The Minders

by John Marrs

  “You mean they were prostitutes?” Doon asked, her head tilted and brow creased.

  “Isla was hired to entertain a wealthy Saudi Arabian sheikh, one who regularly gave MI6 important intelligence but who was known by them for his violence towards women. He was responsible for Isla’s death.”

  “No,” Doon replied adamantly. “No. I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. It was covered up by our intelligence services because the sheikh was worth more to them as a free man than he was extradited or behind bars.”

  Doon shook her head and became increasingly agitated. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s the truth. And as your friend, I cannot allow you to spend the rest of your life believing Isla’s death was your fault when it wasn’t suicide that killed her.”

  The slap across Sinéad’s face was so swift and unexpected that she hadn’t seen it coming.

  “You’re a liar!” yelled Doon. “How dare you tell me Isla was a prostitute! My daughter wasn’t a whore! You’re sick! You’re a sick woman!”

  “But I was only trying to help you understand . . .”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Doon continued, now close to hysterical. “You come into our village trying to be one of us, pretending you want to be our friend, but all you’ve done is stir up trouble for Gail and me. You’re cruel and you’re heartless and you’re not wanted here. Get out of my house.”

  Sinéad hurried to her feet. She badly wanted to defend herself. However, the fire in Doon’s eyes made her realise she had completely misjudged the situation. There was nothing she could say that would make it any better. Being informed that Isla had actually been murdered, her death hushed up, and that her killer was unlikely to face justice would be even harder for Doon to process than her own culpability. Because with the former, there would never be closure. It was easier for her to blame herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Sinéad muttered before leaving the sobbing woman alone. Her attempt at trying to help someone by imparting her secrets had failed abysmally. Not everyone craved the truth. For some, ignorance was a far better option.

  CHAPTER 46

  EMILIA

  The house Ted told Emilia they’d designed and built together was empty when she returned to it.

  There were no cars parked on the driveway, no lights were shining from inside, and there was no one to greet her. An apprehensive Emilia unlocked the front door, tentatively stepping inside. Her footsteps were quiet as she made her way along the corridor to the main living area. She listened closely for signs of company, but she appeared to be alone.

  Earlier that morning, Adrian and Bianca had accompanied her on the recently launched Eurostar from Switzerland to France and then to London. And at King’s Cross St. Pancras station, a waiting car drove them out of the city and to the house. It came to a halt a few hundred metres away from the gates to Ted’s property.

  By reaching the house when the sun had yet to rise, Emilia hoped to avoid Ted’s staff. It gave her a small window of opportunity to search the property for evidence as to where in the country Ted had hidden the four people who knew the truth about Emilia.

  “He was the only one who was aware of their locations,” Bianca had explained in the car. “That information was too important to have died with him. You need to find it. And you’d better hurry up because his body has washed up ashore.”

  The memory of Ted’s swift but savage murder flashed again before Emilia’s eyes. Despite his lies, he had not deserved to die, especially at the hands of terrorists. She briefly contemplated telling the police all that she knew, but what did she know? What evidence had she that they existed or who they—and now she—were working for? It sounded like the ramblings of a madwoman with a missing memory. They could just as easily be a figment of her imagination.

  She also reflected on the version of herself that had emerged during the clash with the assailants who’d escorted her to Bianca’s car. Where and how had she learned those combat skills?

  “We know they have safe houses and we know where they are located,” Bianca added. “You just need to get those people there.”

  Emilia’s first port of call was Ted’s office. Like much of the house, its decoration was minimal. The sole colour came from a wall containing racks of vinyl albums. She picked up the only photograph on display, a framed image Ted hadn’t shown her of the two of them together at an altar. She was dressed in a simple white gown, him in a shirt and tie, and they faced one another as a woman officiated at their “wedding.” It was quite convincing.

  She directed her attention to his smoked-glass desk. There was no computer or tablet visible or drawers underneath to search. She skimmed through the first of two notepads placed upon it but it was empty. The second used a bookmark but the page it opened at was blank. Then she noticed that the bookmark was actually a swipe card containing the name Edward Karczewski and his photograph. On the bottom right-hand side of the card was a symbol for the Houses of Parliament, a black-and-white outline. So much for biochemical engineering, she thought. Who was he really? Adrian and Bianca were playing with fire by murdering a government official. And she was guilty by association.

  There were no filing cabinets in the room, no cupboards, and nowhere to store paperwork. As a last resort, she flicked through some of his album sleeves hoping they might be camouflage for something that could help her. But they were empty, even of records.

  A search of Ted’s bedroom proved equally fruitless. She rifled through every pocket of his jackets and trousers, then through three briefcases and two chests of drawers. She scoured each room until she reached the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that ran the entire length of a wall. Finally, she found herself in the kitchen surrounded by the contents of cupboards she’d emptied across the floor. As she’d feared, nothing gave away who these four strangers were or where they were located.

