So she picked up the phone and called Sean.
I was on the slow train heading from Cambridge to St Pancras when Tina called. The carriage was almost empty and there was no sign of a ticket inspector, but I was still jittery. It was hard work continually breaking the law, whether it be shooting a man dead or dodging the fare on public transport, because the end result was always the same: if I was caught, it was prison, no question, and I’d regained enough of my memory to know that I couldn’t go back there again.
‘I’ve got a number for Jack Duckford,’ said Tina when I picked up. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t got a pen so I’m going to text it to you when I finish the call. Where are you now?’
I told her. ‘The train’s due in at St Pancras at 17.19. Can we meet as soon as possible after that?’
‘There’s a church called St Mary Magdalene on Osnaburgh Street. Take a right out of the station and keep walking for about ten minutes. The turning’s on the right just past Warren Street tube station. If the main door’s locked, go down the steps into the garden and wait for me there. And if you call Duckford, remember to do it from a phone he can’t trace you to, OK? A call box or something, and not one right round the corner from the church.’
‘I’m not a fool, Tina. Are you going to bring those photos of the struck-off therapists?’
‘I am. But if none of the men in the photos are your Dr Bronson, and your man Duckford can’t, or won’t, shed any light on what’s going on, then that’s it, Sean. I can’t give you any more help.’
‘Sure,’ I said quietly. ‘I understand.’
I put the phone in my pocket and sat back in the seat, keeping my head down as I looked out the window at the passing countryside. Hitching a free ride on a train had been my last resort. I’d rejected the idea of using the car I’d stolen earlier in the day to get to London in case the police were actively looking for it. I did try to steal two others but failed both times and set off the alarm on one, so in the end I hadn’t really had a lot of choice. If you took away the fact that I was in constant fear of being recognized, it wasn’t actually a bad way to travel.
Since leaving the pub my thoughts had been dominated by the fact that I’d been married, and had a three-year-old daughter. I tried to dredge up an image of my ex-wife’s face from my memory but couldn’t, and I still had no recollection of Milly. I wondered if she’d ever been brought in to see me in prison. I wondered, in fact, if I’d ever seen her before. The thought once again weighed heavily on me like a dark cloud and I had to force myself to snap out of it.
The train stopped at a station and two teenage girls who’d been chatting away a few seats down got off. No one got on, and I realized, with a sense of relief, that apart from a single middle-aged man in a suit who was asleep at the far end, I was the only person left in the carriage.
My phone pinged. It was a text message containing a phone number and nothing else. I stared at the screen and remembered the call I’d made to Jack Duckford from the bail hostel just after I’d been released from prison.
‘That job you were talking about when you came to see me. Is it still available?’
‘Absolutely,’ he’d said. ‘In fact we need you more now than we did then.’
But what had Jack needed me for? And how had it ended?
I knew Tina was right about me not calling him from a traceable phone. But my memory was also telling me from my undercover days that the authorities could only track mobile phones when they were switched on. All I had to do was switch mine off when I ended the call and, since I was on a moving train, I’d be miles away before they got people to the phone’s last-known location.
As if to emphasize the point the train picked up speed, clattering noisily down the tracks.
I remembered an undercover job Jack and I had done together years ago. I’d spent the best part of three months posing as a professional car thief to get close to a group of Lebanese businessmen who sold luxury cars into the Middle Eastern market, and we’d set up a meeting where I was introducing Jack to them as my senior partner who had dozens of stolen vehicles for sale. The problem was, when we went to the meeting place, a house in Ladbroke Grove, one of the main Lebanese guy’s bodyguards recognized Jack from an earlier undercover role and all hell broke loose. There were six of their people in the room, including four who were muscle, and only two of us, which are never good odds.
Being recognized has got to be an undercover cop’s worst nightmare, and it couldn’t have happened in a worse place. As it was a first meeting with Jack we had no back-up, so no one even knew we were there. But you never panic. And you never, ever admit you’re a cop, whatever the provocation. So Jack told the guy he was mistaken. So did I. We really argued our case.
But the guy had been adamant.
Three of the muscle held Jack down on the floor and beat him, while the fourth – a huge black guy with arms thicker than my legs – produced a piece of lead piping and let it be known that if I intervened, it would be the last active thing I did for a long time. As they beat and questioned Jack, trying to get him to break, I pleaded with my Lebanese contacts, telling them there was no way Jack was undercover, that I’d known him for years. But they weren’t having any of it. We were split up, and I was locked alone in an upstairs room for more than an hour. Occasionally I’d hear Jack scream in pain. I had no idea what they were doing to him but whatever it was, it was bad.
I can still remember the terror of being trapped in a tiny room in a strange place, knowing that I might never get out of there alive. That’s how bad it was.
Finally, after a long period when there’d just been silence, my main Lebanese contact unlocked the door and told me that Jack had admitted to being an undercover cop, and had told them that I was one too. If I just admitted it, they’d let us both go.
I was tempted. God, I was tempted. The idea of being held down and subjected to whatever it was Jack had been subjected to scared the living crap out of me. But you don’t take the easy option. In life, it’s usually the worst one. Instead, I went on the offensive. I screamed; I shouted; I told him that there was no way on earth Jack was a cop, and if they’d got him to say that he was, it was because he was being tortured. And it was an insult of the highest degree even to suggest that I was one too.
