Conspiracy

by Adrian Wills

  ‘River, Pixie and the others, they’re my family,’ Jenni sobbed.

  ‘You don’t get to choose.’

  ‘At least they treat me with respect. I hate my father.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, actually I do.’

  The Audi crawled at a snail’s pace. Navigating around the city was proving a nightmare with all the diversions in place, and every time a police patrol car screamed past with its sirens blaring, Blake held his breath, watching cautiously in his mirrors. The vehicle’s number plate would have triggered all sorts of red flags by now as it passed through the capital’s countless automatic number plate recognition cameras, but Blake was banking on the police being too pre-occupied with the protests to worry about a solitary carjacking.

  ‘By the way, you’re going the wrong way,’ Jenni said with a sulky pout, pulling her knees up to her chest.

  ‘Get your feet down,’ said Blake. ‘It’s not your car. Show some respect.’

  ‘You just stole it.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’ll be getting it back and he won’t want muddy footprints all over the seats.’

  Jenni huffed. ‘You sound just like my father.’

  Blake was beginning to feel some sympathy for the man. ‘Maybe you just have some issues with authority.’

  ‘You’re ex-military, aren’t you? I can always tell. It’s like you’re all obsessed with following the rules. My father’s always like, when I was in the army this, and when I was in the army that.’

  ‘I didn’t know your father was a soldier. Which unit?’

  ‘God knows. He left when I was a baby, but the way he’s always banging on about it, you’d think he was like this big war hero or something.’ She turned to stare out of the window watching the tugboats on the river. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ said Blake.

  ‘I won’t go back to the squat if that’s the problem. I’ll find somewhere better to stay.’

  ‘I’m being paid to return you to your parents.’

  ‘Well, our house is in the other direction.’

  ‘We’re not going back to your house.’

  ‘So where then?’

  ‘Somewhere neutral. It’s what your father wanted.’

  ‘You know that all that stuff you see on the TV, all the smiles and the charm, it’s just an act. He’s not really like that. He’s a monster,’ said Jenni, chewing a fingernail.

  ‘He can’t be that bad. Anyway, aren’t all teenagers supposed to hate their parents?’

  ‘They don’t give a shit about me.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jenni snorted.

  ‘They cared enough to send me to bring you home.’

  ‘Only because he was worried I was going to embarrass him. The only thing my father cares about is his stupid career. If you make me go back I’ll kill myself.’

  Blake sighed. If this was what it was like having teenagers, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing he’d never had children.

  ‘You know he’s stopped me seeing my friends, and he even tries to tell me what clothes to wear.’

  They’d escaped the worst of the traffic and were making steady progress through Bermondsey on the south bank of the river. Blake turned into a tree-lined avenue heading east and eventually they came to a residential area where the majority of the old brick wharf buildings overlooking the Thames had been converted into trendy apartments and offices. He slowed to check the numbers of the buildings and eventually spotted the anonymous red brick block he was looking for. A wide vehicular entrance ramped sharply down to an underground car park. He pulled up in front of a barrier and buzzed down his window as an attendant in a black uniform and peaked cap appeared from a fibreglass hut.

  The guy peered in, closely scrutinising Blake, and then Jenni. ‘They’re not here yet,’ he said. ‘Wait on the lower ground floor.’

  He raised the barrier and Blake rolled into the dark. The headlights came on automatically and the tyres squealed on the polished concrete. White arrows directed them into a sweeping curved ramp that took them down a level into a surprisingly cavernous space empty of any other vehicles. Blake reversed into a space so they were facing the entrance. He killed the engine and folded his arms across his chest. Jenni had finally stopped talking. She sat anxiously twisting her beanie hat between her fingers, her multi-coloured fringe falling over her eyes.

