings. Listen to what we have to say and see for yourself the happiness that belonging to our organization has brought to those who have chosen and who have been chosen.’ He smiled again. ‘I have to tell you, though, not everyone who wants to belong will be able to join us. We have turned away many who, in their deepest hearts, wanted to believe but didn’t have quite what it takes to be one of us. To be the Eyes of God is a privilege and a joy, but it cannot be the way for everyone.’

  Impatiently, Patrick switched off the tape. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Take it with you if you want to see more, but he makes my flesh crawl.’

  ‘Good psychology, though,’ George commented. ‘Most churches just want bums on seats, they don’t threaten their faithful with a selection process.’

  ‘It’s not a damned church,’ Patrick told him angrily. ‘It’s a cult, a fad, a piece of propaganda designed to corrupt the innocent. Steal our children’s minds.’ He glanced at George as though suddenly embarrassed by his outburst.

  ‘Is that what they say at this support group of yours?’

  ‘Something like that. And it’s true, George. It’s bloody true.’

  George frowned slightly. From what he remembered of Mitch, she was not a young lady who had ever been weak-minded. Not especially innocent either, he thought, doing his best not to smile at the memory of catching a seventeen-year-old Mitch and her boyfriend in the back seat of her father’s car. Mitch was normal, healthy, curious and very bright. ‘I find it hard to think of Mitch being sucked into anything without thinking first,’ he said. ‘She was always so sharp.’

  ‘We thought so too,’ Patrick said sadly. ‘We thought, it’s just Mitch experimenting. Like that monastery thing. You remember, she went on a retreat or whatever to that Taoist place. And when she joined those left-wing radical things in school.’

  George smiled. ‘It was CND, from what I remember. It’s perfectly respectable, Patrick.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I mean, we expected a bit of rebellion. Kids nowadays. But we thought, breeding will out in the end. She came from a loving home, a good, solid background, and when she finally knuckled down and took herself off to college . . .’

  ‘Oxford, wasn’t it?’ George asked.

  ‘Yes. We thought, right, Mitch has got it all out of her system and she’ll be fine now. Then this.’

  He slumped back in his chair and downed the whisky in two gulps. George winced — it deserved better attention than that. It was warm in Patrick’s library, a large fire burning in the grate. Logs from the coppice at the back of the house and he could smell applewood. Patrick had mentioned at dinner that a couple of the oldest trees had been grubbed out of the orchard this autumn. He got up and wandered over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to see if it was still snowing outside.

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do, Patrick. You know I’m about to resign. It becomes official at the end of the month.’

  ‘And that’s exactly it. Oh, I’ve tried so-called official channels. Police don’t want to be bothered.’

  ‘Well, she is twenty-four.’

  ‘I know, I know. And my erstwhile colleagues are no more help. Said it’s out of their domain. They’ve got the usual monitors in place, but since he moved his main operation stateside, Martyn Shaw is, they said, no longer their concern.’

  ‘So where do I come in?’ George asked, though he thought he could already guess.

  ‘Well, when I heard about you setting up on your own, I thought, ideal. One of us, able to act without all those damned restrictions.’ He stood up and came over to join George by the window. ‘Find the dirt on him, George. Show him for the complete charlatan he is. I can pay, of course. Whatever it takes, you know I’m good for it.’ He sighed deeply and, now he stood closer, George could see clearly just how grey his skin had become. The reddened eyes from night after night of drinking.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, wondering what his partner would make of it all.

  Chapter Two

  Outside it was snowing again, but the ground was too wet for it to settle and already the streets were covered in a yellowish greasy slush. Snow, Ray Flowers thought, shouldn’t be allowed in cities. All it did was get dirty.

  February had never been a favourite month but this one was proving to be better than most. He leaned back against the wide sill of t
he big bay window and surveyed his new domain with great satisfaction. He’d been doubtful when George had first brought him to see this place, fearing it was too far from the centre of town and too expensive but, now that they were finally installed and the brass plaque was on the massive green front door he could see that George had been right. First floor of a large Victorian house, long since converted. Below there was a solicitor, above them an accountant’s office (Ray had already enquired about terms and been shocked by the estimate), with Flowers-Mahoney Executive Security and Investigations now sandwiched in between.

  We need to make a statement, George had told him. Show that we’re not some twopenny-halfpenny firm dealing in divorce cases and cheap alarm systems. We need an address. And, boy, did they have one now — Clarendon Park, at the Stoneygate end — and the bills to prove it. Now all he had to do was master the damned computer.

  Sarah came in carrying mugs of tea. She set them down on Ray’s new desk and smiled at him. ‘You look pleased with yourself.’

  ‘I am. I actually think this might work.’

  ‘Course it will. You and George, all the experience you have between you, not to mention the deviousness and the bloody-mindedness, how could it fail?’

  She came over and lay a cool long-fingered hand against his cheek before leaning forward to kiss him. Ray smiled back at her.

  It was a lopsided clownish smile these days, inhibited by the scars that criss-crossed his cheek and deformed one side of his mouth. Ray had never been what you might call handsome, but the petrol bomb attack which had left his face and hands laced with burn scars had put paid to any faint illusion he might ever have had. A year ago he had been a policeman. DI Flowers, twenty-odd years in Her Majesty’s service. A year ago he’d been in hospital, not sure if he wanted to live or die, but life, he reflected, has a way of throwing the unexpected in a person’s way. And a year ago he had not had Sarah Gordon.