Each Day I Wake: A gripping psychological thriller: US Edition

by Seb Kirby

  The room fell silent.

  The meeting was predictable. They had made no real progress in cracking OAM, though each in turn made a fist of showing that they had.

  CHAPTER 47

  The first time Brogan saw him, he didn’t recognize him. After all, it was going back, what, twenty years or more. Back to Nottingham. Back to the days they’d lived in the same street and fought like cats and dogs.

  They were in new roles now. Brogan in uniform and on duty in the polished brown marble entrance hall of Canada One. It was less demanding here at Reception than on night security duty but he doubted if the change was for his benefit. After the confrontation with Montague there was more than a fair chance that the man had used his influence with Wheatley to have Brogan placed somewhere they could keep an eye on him.

  And here was Tom. Tom Markland. Signing in as a visitor to the building. A journalist no less. Part of a three man team from The Herald. A grown man now. Nothing like the skinny kid Brogan had fought almost to the death all those years ago.

  As he checked the register to make sure the details had been correctly filled in, Brogan realized that the man before him had no idea who Brogan was. He had the brusque, business must go on manner befitting his position. The kind of approach that meant there was little time to even notice mere functionaries like Brogan.

  Should he make himself known? If he was to do it, it would have to be now. Tom Markland was waiting to be told he’d been given clearance to pass through the electronic barriers that granted access to him and his colleagues to the elevators and the businesses upstairs.

  “You’re here to see who, sir?”

  Tom Markland turned, surprised. “Why, OAM Securities. Says so on the invitation.”

  He’d seen Brogan and still didn’t recognize him.

  “Remember the Bash Tree, sir?”

  Markland looked back, puzzled. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Seemed relevant, sir.”

  “Wait! You’re Marshall? Marshall Brogan? What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  Markland held out his hand.

  Brogan shook it.

  There was a genuine smile on Tom Markland’s face. “Look, I have to go through with this appointment. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. Will you still be on duty then?”

  Brogan agreed to meet him when the shift finished. “We have some catching up to do.”

  Part Three

  Present day

  CHAPTER 48

  I was feeling stronger. My body was improving with each day that passed.

  I was stronger mentally, too. Mr. Healey said it would soon be time to stop seeing him.

  Yet I couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread that aspects of my past that had so far escaped recall would soon return.

  Janet had just about exhausted all she knew in the task of rebuilding my knowledge of who I was. Her patience in taking me through even the smallest details of my past that were available to her was almost infinite. I owed so much to her.

  The days that led up to the accident and everything up to the moment I came round in the hospital bed remained a blank. Yet, up until a few weeks before the accident, more was coming back into focus. Each day I recalled something new; that recollection firing a series of new connections – people, places, conversations.

  With what I now knew, I was beginning to understand what it was going to take to find the courage to return to work at the newspaper.

  The visions had slowed, all but stopped. I no longer as often saw the girls.

  But as I sat in the window seat in the coffee bar overlooking the Market Square in Lichfield, I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

  They were still missing.

  The police were scaling down their enquiries. Cathy Newsome was now in danger of becoming just another name on a long list of missing persons. Her parents and friends were as active in the social media, still as worried, still seeking answers, but time was beginning to erode even their energies.

  No one in public had connected Cathy with the disappearance of the others. Nothing had come back from DI Ives to say he’d made any progress in that direction.

  The desperate concern of the mothers, fathers and loved ones of all four girls would have turned to full on despair and grief by now. I wanted to do something, anything, to help. But I didn’t want to bring false news. That was half the reason I wanted to resume work at the newspaper. If Ives was right and that was where I found out about them, then the secret of what connects their lives - other than the brute fact of their disappearance - may lie there. The other half of the reason I needed to return was to get on with my life.

  Yet each time I thought about returning I couldn’t fight back the feeling that I was fooling myself. I wasn’t ready and I feared I would never come to terms with this dislocation in my life.

  I was dragged back from these thoughts. A movement made me focus on the market square once more.

  A tall man was scurrying past the statue of James Boswell, heading for Dam Street.

  It was someone I knew and should recognize. But I couldn’t put a name to him.

  I hurried from the coffee bar and made it down the stairs to the square while he was still in sight. I ran after him and caught up with him just as he entered Dam Street.

  I felt foolish as I pulled up beside him. “What are you doing in Lichfield?”

  There was every chance I’d made a mistake and I’d accosted a complete stranger. But as he turned to look at me, he responded. “Tom, I wasn’t going to let you know I was here.”

  As I heard his Irish accent, I knew who he was. “Marshall, why on earth not?”

  He tried to walk on, but I pulled him back by the shoulder. He stopped, reconciling himself to what he had to say next. “You’ve enough problems of your own, Tom. You don’t need to be troubled with mine.”

  I told him we needed to talk. When he agreed, I took him back to the coffee bar overlooking the square.