  They sat in silence for ten minutes with Blake fighting the urge to close his eyes and snatch a quick catnap. He was confident Jenni wasn’t going to try to get away, but it wouldn’t look too good if her father arrived to find him asleep. Eventually he heard the rumble of engines and the tortuous screech of rubber on the concrete floor. The bright headlights of three Range Rovers illuminated the car park as they fanned out on the opposite side of the car park.

  ‘You know sometimes he hits me,’ said Jenni, a quiver in her voice. ‘It’s the only time he lets me wear make-up, to cover the bruises.’

  ‘Right, come on,’ said Blake, unclipping his seatbelt. ‘Time to go. Don’t leave your father waiting.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  Several doors opened. Patterson was one of the first men to spill out. He strode towards the Audi with a purposeful determination.

  ‘Well done, Blake,’ he said. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Refusing to get out of the car. She says she doesn’t want to see him.’

  Patterson frowned. ‘Oh, well, he’s waiting. He wants to see you too.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘He wants to thank you personally.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘He knows about Echo 17,’ said Patterson. ‘I’ve had the third degree on the way over. He’s not a fan. He thinks we’re operating beyond the law.’

  Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you explain to him?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘He’s just pissed off because he’s out of the loop and no one told him about us,’ said Blake. ‘What did you tell him about me?’

  ‘That you were one of our best agents, the only man with the requisite skills to have brought his daughter in under the radar.’

  ‘Yeah, about that. . .’ said Blake, remembering the scene he’d caused outside the Bank of England.

  ‘So just shake his hand and smile. Take the praise and don’t engage with him about the unit. Besides, something urgent has come up.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Let’s offload the girl first.’ Patterson opened the driver’s door and leaned in. ‘Hi,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘I’m Harry. Your dad’s waiting for you in the car over there.’

  Jenni continued to stare out of the side window into the dark, refusing to acknowledge him.

  ‘He’s been worried about you, Jenni. Why don’t you go and see him?’

  After a brief stand-off, the teenager huffed and climbed out with her face set like thunder. She marched across the car park disappearing into the glare of the headlights with her arms crossed over her chest and her long, black coat swaying with the rhythm of her hips.

  She wasn’t a bad kid, but Blake was glad his babysitting duties were done. Time to get back to the proper job. He was curious what Patterson had in mind for him.

  As Jenni approached the Range Rovers, a tall man in a well-tailored suit stepped out of the middle vehicle. His features were hidden in the shadows, but Blake instantly recognised him. Something about the way he stood tall, with shoulders back, his chest out. Even from a distance, the man exuded power and influence. Jenni, however, completely blanked him. No big reunion hug. No chaste kisses on the cheek. No tears of happiness. She threw herself into the back of the car and noisily slammed the door.

  ‘Teenagers,’ said Blake, as the echo died away, glad she was no longer his problem.

  ‘Look smart, Bowater’s coming over,’ said Patterson, as Jenni’s father buttoned up his jacket and made a beeline for the Audi, the headlights sil
houetting his sleek frame. Blake smoothed down his hair and ran a hand over his beard. He desperately needed a shower, a shave and a clean set of clothes, but forced a smile as Bowater reached out a hand.

  ‘Be nice,’ Patterson hissed through his teeth.

  Bowater took Blake’s hand in a powerful grip.

  ‘This is the agent I was telling you about, Sir,’ said Patterson. ‘Blake, I’d like you to meet Henry Bowater, the Home Secretary.’

  Chapter Eight

  After the Range Rovers had driven off and the rumble of their exhausts had died away, Blake and Patterson were left in a semi-darkness punctuated only by the low glow from a string of florescent tube lights along the ceiling.

  Patterson, sitting in the Audi’s passenger seat vacated by Jenni, passed Blake his mobile phone. ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘A missing soldier?’ said Blake, skip-reading through an online news story Patterson had called up.

  ‘Sir Richard wants you to have a sniff around and see what you can find out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The guy’s not been seen for several days which is totally out of character, according to his wife.’