  Emilia peered through the windows, relieved that there was still no sign of anyone else in the house. Her head ached so she took two painkillers from a packet, opened the fridge door, and removed a bottle of water. As she closed it, she caught sight of the decorative magnets Ted had explained to her. They were a peculiar thing for him to collect and put on display in a house preoccupied with minimalism. A plastic Mickey Mouse from DisneyCity India, a colourful koala bear from Australia, and a Leaning Tower of Pisa from Italy demonstrated he was well travelled. The British regional magnets were even less apt. There were a handful of these and she wondered why he went to the trouble of buying them from counties that were so close. A memory of one of the first conversations they’d had in the hospital room came to mind. “As corny as it sounds,” Ted had said, “it was as if we were drawn together like magnets.”

  When she had tried to move one of them before, Ted stopped her, claiming it was fragile. Now, it felt perfectly stable as she picked it up to examine it. It was of a church, and when she touched a plastic bell in the tower, it played a synthesised version of the hymn “In the Secret of His Presence.”

  Like a bolt of lightning, it struck her. As each note was released, she pictured four faces she had seen on the CCTV footage on the monitor in the room where she first awoke. They had been sitting alone at tables in different rooms. Two men and two women, their faces still as clear to her as day. Then, without forethought, she began grabbing the British magnets and separating them from the international ones. All four included their place names—Manchester, Edzell, Oundle, and Aldeburgh. Intuitively, she realised they were the locations that Bianca was so desperate to learn of. But she didn’t know who was living where.

  Another magnet was more familiar than the rest—she had seen it earlier today. It was the side profile of a marble bust of William Shakespeare, she recalled. She returned to the bookshelves, where she found a section containing leather-bound editions of each of his plays. Every spine contained a profile image of
the writer’s head and shoulders, and all but one were facing to the left.

  The Two Noble Kinsmen was the exception and she recalled it immediately. In a part-memory in which she’d attacked a man in an electronics shop, she had typed this play’s title into the ReadWell website’s discussion boards.

  Quickly searching for it on her phone, she discovered only a handful of mentions of it on ReadWell but no posts in the last few years. What was its relevance? A description referring to it as Shakespeare’s final play helped something else to slot into place. The play was a reference to something coming to an end, she was sure of it. Perhaps like the end of a mission? That’s it, she thought. This is how they communicate with one another.

  Suffused by excitement and anticipation, Emilia created a new post, typing it several times because her trembling fingers kept making errors. Eventually she pressed the return button.

  The Two Noble Kinsmen.

  She held the phone to her chest but the delight in her achievement was short-lived when she heard voices elsewhere in the house. Quietly, Emilia made her way downstairs to a set of bifold doors which offered her access to a patio. From there, she ran towards the woodland where she knew she could reach the rear gate and let herself out.

  She turned her head to catch several figures in pursuit. She couldn’t be sure how many there were, but she wasn’t going to wait to find out. Faster she raced until the divide between them was too far for them to catch up, yet the further apart they became, the louder their voices were. It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their unintelligible chatter terrified her more than being able to understand them. Their mutterings rang in her ears until she was forced to throw her hands over them to block them out.

  As she made it out of the gate, along the road, and back towards Bianca’s car, she caught just one of their words.

  Traitor.

  CHAPTER 47

  BRUNO, OUNDLE, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

  Bruno leaned against a set of railings outside the reception area of the sandstone building, waiting for the automated sliding doors to open.

  Twenty minutes had passed since he’d followed Karen Watson and the girl in the wheelchair from their home to here. He’d waited until they had entered before he left his car. A hammer, his murder weapon of choice for all the names on his list, remained inside the glovebox. There was something about using that weapon that appealed more than a knife or a firearm. It was more personal, more destructive, and it took more energy to swing it and land blow after blow than simply plunging a blade into someone’s flesh. It was messier but he was careful—he chose his moments when there were no witnesses, no CCTV cameras, and he left no trace of himself.

  Bruno’s pulse elevated ever so slightly when Watson returned to view, now alone and making her way along the corridor and towards the exit. He removed his phone from his pocket, and as he approached her, he pretended to be distracted by something he was reading. He made sure to collide with her, dropping the device to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, bending over to pick it up.

  “I haven’t seen one of those for a few years,” she replied, looking at the clamshell-shaped device.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, hi, it’s you,” he said, and added a smile for good measure.

  “Hello there,” she replied. From her expression and polite response, there was recognition, but she was struggling to place him.

  “Last time it was my dog crashing into yours by the river and now it’s me.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, the penny having dropped. “For a moment I thought you were another parent.”

  Another, he repeated to himself, like she is. So that child is definitely her daughter.

  The warmth radiating from her smile drew Bruno towards her. He liked how she spoke softly and precisely.

  “Well, I might also be the parent of a pupil here soon,” he continued. “My son is moving to join me in Oundle so I’m checking out the local schools. Do you have a child who goes here?”

