Dead Embers

by Matt Brolly

  * * *

  Lambert left the office before Tillman. Despite having been seen arriving together at the NCA headquarters, Tillman thought it prudent they separate before reconvening in an unmarked car park four streets down.

  It had started to rain by the time Lambert reached outside. The deluge had forced people to take shelter at bus stops or beneath the arches of office buildings and shops. Lambert had no option but to walk through the downfall as it battered against his head and coat. He upped his pace but already he sensed the water seeping into his garments, soaking his trousers and feet.

  By the time he reached Tillman’s car his hair was matted to his skull, the shirt beneath his wool raincoat sodden. He opened the car and sat in the driver’s seat, switched on the ignition, and waited for the car engine to run for a few minutes before turning on the heat full blast.

  Tillman arrived five minutes later, by which time the wet patches on Lambert’s shirt were receding. Tillman, naturally, had brought an umbrella with him and his coat was bone dry as he placed it in the back seat.

  ‘Got caught, did we?’ said Tillman, with the infuriating lightness of tone and sarcasm Lambert was accustomed to.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Tillman placed his phone on a magnetic strip on the dashboard. ‘This is McCarthy,’ he said, pointing to a flashing dot on the phone’s screen. ‘He’s still at Weaver’s office. His route takes him past us. You know the drill.’

  They sat side by side, not talking. Lambert had been here on many occasions before. He’d been Tillman’s right hand man at one point. When he’d been part of the Group, they’d spent many boring hours waiting for the first sign of action.

  But things didn’t always go right when they were together and as this began to concern Lambert he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Were they doing the right thing? To all intents and purposes they were about to stage a kidnapping. If they had it wrong about Weaver more than their jobs were on the line.

  ‘You think too much, Lambert,’ said Tillman, as if he were there inside Lambert’s head.

  Lambert didn’t want to openly question his superior. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Caroline Jardine. He pictured her in a single cell, somewhere below ground. He could imagine what she was going through because he’d been in a similar situation himself. Tied to a chair in a darkened room, awaiting the moment of his execution. But he’d survived and, if they did their job properly, there was a chance she could too.

  ‘Right, here we go,’ said Tillman, pointing to the red dot flashing on the screen of his phone. ‘He’s off.’

  Lambert turned on the engine and switched on the windscreen wipers at maximum speed. The road in front of them momentarily cleared, only to be obscured by the pelting rain a split second later. Adrenaline buzzed around him, reminding him the job could be electrifying at times. Tillman rocked gently in the seat next to him, preparing himself, and Lambert felt a rush of camaraderie.

  ‘Right, here we go,’ said Tillman, as Weaver’s car rounded into their road.

  Lambert took deeper breaths as the car passed them. He exchanged looks with Tillman, both of them counting the mandatory seconds in their head before Lambert pulled out into traffic.

  With the tracking device installed they didn’t need to hurry, but Lambert wanted to keep the car in sight. The rain continued its deluge and battered the bonnet and windscreen of the car like tiny bullets. Lambert kept his gaze on the traffic, the windscreen wipers working overtime as Tillman studied the map. The planned route was already on display but experience told them the driver could change the route at any moment for whatever reason he saw fit. Lambert eased the car into a lower gear as he noticed Weaver had stopped at the traffic lights a few hundred yards ahead.

  ‘Four more turns and he’s going to turn left instead of right,’ said Tillman. ‘It’s unlikely Weaver will notice and if he does McCarthy will just give him some bullshit about mixing up routes.’

  The sound of screeching tyres stopped their conversation mid-sentence as it immediately became apparent something was wrong.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Lambert could only watch, stunned, as a moped carrying two passengers cut in front of them and began meandering through the stationary traffic. Tillman reached for his phone and began calling McCarthy, but within seconds it was too late, as the moped pulled up alongside Weaver’s car. The figure on the back of the moped drew a gun and started raining bullets through the rear passenger window. Lambert went to pull away but Tillman placed his hand on his arm.