For the first time I could see my contact thinking that perhaps his bodyguard had made a mistake. So, with a flurry of apologies, he reunited me with Jack who’d been locked in the basement and who, incredibly, wasn’t too badly hurt. He had plenty of cuts and bruises, but the reason for his screams, he told me afterwards, was because they’d heated up a knife until it was red hot and then repeatedly held it only inches away from his eyes, threatening to burn them out.
Afterwards, we’d headed straight for the pub and both got hopelessly pissed. We’d talked in awe about our lucky escape, and I have a vivid memory of Jack laughing uproariously at how close we’d come to really serious injury, and suddenly that laughter turning to floods of tears as he broke down. I broke down too, and we sat in a forgotten corner of the pub, off our heads, crying together as all the emotions of that day came surging out.
We’d bonded that night – the kind of bond that a civilian who’s never done this kind of work couldn’t possibly understand.
I looked at my watch. 4.45. In just over half an hour I’d be in London. If I was going to call Jack, it would be easier to do it now while I was still on the move. With a deep breath, I keyed his number into the phone and waited.
Forty-eight
‘Duckford,’ said a clear, deep voice just as I was about to put down the phone.
‘Jack? It’s me, Sean Egan.’
He literally gasped. ‘Sean, what the …? Listen, let me call you back from my other phone. It’s more private. What’s your number?’
‘Sorry, that doesn’t work for me. Just talk quietly.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Come on, Jack, don’t treat me like an idiot. I’m not going to tell you that
.’
‘What do you want?’ There was an edge to his voice now, as if he expected me to be the bearer of bad news.
‘I need your help. I was in a car accident a few months back and I lost my memory. I’ve got a lot of it back now but I need to know about the work I was doing for you when I left prison.’
There was a heavy silence down the other end of the phone for a good five seconds.
I broke it. ‘I know you came to visit me in prison offering me work. And I know I was working for you when I left. I just don’t remember what I was doing. So please, for old times’ sake, help me out here. I’ll remember what it was eventually, so even if you don’t tell me, it’s all going to come out in the wash.’
‘I’m going to have to transfer you through to another number,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t talk in here. Give me twenty seconds.’
‘Twenty seconds. No more.’
I counted in my head as I waited, wondering if I was making a mistake. By the time I got to nineteen, he came back on the line. It sounded like he was in a corridor somewhere.
‘We need to meet,’ he said quickly. ‘You were doing undercover work, infiltrating a group of very dangerous people. I’m going to have to give you a thorough debriefing, then I’m going to go with you when you hand yourself in. Because you’re going to have to give up, Sean, you know that.’
The automatic doors at the end of the carriage hissed open and a ticket inspector walked in. There was only the sleeping man in the suit between us, and I was in the last carriage, which meant there was no way I could avoid him.
‘Give me the names of the people in this group,’ I hissed into the phone. ‘Now.’
‘We need to meet,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll tell you then.’
The train slowed. We were approaching a station. The ticket inspector woke the sleeping man and asked to check his ticket.
‘Please, Jack,’ I said. ‘Names.’
‘It’s big, Sean. Really big.’ He sighed. ‘The person we really wanted you to find out about was the Home Secretary.’
That shocked me. I’d expected the name of some big-time criminal. The Home Secretary was one of the few politicians I could actually put a name to: I’d seen him on TV at Jane’s a couple of times. Garth Crossman was a charismatic, silver-haired guy who sounded like he actually understood the problems of the voters. Jesus, what had I been doing investigating him?
I looked up. The ticket inspector was approaching me now, a dour expression on his face, as if some sixth sense had already told him I didn’t have a ticket.
Jack was still telling me I needed to meet him as soon as possible.
‘I’m going to have to call you back,’ I said, and ended the call, switching off the phone as the inspector stopped in front of me.
‘Tickets, please,’ he said, looking down at me. He was a tall, thin guy in his mid-fifties who looked like he’d make a good undertaker.
Beyond him, I could see that the guy in the suit had already closed his eyes again. The brakes squealed as the train continued to slow, and the announcer said that we were approaching Stevenage. ‘Sorry, it’s in here,’ I said, getting to my feet and acting like I was going to reach into my back pocket. I still wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do until I suddenly grabbed him, swung him round and applied a chokehold, rapidly upping the pressure so he couldn’t cry out, while all the time staring at the sleeping passenger, hoping he didn’t hear what was going on.
Outside the window the station’s platform appeared. The inspector made a choking noise, then went limp in my arms. Moving quickly, I dragged him the few feet to the carriage toilet and manoeuvred us both inside, shutting the door behind me. He was moaning quietly but still pretty much out, so I propped him up on the toilet seat and relieved him of his peaked cap, jacket and ID, before hastily donning them. The train had stopped now and I heard people coming on board, so I squeezed out of the door, dressed in my new outfit, and, pushing the cap down so it covered my features as much as possible, walked down the carriage.
