by Adrian Wills
Lucy shot her husband, Peter, a look as if to say "I told you so." Having encountered so many obstacles in her efforts to find her missing brother, when the embassy finally responded to her barrage of letters demanding assistance, she could hardly believe their offer of a meeting was genuine.
'We appreciate you taking the trouble to meet us,' said Peter, ignoring his wife.
'I understand you wanted to talk about your brother, Nicholas?' Mr Alves crossed his legs and placed his fingertips over his lips.
'I suppose you know the background to the case?' said Lucy.
'Yes, I understand that your brother left the UK to travel in Brazil, but inexplicably disappeared and despite a widespread search in the city, no leads have been discovered.'
'It was a crazy idea,' said Lucy. 'He wasn't much of a traveller, but he came up with this half-baked idea to go exploring around the Amazon. But something happened to him when he arrived, and the police in your country don't seem to be taking his disappearance very seriously.'
'I see.' Alves looked thoughtful as if weighing up a great problem. 'Tell me, how much planning had gone into this trip, Mrs Chapman?'
'Well - ' Lucy hesitated. The truth was she had no idea. She'd not spoken to her brother for many months after the row with their mother. His call to announce he was making the trip was a surprise to them both. She suspected it was an impetuous decision, and that any planning had been minimal. 'He'd been talking about it for ages,' she lied. 'It was somewhere he always dreamed of visiting.'
It was Peter's turn to shoot his wife a look, and her chance to ignore him.
'Perhaps you can tell me exactly what his plans were?' said Alves.
'I don't know why you're asking me. It should all be in the file. He flew from Heathrow to Rio, and was going to make his own way to the Amazon from there,' she said.
Alves stood, and walked to a leather-topped desk at the other end of the room, his footsteps cushioned by a rich, deep-pile carpet, scooped up a cardboard file, returned to his seat, and started leafing through the papers inside.
'Do you know how Mr Richards was planning to travel from Rio to the Amazon, Mrs Chapman?'
It was an innocent question, but Lucy was scalded by the accusatory tone. She looked down at her hands, and realised they were trembling.
'I don't know,' she said, quietly.
'I see. And where was he staying?'
'I don't know. He didn't discuss that with us.'
'You said yourself that your brother wasn't very well travelled. Is that correct? In fact, according to records supplied by your government, he'd hardly been out of the country before.'
Lucy felt her anger boiling. Alves made it feel as if Nick was responsible for his own disappearance, and that she was somehow culpable. 'He made a rash decision to go, okay? I don't suppose he did plan the trip as he should have done but that doesn't explain what happened to him. But your country has done virtually nothing to find him, and I want to know why. All I know is that he arrived in Rio, and that was the last we heard of him. Please, I'm begging you, all I want is answers, and for you to take it seriously. My brother is missing - dead for all I know - but you want to lay the blame on Nick.'
'Believe me, Mrs Chapman, we're taking this case seriously. Very seriously.' Alves narrowed his eyes as he spoke. 'Let me ask you one more question. Is it true Mr Richards had cut all ties with his family shortly before he disappeared?'
'What's that got to do with anything?' asked Peter.
'Maybe nothing. Maybe everything,' Alves replied, enigmatically.
The insinuation was obvious to Lucy. Nicholas had been on the verge of being thrown out of university because of his lack of application and subsequent poor grades. He was in debt on an eye-watering scale, and his life was spiralling out of control. Their mother was furious when she found out he'd squandered his education, and when she refused his pleas to bail him out of his financial woes, they'd ended up in a vitriolic argument. She ordered him out of the house, and told him she never wanted to see him again after the names he'd called her. And she'd regretted it ever since. They only heard from Nick once more. A solitary phone call to say he was sorry, and to announce his expedition to South America.
'We came here today to get some movement on the case,' said Peter. 'I want to know what investigations have been carried out so far. We don't even know if Nicholas is alive or dead.'