  ‘Let me guess, you think he’s been abducted?’ said Blake, handing the phone back. All he could think about was a cold beer and a hot shower, not racing around the country on a missing person manhunt. He was so dirty his clothes were sticking to his skin and his scalp was itching with filth.

  ‘His name’s Kyle Hopkins. Thirty-one years old. A survival instructor with the Duke of York’s Royal Regiment. He’s based at a training school on Dartmoor, last seen drinking at a bar in Tavistock a few days ago,’ Patterson continued. ‘His car was found abandoned on the moor.’

  ‘That’s it?’ said Blake.

  ‘That’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘What about his background? Any skeletons?’

  ‘Nothing’s turned up yet. It remains a police operation at this stage, but they’re taking it seriously. They’ve set up an incident room in Tavistock.’

  ‘No previous history of absconding?’

  ‘An unblemished record, according to his CO.’

  ‘CCTV footage?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Patterson.

  ‘Any internet chatter?’ Blake had seen cases like this before. Soldiers went AWOL for all sorts of reasons; women, drink, depression. On the other hand, certain jihadi websites were full of talk about the desire to kidnap a British soldier in retribution for the deaths of Muslims in those parts of the Middle East where the West had interfered in domestic crises; Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria, to name a few. It would be a political disaster if someone had managed to pull it off under the noses of the security services.

  ‘GCHQ is monitoring the usual traffic, but there’s been nothing yet.’

  ‘So call me when you get something concrete.’ Blake stretched and yawned. His eyes were so heavy he felt he could sleep for a week. The last thing he needed right now was a wild goose chase for a missing squaddie who’d probably gone on a drinking bender and was sleeping it off under a bush.

  ‘Sir Richard has specifically asked that you take a look. He doesn’t want a big fuss made, but we need to be on the front foot if this develops into something more serious. We need someone with a low profile to check it out, and with your military background you’re ideally placed.’

  Blake threw his head back and sighed. If Sir Richard Howard, the Deputy Director General of MI5, the man responsible for international and domestic counter-terrorism operations in the UK was demanding Blake investigate, it was impossible to refuse. The continuing existence of Echo 17 relied on his support. It had been his decision alone to bring the unit under the auspices of the security services when the military shut it down and cast Blake, Patterson and a dozen other good guys out into the cold, citing budget cuts and a nervousness about the nature of its operations. Sir Richard had immediately grasped the role Echo 17 could play in protecting the country from the deepening threat of terrorism.

  ‘If this had been a terrorist abduction, we’d have heard something by now. They’d be crowing all about it. Otherwise what’s the point?’ said Blake.

  ‘Maybe they never expected to get so lucky and are working out what to do with him.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s not someone else who can look into this, Harry?’ said Blake. ‘I’m tired. I need a break.’

  Patterson shook his head. ‘The police have been warned you’ll be arriving in the morning,’ he said, handing Blake two train tickets from an envelope. ‘You’re booked on the 6:33 from Paddington. It should get you into Plymouth just after half nine.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Come on, Harry.’

  ‘The senior investigating officer has arranged for someone to meet you at the station. Go home, get cleaned up and grab a decent night’s rest. And when this is all done, take some leave. Recharge the batteries. Here,’ said Patterson, pulling a set of keys from his trouser pocket. ‘Take these. My pad in Devon’s empty at the moment. The sea air will do you some good.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You’ll probably be done in a couple of days when Hopkins turns up with his tail between his legs and the hangover from hell.’

  Blake took the keys and stuffed them in his pocket.

  ‘Want me to drop you home?’

  ‘No, I’ll walk. The air will do me good.’ Blake threw open the door and stepped out into the car park still heavy with diesel fumes.

  ‘Let me know how you get on.’

  ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days,’ said Blake, zipping up his jacket. He stomped up the concrete ramp and nodded to the security guys in their fibreglass hut as he emerged into the daylight. He breathed in the familiar smell of the Thames, the salt and oil and brine. The smell of home, even if he was on the wrong side of the river. He gathered his bearings, shoved his hands in his pockets, and trudged off, fantasising about his bed and wondering how he’d just been talked into another half-baked operation.

  Chapter Nine

  The train pulled out of Paddington Station on the stroke of 6:33am. Blake sat at a window seat in first class with a table to himself. Feeling vaguely human again after a decent night’s sleep in his own bed, he stretched out his legs and watched the city roll past the window. He’d showered and shaved and run a comb through his hair, expunging the last traces of the legend he’d used to trick his way into the squat to rescue Jenni Bowater. She was already a distant memory, and he had other things on his mind now.

  They picked up speed through a sprawling mass of glass-fronted office blocks, rows of terraced Victorian homes and a skyline silhouetted by towering cranes that hinted at the relentless redevelopment going on in the city. Blake sipped coffee from a cardboard cup he’d picked up from a kiosk at the station, black and strong, no sugar, and as the grey city gave way to green fields and blue skies, he turned his attention to his newspaper. The story of the missing soldier had made it onto the front page under the lead article about the continuing problems the Government faced negotiating the country out of Europe.

  It contained nothing more than the basic details Patterson had given him the day before, plus the same photo of Kyle Hopkins he’d seen on the online news story. Hopkins was staring at the camera with ruddy cheeks and a thin-lipped smile. The story included a brief quote from the detective inspector in charge of the investigation and a bland appeal from Hopkins’ wife, Claire, for anyone who had seen her husband to get in touch with the police. Not even a hint of speculation that his disappearance might be terror related.

  Blake folded up the paper, sat back and closed his eyes.

  When he woke the train was rushing past the sea. Waves crashed onto a stony beach on one side of the track, while on the other, ochre-coloured cliffs brushed with petalwort and sand crocuses reached up to the sky. The train darted in and out of tunnels, the change in air pressure making Blake’s ears pop. Eventually they left the coast behind, heading inland through rolling green hills dotted with grazing sheep and cat
tle, and the occasional stone church nestled in a valley.

  They arrived in Plymouth two minutes ahead of schedule to grey skies and a veil of drizzle. Blake stood, stretched his back and grabbed his bag from the overhead racks.

  A woman wearing a black trouser suit approached him as he trudged onto a busy concourse. ‘Tom Blake?’

  Blake smiled. He was losing his touch if he was that easy to pick out of a crowd of strangers.

  ‘DC Elodie Parkes. My instructions are to take you straight to the incident room. My car’s out the front,’ she said, turning and walking away without a backwards glance.

  Blake followed her to a four-wheel drive Volvo on a 12-plate parked on double yellow lines right outside the station, much to the consternation of a line of angry taxi drivers. She took Blake’s bag and threw it in the boot. The car was clean and uncluttered. No child’s car seat, no dog hairs, just a faint, lingering hint of perfume.

  ‘How did you know who I was?’ asked Blake, as Parkes pulled away.

  ‘You were the only one who came off the London train looking lost.’

  Blake smiled to himself. She flicked the windscreen wipers to clear a sheen of rain. ‘Is the weather always this grey?’

  ‘No, it’s usually worse,’ she said without a hint of humour, then jumped on the brakes as the car in front slowed suddenly. She swore under her breath and ignored the blare of a horn from behind as she changed lanes, cutting up a white van.

  Blake estimated she was in her mid-thirties. Slim build, athletic even, like a long-distance runner. No wedding ring. Delicate make-up accentuating her piercing blue eyes. Not unattractive. ‘I take it you’re part of the team investigating Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance? Any new leads?’

  ‘The DI can bring you up to speed,’ she said, frostily. ‘We should be there in half-an-hour.’ Parkes switched on the radio and turned up the volume. A cheesy pop song blared through the speakers.

  Blake turned the radio down. ‘I’m interested in what you think’s happened to him.’