Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  It was clear that this was the place the burglar had been interested in. One of the filing cabinets had been emptied and the contents – Sam’s case notes – spread across his desk.

  Sam had a sickening thought, and rushed to the piles of paper. He leafed through them rapidly, then turned to one of the other cabinets. Within seconds – and to his intense relief – he found what he was looking for, a file with a tab entitled CSM14 – named after Charles Scott, his gender and the year. He opened the cardboard sleeves and looked inside. The notes were still there.

  To Sam, the conclusion was simple. Because he had refused to play ball, the Government employee had decided that more direct action was necessary – and an attempt had been made to steal Scott’s notes. Why else would a burglar zone in on that one place in his house?

  Sam slammed the desk with his fist in rage.

  He reached for the phone, called 999 and asked for the police.

  Chapter 6

  Downing Street

  Sometimes, while lying in bed in the morning, the house already buzzing with activity below him, Aidan Stirling would stare at the ceiling and compare his life with the home where he now lived.

  Like him, the house suggested familiarity from the outside, yet inside, was more complex. It was a building where rooms led to more rooms, where concealed staircases took you from one place to another, bypassing other areas to deliver you, as if teleported, to a completely different part of the house.

  He’d read about its history and it fascinated him to think of the place at the turn of the 20th Century. Then it had been close to falling down, its floors buckling and walls cracking because of the soft soil and shallow foundations below. Now concrete held the building up, subsidence a thing of the past.

  The concrete’s effect was comparable to the Valium he was often encouraged to take. In the house’s case, it had clearly worked. This place wasn’t going anywhere. In his case, however – if he was to believe his parents and the professionals they’d taken him to – there was still movement.

  But of course that was the problem. He never believed anything his parents said. Why would he take them seriously when they could never be relied on to deliver what they promised?

  As a child, Aidan remembered overhearing his father – on the rare occasion his parents were conversing and not arguing – referring to him as ‘an awkward little shit’. Quite how he’d drawn this conclusion when he’d hardly spent any time with his son was beyond belief. And yet that definition had stuck in Aidan’s mind. That he was not a child, or a son, but an inconvenience.

  He had heard a lot worse in the last few days. Uncle Charles’s death had stirred things up.

  Aidan had seen less and less of Uncle Charles as he got older – and his godfather became busier. But he remembered him as a thoughtful man. Someone who could always be relied on to remember birthdays, to show kindness whenever they were together.

  But then he remembered the last time he’d seen him. Aidan suddenly felt every ridge and fold in the sheets and mattress below him. He turned on to his side to study the poster on the wall of Frank Lloyd Wright’s most famous building, Falling Water. He focused on the image, the concrete terraces seemingly hovering in space over the waterfall, the rectilinear shapes contrasted with the soft woodland, the feeling of perfect balance.

  His breathing slowed. The bed softened beneath him.

  Like never before, there was a sense that architecture gave his life structure and meaning. That he’d nearly lost that career, by continually missing lectures and arguing with tutors – scraping a 2:2 on his BA – worried him. But all too often the confrontations at college were because he fundamentally disagreed with something a tutor had said. Wasn’t that what college was about – challenging as well as learning?

  Now he was doing his professional experience at a firm in Islington. He got on OK there, and had even managed to make friends – or at least that’s what he thought he’d made; he could never be sure what actually constituted friendship – but again he was finding it hard not to disagree with some of the opinions the partners expressed.

  Now he was on semi-permanent sick leave, a situation that was deeply frustrating. But he was sure he’d return. That he’d qualify and set up his own practice. And that, in time, he’d design buildings that would leave people breathless.

  Chapter 7

  North London

  Sam cancelled his clients again the next morning, aware that he was in no fit state to offer empathy or that other mysterious pre-requisite for good counselling, unconditional positive regard. The fact was, he was angry, and he knew it would show.

  He sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee after coffee as he raged at the events of the previous evening.

  The police had arrived quickly enough, but as he attempted to explain what had happened, he soon realised how flimsy his story sounded, and their interest rapidly waned.

  The trouble was, he’d been reluctant to tell them about Scott, not just because of the confidentiality he’d been so keen to impress on the Government employee, but also just in case one of the attending officers decided to make a little money by telling a newspaper that the dead Minister had been seeing a shrink.

  It meant that everything he did tell them sounded slightly hollow. He explained that one of his clients had recently died and that he’d had a visit from someone concerned about what the dead man might have revealed about his work. Sam told them how he’d refused to talk about it and how, a day later, his house was broken into and the case notes targeted.

  ‘So what you’re saying,’ said the interviewing officer, a man in his early 30s with tightly cropped hair and a goatee beard, ‘is that you believe this man –’ he paused then to consult his notes, ‘ – or someone in league with him, broke into your house to steal your client’s notes.’

  ‘Right.’

  The policeman ran a hand across his head. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this Mr Keddie, but your story is a little light on leads. We could attempt to trace this man, maybe see if we can find a match for any prints in your house. But there’s little to link one event with the other – the men you describe are, as you say, physically quite different – and nothing has been stolen.’