Lucy dabbed at her eyes with a tissue as her tears burned hot down her cheeks. Peter gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
'You're right. We don't know if he's still alive - but to be honest, Mr and Mrs Chapman, we don't know that your brother even arrived in Rio.' He dropped the bombshell so casually that it took a few moments for the couple to comprehend what he was saying.
'I beg your pardon?' said Peter. 'Of course he arrived in Rio.'
'But no one heard from him in Brazil. We've studied CCTV footage from the airport from the time his plane landed, but he didn't show up. It's possible he caught an internal flight from the airport, but none of the airlines have a record of your brother flying. So we checked whether he boarded a coach or bus from Rio, but again, nothing.'
'But what about his rucksack?' said Lucy. 'Some fishermen found it in the river near Obidos. It had his passport in it. He must have made it somehow.'
'That's a bit of a mystery, for sure. But we've double-checked with the immigration service and they confirmed what we suspected. They have no record of your brother passing through border controls. I'm afraid we don't believe Nicholas Richards was ever in Brazil.'
'What? Are you mad?' screamed Lucy.
'And that means it ceases to be a matter of Brazilian concern.'
Chapter 16
A cold, dank mist wrapped its icy tendrils around the arthritic fingers of the bare branches of the trees. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the park had succumbed to autumnal greys and browns, apart from one oasis where a tangle of evergreen bushes with waxy leaves shimmered in the dull afternoon light.
Blake checked the map on his phone again. It showed that he was right on top of the entrance to the underground bunker. Still it eluded him.
'Come on, this way.' He hadn't seen Patterson approaching and the sound of his voice made him jump.
The colonel breezed past, swinging a leather attaché case cheerily. He turned off the path, and into the clump of bushes. He pulled back a few branches to expose a painted metal door, daubed with faded swirls of graffiti, set into an algae-stained concrete block, no larger than a flatbed truck. With a large key he pulled from his pocket, Patterson sprung the lock, heaved the door open, ushered Blake inside, and slammed the door closed behind them.
They stood briefly in total darkness until Patterson found a light switch on the wall. An overhead strip light illuminated a narrow hallway, and a flight of steep, concrete steps that disappeared into the darkness below.
Patterson led the way down into a damp, musty room buried deep beneath the park. He found another light switch, and three low hanging light bulbs flickered into life. The floor was littered with indistinguishable scraps of faded paper, rat droppings, and inexplicably a coil of electrical wire.
'What do you think?' Patterson asked.
'Nothing a lick of paint couldn't improve. Nice suit, by the way.'
'Pinstripes are all the rage with the MI5 top brass.'
'So what is this place?' asked Blake, screwing up his nose at the musty, damp odour.
'Exactly what it looks like. An old nuclear bunker built during the Cold War and forgotten about. It was supposed to be used as a temporary base for civil servants to deal with the aftermath of an attack. Far enough away from parliament if it had taken a direct hit, but close enough to walk to.'
'I'd have rather taken my chances elsewhere,' said Blake as he paced out the claustrophobic perimeter. 'So what are we doing here?'
'I know how much you hate the thought of meeting at headquarters so I decided this would do nicely. Out of sight, and no one to eavesd
rop.'
'How thoughtful.'
'I found reference to it in some old papers, and it wasn't too difficult to requisition a key from the Ministry of Defence vaults. I doubt whether anyone will ever notice.' Patterson picked up a chair that had been knocked over, and set it upright in the middle of the room. He wiped the seat with his hand, and sat down. Blake grabbed another chair, and placed it opposite his boss.
'Not quite the Ritz is it? But I suppose it serves a purpose.'
'So tell me about Sussex.'
'Very illuminating,' said Blake. He gave Patterson a detailed account of Proctor's evening from being collected from his flat to the encounter with Ken Longhurst in the woods.
'Some kind of initiation ceremony?' asked Patterson.
'Almost certainly. I think Proctor was abducted by members of the BFA who branded him as a sign of allegiance. The ceremony was to complete his enrolment in a sub sect within the organisation called the Phineas Priests,' Blake continued.
'Yes, I asked Marty to see if he could find out anything about this priesthood.'