  “Yes, Nora, my daughter.”

  Bruno looked to the sign above. Oundle Academy, it read. “How long has she been here for?”

  “She started when we moved here about a year ago and she adores it. I looked at a few mainstream schools but opted to go private instead as it offered her more opportunities.”

  “I’ve been to visit two in Peterborough and one in Stamford but it’s difficult to know if you’re making the right decision, isn’t it? They tell you everything you want to hear but you’re never sure if it’s just because they want your business.”

  “I can definitely recommend the Academy.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about it sometime?”

  Bruno interpreted Watson’s hesitancy as her trying to decide if she was being asked out or if he genuinely wanted advice. She hedged her bets.

  “What are you doing now? I need to take the dog for a walk, if you’d like to join us?”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind?” He couldn’t have engineered this any better.

  Watson opened the tailgate of her car and her dog, Luna, jumped out and sniffed Bruno’s ankles. Watson led the way as they strolled around the village, the expansive grounds of the neighbouring Oundle school and a churchyard, while discussing the extracurricular activities the Academy offered to children who needed a little more physical or educational assistance. Eventually, they gravitated to a cafe in the high street. It wasn’t until they were seated that he pretended not to know her name and they made their formal introductions.

  “Where’s your son at the moment?” she asked, sipping from a coffee mug.

  “I didn’t want to disrupt him more than necessary, so Louie’s been staying with his grandparents in Bath until I get the schooling situation sorted out. Although he’s on an All Bodies residential course this week in Scotland.” Even Bruno was surprised at how casually the lies tripped from his tongue.

  “You used his name,” whispered an Echo. “You used Louie’s name.” Fuck, he thought, he had. Watson was prising open something inside him. It had been months since he’d been able to talk about his son with someone who actually existed and had not evolved from data.

  “Oh, Nora was there earlier this week,” Watson replied. “Don’t you think it’s a brilliant organisation? It’s all she can talk about.”

  “Why does she go to the Academy, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “She has fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. It’s a progressive genetic disorder that only affects about one in two million people. In layman’s terms, it’s turning her body into stone. Her soft tissue, like her muscles, tendons, and ligaments, becomes solid and bonelike over time.”

  “And is there a cure?”

  “No. And if she has surgery to remove the bone, her body produces even more of it. But mentally, she’s as sharp as a pin, quite advanced for her eleven years. If her condition is managed properly, she could live to around forty years, but that can radically reduce as she’s prone to infections . . .”

  Karen’s sentence trailed off and Bruno noticed her gaze leave his and travel beyond the window and to the street outside. He rejected the urge to reach out and hold her hand.

  “Does Nora have brothers and sisters with the same condition?” he asked.

  “It’s just us and no.” She offered nothing about her marital status. But Bruno was already aware of what she wasn’t telling him. He knew all about her husband.

  “My wife died, so it’s just me and Louie,” he replied.

  An alarm sounded on her watch, interrupting them. “Oh, goodness, is that the time?” she said. “I’m sorry, I have a dentist’s appointment at midday.” She opened her purse to remove her payment card, but Bruno dismissed her with his hand.

  “No, please, it’s on me,” he replied. “Thanks for your advice abou
t the Academy.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You can get the coffees next time.” For a moment, they held each other’s gaze and his stomach began a series of backflips. Watson appeared hesitant to say something before eventually plucking up the courage.

  “If you’re at a loose end on Wednesday afternoon, I promised Nora a picnic at that spot where you and your dog bumped into us,” she continued. “You’re welcome to join us. About four p.m.?”

  “I’d like that,” he replied. And despite himself, he realised he genuinely would. “I’ll see you on Wednesday then,” he replied.

  Watson leaned in to shake his hand, but Bruno misinterpreted it and moved to kiss her cheek. She turned her head to reciprocate but pecked him on the lips by mistake. Each was as flustered as the other before Watson led Luna out of the door. He watched as they made their way along the road.

  “Look at you, you bloody idiot.” He turned his head and saw Roger McAllister, the late CEO of a pharmaceuticals company which had made extensive advancements in the field of precision cancer medicine. His team of scientists successfully sequenced the genomes of tumours, making them more treatable with drugs they had also developed. However, he had ensured the findings remained publicly undisclosed, as he earned more profits from long-term cancer treatments than short-term cures. And by law, the government couldn’t force him to share his findings. “Wipe that grin off your face,” McAllister continued. “Why isn’t she dead yet? You’ve had plenty of opportunities, you fucking pussy.”

  Bruno hesitated. The Echoes had been contradictory of late. Some supported his plan for Watson, others fought against it. But getting to know her was diluting the contempt he felt towards what she’d done. He could no longer, in good faith, kill her as he’d planned. Instead, he was coming up with an alternative. But he needed a little time to work out the technicalities for it to succeed. “I have something in mind which will take a little longer,” he began.