A noisy group of students were streaming on board but they moved out of my way as I made for the doors before they closed, careful not to hurry, even though I knew the inspector was going to wake up any second and raise the alarm. The students must have woken up the guy in the suit, because he glanced up at me as I passed, looked vaguely surprised at the fact that my face appeared to have changed, but not surprised enough to do anything about it, then shut his eyes again.
Two minutes later I was on a different train, heading non-stop into London.
For now, it seemed, my luck was holding.
Forty-nine
Mike Bolt was sitting in his office in the incident room at Barnet police station when Mo Khan walked in, a sheaf of papers in his hand. It had just turned five p.m. and Bolt was beginning to think about finishing up for the day. The forty-eight hours since they’d been called to the murder at the Sunny View Hotel had been both frenetic and frustrating, and he hadn’t got to bed until three a.m. that morning. He needed a rest.
Mo sat down and put the papers on the desk. ‘I’ve got some interesting information about our two MI5 men, Mr Hughie and the late Mr Balham. We’ve been through both their bank accounts and everything’s in order. All they’ve been receiving is their government salaries. However, they both live in decent-sized houses and own nice cars.’
‘So how have they financed them?’
‘Well, Hughie’s single, but his brother pays his mortgage, and his car payments. He also books and pays for a couple of Hughie’s long-haul holidays. Whereas Mrs Balham’s the big earner in the Balham household. And it turns out that Hughie’s brother and Mrs Balham are consultants for the same company. Secure Solutions.’
Bolt sat up in his chair, no longer tired. ‘The same company that was paying the two people babysitting Sean Egan in Wales, and who are both now dead. A company that’s linked directly to the Home Secretary, Garth Crossman, the man who’s currently trying to stop our investigation into Balham’s murder. You know, this is a very strange case. Because for the life of me I cannot understand why Crossman or any of his people are interested in an ex-con like Sean Egan. And no one in MI5 seems to want to enlighten us either.’ He looked at Mo. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Nothing springs out, boss, I’ve got to admit.’
Bolt shook his head and let out a long breath. He needed to leave and grab himself a drink in his local back in Clerkenwell. ‘Have we got the records back for Dylan Mackay’s phone yet? Tina’s convinced his murder’s linked to what’s been happening with Egan.’
Mo grunted. ‘I’m not so sure of that.’ He’d never been a fan of Tina Boyd and made little secret of his disdain for Bolt’s more sympathetic attitude towards her. ‘But I’ve got the records here.’ He sorted through the bundle of papers he’d brought in with him, and slid the relevant ones across the desk. ‘I checked through the calls he made and received on his old phone, the one he stopped using the day of Egan’s car accident.’
‘Anything stand out?’
‘I’ll be honest, boss, not really. I think a team from Area West are going to be taking the Mackay case as well, so it’ll be out of our hands soon.’
‘Fair enough. Thanks for getting it sorted for me anyway.’
When Mo had gone back to the incident room, Bolt had a brief scan of the records. Mackay had used the SIM card for his previous phone for more than four years before he’d stopped using it, at 1.11 a.m. on the morning of 8 April. A few hours later, an anonymous man carrying no ID, who Tina claimed was Sean Egan, had hit a tree in his car and ended up in a coma. Mo might not have been convinced of any connection but Bolt thought it was too much of a coincidence to have been an accident, and he trusted Tina’s judgement. Whatever her faults – and Bolt would be the first to admit she had a fair few – she’d always been a good detective.
The last call Dylan Mackay had received had lasted four minutes and seventeen seconds, and had come from a mobile number. Bolt looked back over the
fifty or so calls Mackay had made or received during the five days running up to when the phone was switched off for the last time, looking for that same number, and saw that it appeared twice more: Mackay had received a call from it on 6 April lasting five minutes and twenty-eight seconds and had then made a call on 7 April lasting seven minutes and thirty-one seconds. The fact that it was the last number Dylan had received a call from before changing his phone and SIM card for the first time in four years told Bolt that it was worth finding out who it belonged to.
Tracking the ownership of mobile numbers could take weeks if standard procedures were followed, but in emergencies that time could be reduced to hours, sometimes even minutes. There was no way this was an emergency, but neither was it a regular case. Four people had been murdered in the previous forty-eight hours in wildly different circumstances; Bolt couldn’t afford to wait for weeks for an answer. He had a feeling that Sean Egan would be in prison, or possibly even dead, by then and the whole inquiry would grind to a very convenient halt.
He called the liaison officer at Homicide and Serious Crime Command whose job it was to deal with the UK’s mobile phone carriers, and gave him the number and a rapid-fire spiel of why he needed the name of the registered owner right now, and how it could tie up several separate murder inquiries, then sat back in his seat, figuring that it was going to be a while before he had that pint.
But the liaison officer was fast. Just forty minutes later he phoned Bolt back and told him that the number was registered to a publicly listed company. Thanking him, Bolt wrote down the number and Googled the company.
It took him less than two minutes to establish a connection between the company and the Sean Egan murder inquiry, and maybe another ten before he finally began to work out what had really been going on.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered to himself. No wonder Sean Egan was such a hunted man.
The Final Minute Page 25