Marty Price, a former Special Forces intelligence specialist who'd been assigned to Echo 17 before it was disbanded, now ran his own private intelligence company providing services to governments, corporations, and wealthy individuals.
Patterson laid his attaché case on his lap, and hooked out a slim, cardboard file. He read from the contents inside. 'Marty says the Phineas Priests are an extremist movement based in the States, with no evidence, until now, of any activity in Europe. However, it's a fairly chaotic organisation with no known leadership or membership process as such.'
'Is that it?'
'No, there's a bit more. It's primarily a Christian movement that takes a hard-line stance on inter-racial marriage, homosexuality, and multi-culturalism. The name, Phineas Priest, originates from the Israelite Phineas, who, in the Old Testament, killed an Israelite man who'd slept with a Midianite woman. The story goes that he killed them both with a spear, and in doing so, ended a plague sent by God to punish the Israelites for their sexual excesses with the Midianites.
'And as a reward for his actions, God granted Phineas a "covenant of peace" and gave him and his children everlasting priesthood. They take it literally, and use the story as justification for violence against inter-racial marriages and other perceived immoralities. They also believe that God's chosen people are all white and the black community are non-human. Plus they have an ingrained hatred of Jews.'
'Justification for violence?'
'They've been responsible for a number of terrorist attacks on targets including abortion clinics, banks, and even FBI buildings,' said Patterson.
'Any fatalities?'
'A few serious injuries, but murder's not on their rap sheet yet. They're known by a single symbol -'
'Let me see,' said Blake, snatching the file from Patterson's hands. 'It's the same mark they branded on Proctor's chest. It was on Longhurst's robes too.'
'That makes sense. So now we have evidence of a definite link between the BFA and far-right extremism. The question is what are they planning? We need Proctor to find out.'
'I still have to debrief him after his little excursion. Let me find out what Longhurst had to say.'
'I have a bad feeling about this, Blake. There's also the small matter of those donations to the party coffers. The DDG wants Proctor to start digging around their finances. Get him to find out who's writing the cheques. Longhurst makes me nervous, but we need to tread carefully. He's a public figure, and we can't go wading in with all guns blazing.'
Blake shrugged. 'Relax, we're onto him, and he has no idea. He's an egomaniac, but Proctor is right by his side. Give it time, we'll nail him.'
Chapter 17
Blake peered around the door-frame, and was almost bowled over by a black rubbish sack that came tumbling down the stairs. From the flat above, tinny pop music was blaring from a radio.
Blake eased up the stairs, and found an ample-bosomed woman in the kitchen. Her long, raven hair streaked with grey was tied in a ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She was standing on a step-ladder in cheap black leggings that emphasised her fat legs, scrubbing the insides of the cupboards.
'Have you seen Ben?' said Blake, over the din of the radio.
The woman stopped cleaning and glanced over her shoulder. 'Jeez, you half scared me to death,' she said.
'I'm sorry,' said Blake. 'I was looking for Ben Proctor?'
'Well tell me when you find him, will ya?' The woman dropped the cloth in a bowl of water, and stepped down from the ladder. She lit a cigarette from a pack on the worktop and exhaled a stream of hazy smoke. 'Who's asking for him?'
'I'm a friend. When did you last see him?'
'Months ago. I got a call last night saying he was off. No apology, no forwarding address, and no bleedin' rent either.'
'I see,' said Blake.
'Is he in trouble?'
'No, nothing like that. Was his rent up to date?'
The landlady laughed. 'I've had nothin' for two months. So I says to him I either gets paid or he's out. You sure you're not a copper?'
'I'm just a concerned friend, but I've not heard from him in a while. I was worried.'
'You don't much look like the type he usually hangs around with.'
'No,' said Blake. 'I guess not. I'm a sort of uncle figure. I look out for him. It was something I promised his mother.'
'Is that right? Well, I can't help. This mess is all he left.' She waved a hand at two half-filled rubbish sacks and sprinkled a fine confetti of ash over the floor.
'Would you mind if I had a little look around? He might have left a clue about where he was going.'