  Meeting Marshall Brogan sparked a flurry of recollections that had been waiting just this side of consciousness, now breaking out into the light of day. Memories of another tragedy. Memories I’d been afraid to admit to.

  I could see from Marshall’s downcast expression that he was still living the consequences of that tragedy. “You can tell me why you’re here. I’m strong enough now.”

  He nodded. “OK. I came here because of Della. To see if you have any of the answers.”

  The anatomy of the tragedy that ruled his life was forcing itself into my mind. Della Brogan, his sister, killed by a heroin overdose. Della Brogan who, as Stella DaSilva, had lived the high life in the company of Tyrone Montague. The same Della Brogan who’d been the leader of our gang when we were children together.

  These things I knew. Yet I found myself remaining defensive. “What kind of answers, Marshall?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “So you do recall. The details of Della’s death?”

  I nodded. It was as if I was saying this to myself as much to him. “It must have been through work at the newspaper, The Herald.”

  He looked skeptical. “They say it was an accident.”

  “The overdose?”

  “I don’t believe it was that. I know there was a reason why they had her killed. I think you might help me find it.”

  “I’ll do anything I can, Marshall. But I don’t understand how I can help.”

  I couldn’t help detecting a note of menace in his next question. “You never met her, did you?”

  I lowered my head. “I don’t recall. What I know is about Stella DaSilva. As part of the investigation with the newspaper. I don’t know if I ever connected her with your sister, with Della Brogan.”

  “Until we met.”

  I struggled to understand what he was implying. “Until we met?”

  More recollections were breaking through. I was back in Canary Wharf. Before the accident. Not many days before. I shivered as I knew that thi
s must have been the closest I’d come to recalling what led up to the series of events that resulted in my near drowning in the North Dock.

  I was walking into Canada One, past security, looking at one of the guards checking me in and thinking, perhaps I knew him from somewhere. Because of the way he was looking at me, as if he knew me.

  I was pulled back to the present. As the words came out, I surprised myself. “I almost ignored you.”

  He managed a smile. “Yeah, I thought for a moment you’d gone so far up in the world you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “But I recognized you and we met later to talk.”

  “In the Mexican restaurant.”

  “We spoke for hours. Drank more than a few Coronas.”

  “And realized what we had in common.”

  “How we grew up together. How we were sworn blood brothers.”

  Marshall Brogan’s brow tightened. “You see, Tom, I’ve thought about what happened that day, when we talked. I think someone was watching us, maybe listening to what we were saying.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “It’s what I came all this way to tell you.” He looked down. “As I said. You’ve had enough trouble.”

  “So tell me.”

  He said it again. “Someone was watching, back then while we were talking in the restaurant.”

  “And that has something to do with Della’s death?”

  He nodded. “And with how you ended up in the North Dock.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I didn’t have to make too many enquiries. Talk about what happened to you is all over Canary Wharf.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Being questioned by DI Stephen Ives and DS June Lesley was the last thing John Delaney expected.

  Why were fellow officers so interested in his undercover work? One thing was certain, this was no time to lower his guard.

  Superintendent Henderson had been firmer than usual in telling him this was a meeting he should not try to avoid.

  The meeting had been set for 11.00 AM in Lions Yard police station and here Delaney was, waiting to be summoned into the interview room like just any of the common criminals who were brought to this place.

  When Ives called him in and as soon as the DI began, it was clear that this was going to be no simple officer-to-officer exchange “Tell me, John, how long have you been undercover as Terry Morgan?”

  He had to think. “Three years?”

  “It’s nearer four. That’s a long time to be on the same case.”

  “You know the priority the Force is giving to closing down the hard drugs trade. I’m surprised you need to ask.”

  Ives didn’t seem interested in that. “I’m not here to second guess Drugs Squad strategy. Superintendent Henderson tells me your work is good and you’re close to reeling in the big one.”

  Delaney smiled. “I’m as much of a sucker as anyone else for a little praise and recognition, Steve, but if you think it’s that good, why are you here?”

  “Just a few questions.”

  So, this was it. Ives must have stumbled across something. How would he know what you had to do to go undercover and stay alive? How you had to be credible to anyone and everyone who might doubt you. And to remain believable you had to make associations that people back out there in the straight world would find questionable. Ives knew little to nothing about any of it. Could know nothing since he’d never put himself on the line.

  “What questions?”

  Ives consulted his notebook. “Do you deny that you’ve been arrested twice by uniformed officers for possession of crack cocaine and heroin?”

  Delaney shook his head. “No. I don’t. There was no problem once I told them who I was. What better way for Terry Morgan, low-life small time dealer, to keep his cover than to be lifted once in a while by the local uniformed police and be seen to be questioned. It would look odd if that didn’t happen.”

  “Fair point, John. But that doesn’t mean you should be using the stuff yourself?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Ives pushed a sheaf of documents across the table. “These arrest reports say we do. Opiates in your bloodstream.”