  ‘Just wait. There’s nothing we can do now.’

  The traffic lights turned green and the moped drove away. Lambert yelled in frustration and pulled out into the oncoming traffic, narrowly missing a car driving the other way seemingly unaware of the events unfolding behind him. Lambert ignored the protestations from the other drivers as he moved towards the traffic lights.

  ‘Turn right here, Lambert,’ said Tillman, when they were a hundred yards away.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘Turn now,’ said Tillman. ‘We can’t be seen there.’

  Lambert knew he was correct, and reluctantly turned right until they were out of view, then parked up. ‘We need to see what’s happened,’ he said, controlling the adrenaline swarming his body.

  ‘You go, on foot, I’ll meet you here,’ said Tillman, pointing to a road four streets down from the traffic lights. ‘McCarthy has a second phone in his inside jacket pocket. Dead or alive we need to retrieve it before the police show.’

  Lambert understood. He dragged his coat from the backseat, wrapped his scarf around his throat, and made his way into the pouring rain. The reason they’d stopped away from the incident was the same reason he’d wrapped the scarf around his face. In such a busy area CCTV cameras would have captured everything. A chance still existed that Tillman and Lambert would be caught on camera following Weaver. But for now, he had to get to the scene and retrieve the phone without being caught.

  He tried not to think of the implications of what had happened as he ran across the pavement. Someone had purposely taken Weaver’s life – which suggested whoever was responsible had somehow been notified.

  A crowd had gathered around the car. Thankfully no police were present yet. The hit had been professional, perfectly so. There was little chance McCarthy had been spared. A professional knew an eyewitness, however deranged with terror or however perfect the hit, was still a risk.

  Lambert merged with the crowd, his surveillance training kicking in as he weaved through the throng until he could see the full extent of the crime scene. At close range it became apparent even the extra strength glass in Weaver’s car was no match for the powerful shotgun blast that had ripped through it. On the back seat sat the corpse of the politician, John Weaver, a bloody stump where his head used to be. In the front seat, McCarthy slumped against the steering wheel, a gaping hole in the back of his head.

  Lambert scurried round the other side of the car, keeping his head low, trying to avoid any face recognition software that could be used from the CCTV footage. He gently nudged a couple of onlookers towards the vehicle, pretending to trip as he did so. The gun blast had also shattered the driver’s side window. With a strained effort Lambert leant his hand through the jagged gap and didn’t hesitate as he felt the dampness of McCarthy’s chest. He reached into the jacket pocket and retrieved the phone positioned there as Tillman had promised.

  He backed again into the crowd, purposely tripping up a number of the gawkers who had their phones out, parasites feeding on the misery before them. He shook his head in disgust and began to walk away, his pace slow and measured, not wanting to announce his presence to whoever was watching.

  * * *

  Tillman was waiting with the car running. Lambert dived into the passenger seat and Tillman pulled away before he had time to put on his seatbelt.

  ‘You got the phone?’ asked Tillman.

  ‘Yes. I’d be surp
rised if I haven’t been compromised.’

  ‘At least there’s no initial connection,’ said Tillman, who was subdued and lost in thought.

  Lambert wondered if he was thinking the same thing: if Weaver wasn’t safe, none of them were.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Only one place we can go. The safe house.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  Tillman shook his head as he braked hard at a set of traffic lights. He rode the clutch and glanced nervously around him, no doubt looking for the sight of two men riding a moped.

  ‘I should blindfold you and knock you out,’ he said, wheels spinning as soon as the lights turned amber. ‘Once you know where this place is, it becomes compromised.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Lambert.

  ‘It’s for your own safety. But one thing’s for sure, none of the others can find out about it.’

  A mile into the journey Tillman finally asked about McCarthy.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lambert, shaking his head.

  Tillman lowered his eyes and gritted his teeth, saying no more on the subject.