The woman shrugged. 'Please yourself, but I've cleared most of his mess up.' She stubbed out her cigarette, wrung out the cloth, and began scrubbing again.
Blake started in the bedroom where the doors to a free standing cupboard were wide open, and an assortment of empty wire hangers were suspended from a silver rail. Under the bed he found a single black sock, but the suitcase and cardboard boxes had gone, and a white chest of drawers was empty apart from yellowing newspaper that lined the bottom of each drawer.
In the bathroom, flecks of toothpaste peppered the sink and a grey tidemark ran around the bath. He raked through a small bin under the basin, but found only a blunt razor blade, an empty deodorant can, and several screwed up tissues stained with blood.
'Find anything?' the woman asked, as he emerged onto the landing.
'No, nothing.'
Blake moved into the lounge where the mutilated Platoon poster was still stuck to the wall and the carpet was stained with suspicious black marks. He jammed his fingers between the cushions of the threadbare sofa, where clumps of dust and the odd low denomination coin had found a home, and checked behind the curtains. Nothing. For some unknown reason Proctor had gathered up his few belongings and moved out. And Blake didn't have the first idea where to start looking for him.
He collapsed on the couch, attempting to hold his rising panic at bay. He stared at his reflection in the dust-coated screen. Knees together, shoulders back. A military posture that was hard to shake after more than twenty years. His eyes drifted to the landing, and fell on the two bulging sacks. If Proctor had left any clues, it was most likely that's where he'd find them. A familiar tune came on the radio, a popular hit from the nineteen eighties, but the name of the band wouldn't come to mind. Blake sighed, resigned to the unenviable task of getting elbow deep in Proctor's garbage and pulled himself up.
'Can I take these bags for you?' said Blake.
'Don't worry, I can manage,' said the landlady, who was pouring the dirty water from her bucket down the sink.
Blake plucked a crumpled newspaper from the top of the nearest bag. It was a three-day-old tabloid that had been well thumbed. He flicked through the first half a dozen pages scanning the headlines, and was about to toss it back in the sack when something caught his eye in the top right hand
corner of page seven.
'Can I take this paper?'
'Take what you like. I was only going to chuck it out,' the landlady said.
'Thanks,' said Blake, who was already half-way to the stairs.
He spilled out onto the street, hurried left, and jogged back to his car, which was parked in its usual place around the back near a block of council flats.
A gang of boys loitering nearby fell silent as he approached. Street kids with mean looks and a defiant attitude, blocking the pavement as if they were waiting for trouble. Blake fished in his pocket for a twenty pound note, and held it folded between his thumb and forefinger. The eldest boy broke into a gap-faced grin, and his sour expression dropped from his face. He pushed past the other boys, and plucked the note from Blake's hand.
'Thanks, Shay,' said Blake. 'Make sure you share that out with the others, and don't spend it on booze and fags. Understood?'
'As if we would,' said the boy, feigning indignation.
'Right, now go and do something useful and stop scaring old ladies.'
The boys ran off laughing down the street. Blake checked there was no damage to the Audi, but true to their word, the boys had kept a safe eye on it. He had little doubt that if he'd not paid for their services, the car would have lost its wheels by now. It was that sort of neighbourhood.
Blake unlocked the vehicle with a button on a remote control key fob, and removed a computer notebook from the glovebox. He settled behind the driver's wheel, called up an internet search engine, and checked the newspaper he'd taken from Proctor's flat. Circled in blue ink was the word "Nutwick". Immediately below it "Stoneleigh", heavily underlined.
Surprisingly, there was only one Nutwick in the whole of the country, and it was less than sixty miles away. Blake started up the engine and made a mental note of the directions. With luck, he could make it in a little over an hour.
'So, we're off to Sussex again, Ben. Now what an earth are you doing there?' he asked himself as he pulled away.
Chapter 18
Nutwick was a quintessential English village with chocolate box charm. At its heart was a handsome Norman church with a graveyard of lopsided headstones enclosed by a stone wall. Blake parked in the adjacent village square, which was bordered on one side by a terrace of Georgian townhouses and a row of pretty cottages on the other.