  ‘Because I interrupted the burglary.’

  The policeman grunted in agreement.

  ‘So basically,’ said Sam, ‘if you can’t find the man, or any prints, there’s nothing you can do.’

  The policeman sighed. ‘This is a break-in,’ he said, his voice lifeless. ‘Of which there are plenty round here. We will investigate it, but I can’t promise anything.’

  Sam could see the man thought he was a time waster, an impression that merely compounded the frustration and anger he felt.

  These thoughts were still tormenting him when, around lunchtime, he decided to go out to clear his head.

  He walked up to Church St and crossed the road to the entrance of Abney Park Cemetery.

  Sam liked the cemetery. In an area that had become increasingly gentrified, this was a place of genuine natural wildness. While there were some memorials that were well maintained, for the most part the vegetation had run riot: statues of angels strangled by ivy, headstones collapsed and crumbling into the graves of the men they were meant to commemorate, mausoleums where the rain had found entry and the tombs within had become dank pools of fetid water.

  While others might have found the rampant nature rather upsetting – and unsettling – Sam found it comforting. It seemed to offer confirmation of something he knew only too well.

  Even though death was all around, the place made him think of life. How it was not a tidy process and anyone who tried to con themselves into thinking they could control it was a fool. As his own experience – and those of the hundreds of people he’d treated – had taught him, life could not be lived neatly. He was reminded of all those clients with apparently orderly façades – the tailored City boy who despised his job and had murderous thoughts about the other traders in his off
ice, the middle-class mother who’d been sleeping with a teenage friend of her son. Eventually our true feelings and desires had a habit of coming to the surface. In this way, most people were no different to a crisp new headstone that, before long, is overcome by nature.

  Sam had wandered deep into the cemetery. There was a sudden rustle of leaves and a snap of twig. It made him jump, which annoyed him because he knew his anxiety was only heightened because of the burglary. There was no reason to be spooked. There were a number of broad, well-maintained paths in the cemetery. Other people were bound to be around.

  Just to put his mind at rest, he turned round. There, no more than ten metres behind him, was a tall figure dressed in a dark bomber jacket and jeans. Sam felt a chill run through him. The burglar – what little he’d seen of him – had been similarly built and dressed.

  He berated himself. There were loads of tall men dressed like that in London. Sam looked back again. The man was moving faster.

  Sam began to run, urged on by an instinctive feeling that he was now in danger. As he picked up pace, he could hear the man doing the same.

  There was a clearing ahead, an area where a disused chapel stood. The surrounding lawns and gardens were often busy, a peaceful haven close to the cemetery’s east gate.

  Sam turned. The man had begun to close the distance between them. His face was gaunt, with pale skin and narrow, hard eyes.

  Sam accelerated. Suddenly he was out in the open, the chapel standing before him. There were, just as he’d hoped, more people around. An Asian couple – him bearded, her in a hijab – seated on a bench and cooing over a pram; an elderly man walking, his arm steadied by a middle-aged daughter.

  Just then, the man who’d been chasing him burst from the path. He took in the scene around him – Sam and the others – and appeared to make a quick calculation. And then Sam saw something glint, and his blood ran cold. A knife, held tightly in the man’s right hand, was stuffed into a coat pocket and, as quickly, the man withdrew the way he had come.

  Sam was rooted to the spot as he rapidly processed what he’d just witnessed. Had that man intended to scare him into talking? Or silence him forever?

  Sam’s thoughts came in quick succession. Were the police an option? Perhaps. But again, unless he was prepared to speak about Scott, he could imagine his story being met with incredulity. Besides, he thought, with rising panic, even if he did decide to talk about Scott, would the police offer any protection? As the men targeting him had demonstrated, the law was no barrier.

  An image entered Sam’s head, one that made his stomach contract – his pursuer now heading for the house, breaking in by the back door to surprise Sam on his return and finish the job.

  Sam felt his body go rigid. How had all this happened? In a matter of days, normality had been replaced by this. He thought of clients whose lives had been turned upside down by an unexpected event – a bereavement or job loss – but none who’d suddenly found themselves in grave danger.

  Even in his confused, frightened state he knew one thing. It wasn’t safe to go home.

  With trembling hands, Sam checked his pockets. He had his phone and wallet, enough cash in the bank to get by. And something else that he’d taken the precaution of folding into his jacket pocket before he left the house. The case notes.

  Sam needed to find somewhere safe. Somewhere he could think straight and work out why the content of Charles Scott’s sessions was worth killing for.

  Chapter 8

  South London

  ‘What do you mean, “he’s disappeared”?’ Stirling’s words were accompanied by a fist slamming down on the leather of the car’s seats.

  He and Frears were in the back of the PM’s armour-plated Daimler, en route to an Islamic community centre in Camberwell where the Prime Minister was due to give a speech on multi-culturalism.

  Of course that was the plan. Right now he could barely concentrate.

  As he was leaving Downing Street, Stirling had politely excused another adviser, a Moslem peer who’d arranged the engagement, and asked Frears, who was in the building most weekdays, to join him in the back of the car.