  ‘If it’s a message, it’s as clear as can be,’ said Lambert.

  ‘It’s a message all right. But they’ve assassinated the wrong people.’

  ‘We need to go public,’ said Lambert. ‘Even if we can’t find Caroline, the least we can do is expose the Manor and the atrocity there.’

  ‘There’s one person we need to speak to before we do that,’ said Tillman. ‘Whether he likes it or not, Sinnott is going to give us some answers.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  They drove for a while until they reached the Hammersmith Bypass and headed towards the M4.

  ‘Where’s he being held?’ said Lambert.

  ‘I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,’ replied Tillman.

  ‘Very droll.’

  ‘I’m serious. You don’t have the clearance.’

  ‘Does anyone have the clearance for this? Surely you’re holding him illegally?’

  ‘I have my own connections, Lambert. There’s nothing Duggan or Colville can do about this, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  With Tillman’s connections in MI5, Lambert was sure his superior was utilising some form of loophole to warrant the keeping of Sinnott in custody.

  ‘We need to tell the others something,’ he said, repeating himself.

  ‘We’ll speak to Sinnott first. See what we can get from him and then we’ll let the others know.’

  Lambert thought of the piles of bones they’d seen at the Manor site. He wondered what amount of missing persons cases they’d be able to solve, the brittle comfort they might be able to offer the families who’d lost loved ones to whatever brutal regime had been at Waverley Manor.

  Tillman came off the M4 before Reading and began driving into the countryside. Lambert was used to the concept of the safe house. He’d had access to them himself when he’d been part of the Group. But the name itself was a contradiction, for whoever was held at a safe house was usually far from being safe. And although he’d never seen interrogations go beyond what was legal, he’d always had concerns about the concept that people could be taken and questioned without the knowledge of others.

  As the rain subdued, Tillman pulled up a dirt track to a secluded farmhouse surrounded by trees. Lambert was confident he could make his way back to the house from memory and was sure Tillman realised this.

  The wind outside the car was brutal. Lambert followed Tillman towards the entry of the ancient-looking farmhouse. There were echoes of the Manor, which troubled Lambert. Was it possible the Manor had started as a safe house? With Sinnott’s and now Weaver’s involvement, it was already clear members of the police had been involved. What if what lay beyond these walls had the same depths?

  The atmosphere through the front door was little different to that outside. Cold air billowed through the unheated building.

  ‘Through here,’ said Tillman, opening a side door leading to a narrow passage. ‘Turn your back, please,’ he added.

  Lambert did as instructed hearing the electric tone of a keyboard as Tillman entered a ten-figure password. The security door buzzed open and Tillman held his arm out for Lambert to go first. A brief hesitation came over him as he wondered if this too was a set-up, if Tillman had been part of it all along and he was stepping into his own Manor.

  Tillman gave him a look as if warning him not to be so ridiculous, and he stepped through the threshold.

  The interior was in stark contrast to the outside. It had the clinical cleanliness of a hospital ward. The walls were tiled white and the floors scrubbed clean.

  Lambert followed Tillman down a brightly lit corridor to the room where Sinnott was being held. A man and woman, both dressed in white coats, attended to the man who sat upright on his bed. Two drip bags fed into his body whilst various wires protruded from his chest into a machine, presumably measuring his heart rate.

  Sinnott’s face was drawn, his skin tinged yellow. His eyes were bloodshot and he didn’t even look up at Tillman and Lambert.

  ‘Give us the room,’ said Tillman, to the medical personnel.

  His voice was enough for Sinnott to look up. ‘You’re back.’ Sinnott’s voice was coarse, gravelly, as if his throat was bone dry. He lifted his head and glanced towards Lambert. ‘You should have let me die,’ he said.

  ‘That can still be arranged,’ said Tillman.

  ‘Good,’ said Sinnott, with no irony.

  ‘Jonathan Weaver is dead,’ said Lambert.