  “OK. What’s the surprise? Isn’t that what Terry Morgan does? Deals drugs around Canary Wharf. Needs to try the goods himself once in awhile.”

  “And further afield?”

  “Only when it makes sense. To get Mr. Big.”

  “Not just cocaine? Heroin, too?”

  Delaney leaned closer. “Look. I do what it takes to keep the high flyers in the City flying high. Most want cocaine. A few want heroin. I need to supply what they want if I’m going to keep my credibility.”

  There was more to come, he was sure of it. The way Ives shuffled in his chair meant he was readying himself for the main chance.

  “Tell me, John, have you ever dealt drugs to Cathy Newsome?”

  Delaney faltered. “Newsome. Isn’t that the missing girl?”

  “Yes, John, that’s the one.”

  “So, why ask me?”

  “We haven’t found Cathy’s phone. She must have had it with her. But we’ve been checking what contacts her friends have, working on the assumption that some of those might also have been Cathy’s. Which led us to Marsha Bennett. She told us she’d do anything to help. She admitted that Cathy and her had used drugs. When we went through the numbers on Marsha’s phone, guess what? One of those numbers was for Terry Morgan. When we traced the records of those calls, they led to you. So, tell me, John, what have you been doing pushing drugs to nineteen year old girls?”

  This was looking bad. It could mean the end of his career. Or worse. There had to be something he could appeal to, something Ives would understand.”

  “I know it doesn’t look good, Steve.”

  Ives shuffled again. “Time to drop the Steve, I think, John.”

  “OK. It looks wrong but that’s where this work takes you. I have to be seen to be pushing, right? To keep my credibility with the people that matter. So, if a girl like Marsha Bennett comes along, what can I do? One thing leads to another. That’s what you do. Staying safe undercover. Contacting enough people to be useful. Doing the job. Trying to save the hundreds who will fall foul of the animals that push these drugs in industrial quantities and keep getting away with it.”

  “They’re nineteen, John, for pity’s sake! With their whole lives in front of them.”

  Ives pulled out a photo of Marsha Bennett from the file before him and showed it to Delaney. “You recognize her?”

  Delaney nodded.

  Ives then showed him a photo of Cathy Newsome. “And her?”

  Delaney shook his head. “I recognize Marsha. I might have supplied her. But the second girl, I’ve never seen her before, not until her face started appearing on TV and on the missing posters.”

  Ives leaned forward. “You’re quite sure about that.”

  Delaney nodded. He gave his most appeasing expression. “Steve. We’re colleagues, right? Members of the same force, trying to achieve the same things. Putting bad people away. That must mean something.”

  Ives sneered. “Can’t say I’m going to find it easy to think of it that way, John. Not after this. Looks to me like you’ve been undercover so long you’re living the life you’re supposed to be bringing to a close. But if you’re straight with me I’ll be the same with you.” The words were sticking in Ives’ throat. “Colleague to colleague.”

  Delaney left the interview room knowing he’d done just enough to survive. There were times when it felt that was the sum total of his life these days. Surviving from one day to the next. Somehow, he’d become dependent on the rushes that spiked each day. And it was clouding his judgment.

  It had to stop.

  He said those words to himself over and over as he walked back towards his vehicle.

  CHAPTER 50

  As we overlooked the market square from the window seat in the coffee bar, I
was still trying to make sense of what Marshall Brogan was telling me and why he’d come to seek me out in Lichfield. “You’re saying the fact that we met is connected with what happened to me?”

  “Yes, Tom, I’m saying we are the connection.”

  I looked away.

  I realized that he didn’t know enough about me, as I was in this moment. And whatever he wanted from me, whatever had brought him here, we were not going to understand each other unless he did.

  “Marshall. I want to tell you about what happened to me after they pulled me out of the water. You need to know this to realize I might not be the one you need to help you.”

  He shot back a glance. “If you say so.”

  “Look out at the square. What do you see?”

  He glanced out of the window, at the throng of shoppers picking over the offerings at the market stalls, presided over by the statue of James Boswell. “It’s what you’d expect. People going on their way, getting on with the ordinary things in life.”

  “Look again. There’s so much more happening here. You can almost hear the footsteps of all those who’ve walked across that square, lives on lives, reaching back into the past. The people you see out there don’t say much about it but they know they have a place in a troubled history and that’s what has made them what they are.”

  “So, what are you saying, Tom?”

  “That I need to be more like them. They’re walking on the same streets as Samuel Johnson and James Boswell and Erasmus Darwin and David Garrick. But there are other names and faces from a darker side of that past they know they need to recognize, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “They know that this same ground they now walk on was a place of punishment and execution. Joyce Lewis and many others were burned here – Thomas Hayward, John Goreway and Edward Wightman – burned for heresy in this same square. They know about them. All these people who’ve been in this place, for good or for bad, are part of what they are.”