  A short message sent from Frears to the PM’s BlackBerry – ‘Need to talk’ – had prompted the meeting. These get-togethers were becoming a little too frequent for Stirling’s liking. This was meant to be an invisible operation, one that Frears had assured him he would not need to be overly involved in. But recently Stirling had been seeing far too much of the former soldier. The Prime Minister was acutely aware that, to others, there was only so much he and Frears could be discussing in private – particularly given the other issues on his desk. People were bound to begin wondering what the hell was going on.

  ‘It’s like I said, Prime Minister,’ replied Frears, ‘my man talked to Keddie but was interrupted before he could get any sense of what the shrink knew.’

  ‘So he decided to burgle the man’s house and take the case notes.’

  ‘Keddie was harping on about confidentiality. It seemed the most sensible way to find out what Scott had talked about.’

  ‘But your man was disturbed before he could get the notes. And then Keddie called the police. And God knows what he told them.’

  ‘That’s why we stepped things up. Tried to confront him. Scare him into talking.’

  Stirling closed his eyes in disbelief. Was this really the operation he’d set in motion? A pack of wild dogs let loose on the streets of London. ‘But your thug let him get away.’

  ‘It was a public place, Prime Minister,’ said Frears, the exasperation showing in his voice. ‘We couldn’t afford to attack him in front of witnesses.’

  ‘And how can we now be sure he hasn’t told the police or a bloody journalist about what’s happened to him?’

  ‘The events cannot be linked in a coherent way. A deniable visit from us, a burglary, a possible aggravated mugging.’

  ‘What about what Scott told him?’

  ‘I doubt he’ll reveal that.’

  Stirling gave him a withering look. ‘Oh you do, do you? And what makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘Keddie made a big deal of client confidentiality. I don’t think he’d tell the police or a hack that Scott was a client of his.’

  ‘Believe me. When there’s money on offer, people will do all sorts of surprising things. As you yourself will attest.’

  Frears flushed and Stirling enjoyed the Guardsman’s discomfort. After leaving the army, Frears had failed to cash in on his notoriety and reverted to the world he knew best, earning his crust in the private sector, latterly in Nigeria. It was here he was involved in a disastrous attack on the camp of rebels who’d targeted an oil facility. The intelligence had been ropey and the event resulted in the deaths of hundreds of civilians. The Nigerians had covered it up, but Stirling knew the truth.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ hissed Stirling, ‘is that this has become bloody complicated. I thought it would end with Scott’s death, but it’s become more and more of a fucking mess.’

  ‘We’re tying up the loose ends, Prime Minister,’ said Frears.

  ‘And creating a few more in the process.’

  He paused, trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘Let’s now assume Keddie knows someone is after him,’ he said. ‘We cannot afford for him to start sniffing around. So just locate him. And when you do, find out what he knows and who, if anybody, he’s talked to.’

  ‘And what should we do with Keddie?’

  Stirling tensed in his seat. How dare Frears ask a question like that? The Prime Minister looked at the former soldier and spotted the faintest hint of amusement on his face. He’d embarrassed Frears and now the soldier was having his petty revenge.

  Turning away from Frears, he said: ‘Just make sure he keeps his fucking mouth shut.’

  Stirling pressed the intercom button on the door by his side, asking the driver to stop. This was totally against protocol but Stirling wanted Frears out of the car. The Daimler slowed to a halt
on a street corner. A group of black teenagers who’d been watching the convoy fly by were now nudging each other. Good, thought Stirling. Frears will stick out like a sore thumb here.

  The car behind had stopped too and now the PM’s Daimler was surrounded by four policemen in suits.

  ‘That’ll be all, Frears,’ said Stirling, signalling to one of the officers to open the Guardsman’s door. ‘I don’t want to talk about this again unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  Frears’ door was opened and he stepped out. Stirling pressed the intercom again and told the driver to move on.

  The Prime Minister turned to look at the Guardsman standing by the side of the road. The small posse of hooded teenagers were beginning to point; the man in a Gieves & Hawkes suit could not have been more out of place had he beamed down from an alien mothership.

  Stirling ran both hands through the dense curls of his hair. How could he be expected to deliver a speech on multi-fucking-culturalism when he had this hanging over him?

  What if Keddie had blabbed to a hack? Of course he could throw the weight of Downing Street’s comms team at the tale, discredit both the shrink and the journo, dismiss it all as the delusional fantasy of a clinically depressed man. God knows, other stories had been buried in similar ways. But what if this one refused to die? What if it sucked up oxygen, became a raging fire? Stirling felt his shirt cling to the sweat on his back.

  Pull yourself together, he thought. This was what being PM was about. Juggling a load of balls at the same time. Unfortunately this particular ball happened to be on fire.

  He looked ahead through the plate glass, past the heads of his driver and a bodyguard to the streets in front. The road was clear. Police cars and motorbike outriders had carved a path through the London traffic. If only the problem in hand could be dealt with as simply.