  Sinnott was too ill to express much emotion. If he was shocked he didn’t reveal it.

  ‘Shot down in broad daylight,’ continued Lambert.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ said Sinnott.

  ‘You don’t know about these places, do you?’ said Tillman.

  Sinnott chuckled, the sound emitting from his throat sounding painful. ‘Of course I know about them. Do you think you and your little Group were the only ones in on the secret? Nothing that’s happened in the force in the past twenty years has gone past me,’ said Sinnott, trying his best to muster some pride.

  ‘Then you’ll know what can happen here?’

  Sinnott blinked. ‘I know the extent of what’s supposed to happen here. Are you threatening me, Tillman?’

  ‘No one is threatening anyone,’ said Lambert, concerned as to how the interrogation was going.

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that,’ said Tillman, falling easily into the bad cop role.

  ‘I’ve told you all I’m going to,’ said Sinnott.

  Tillman leant over the man, his face close enough to touch. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve heard that from people in this room before?’ said Tillman.

  Sinnott tried to sit up in a brutal show of strength. ‘You don’t frighten me, Tillman. Don’t you think I know about you? I know everything about you. What’s that saying – all mouth and no trousers? You’re on a tight leash, whether you know it or not. Whatever you say now, I know you won’t go any further than you’re allowed.’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t know me very well at all, then,’ said Tillman. As he spoke he placed his heavyset hand on Sinnott’s shoulder.

  At first it looked innocuous and then he began to squeeze. Lambert had been taught the same technique before. Tillman was working a specific pressure point.

  Sinnott closed his eyes, took a deep breath and, eventually, let out a scream.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ‘That’s enough, Glenn,’ said Lambert, as Sinnott’s screams continued.

  Lambert laid his hand on Tillman’s shoulder, surprised at the granite-like feel of his flesh. Tillman was turning red with exertion as he dug his hands into Sinnott’s shoulder. ‘Tell me,’ he mouthed.

  Lambert shared his superior’s frustrations. It was at times like this he felt most impotent. Somewhere, Caroline Jardine was being kept and the trembling man on the gurney in front of them was the
only link they had to her whereabouts. They were just one step from finding out where she was, from closing the case. But still Sinnott wasn’t budging.

  Reluctantly, Tillman released his grip. Sinnott lay back on his pillow, exhausted from the confrontation. From the monitor attached to his chest, it was clear his pulse rate had exceeded one-forty. He looked close to death and Lambert doubted he would survive another confrontation.

  ‘How does this benefit you?’ he asked.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ said Sinnott.

  ‘Then why not tell us? Who would have the authority to order a hit on Weaver?’

  A sigh left Sinnott’s lips, a faint sound, almost inaudible. ‘It beats me. I’ve told you before, Lambert, the only person I know from the Manor is Weaver. He recruited me, I reported to him. I sorted things out for him. That’s where my connection ends.’

  ‘You always were a snivelling fucker,’ said Tillman. ‘I knew there was no way you’d have risen to this rank without outside backing.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ conceded Sinnott. ‘What does it matter now?

  ‘I’ll tell you why it matters,’ said Tillman, moving towards him.

  Lambert held out his arm and felt a blow as he stopped the charging Tillman.

  ‘You must know who the other members of the Manor are,’ he said to Sinnott, holding Tillman in place.

  ‘I know they exist,’ said Sinnott. ‘Some are in the force, most outside.’

  ‘Give us some names,’ demanded Tillman.

  Sinnott struggled to shift himself upright. He leant towards them, this time his turn to display anger.

  ‘I’ve told you before. The only person I know is Weaver. It seems from what you’ve said he was not in charge.’

  Lambert sighed. ‘And the Manor itself? Waverley Manor I mean, you knew what was going on there?’

  Sinnott lowered his chin. ‘I had a vague idea.’

  ‘A vague idea?’ said Lambert, growing agitated at Sinnott’s nonchalant tone.