Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  Safe House

  A novel by Paul Starkey

  For Reginald Starkey,

  My dad, 1928-2010

  Prologue

  The 14th Century…

  There was a curious contrast that day between the land and the sky. The sun was bright overhead, yet a chill easterly wind whipped across the landscape, seeming to spirit the warmth of the sun away before it could reach the earth, and leaving the ground beneath their feet crisp with frost.

  As always Roger Browghton led the way, striding with purpose and vigour, and as always his younger brother, Nicholas, trudged along in his wake. In part this was the way of things, the elder always leading, but nature played its part. Roger was taller, the skinny hose he wore serving only to accentuate the length of his legs, and even his bulkier upper garments did little to spoil the illusion.

  Nicholas was several inches shorter, and barrel-chested beneath his doublet which made him seem top-heavy. Few said anything to his face, but he knew several villagers mocked him as ‘Nicholas the unsteady’, always seeming just a gust of wind away from toppling over.

  A fallacy of course, he was as stout as an oak, but being the second son automatically made him weaker in peoples’ eyes, and no matter how many men he laid out with a single blow from his meaty fist, still people never forgot that.

  “Come on, brother,” said Roger, looking back but not pausing in his travails. “We must see if she has taken the bait!” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned his head and forged on.

  Nicholas increased his own pace, jabbing down with the long spear in his right hand. The haft dug barely half an inch into the frozen ground; still it helped propel him onwards. It seemed an ineffectual weapon against the beast they sought, but it was better than the dagger at his waist.

  If this plan succeeded, however, it would do so because of a far sharper weapon, Nicholas’ wits, though he already knew that Roger would take the credit. Wasn’t he the elder, wasn’t it his place to strike the fatal blow, and didn’t he carry father’s old poleaxe for just this purpose?

  Bitterness does not become me, thought Nicholas, not for the first time. He loved his brother, but he was jealous, and could not deny it. Their lord was away in battle, having followed the Black Prince’s flag to France. Sir Godfrey was an experienced campaigner, but he was old now, slow, and many doubted he would return. His wife, Agnes, was one of them, and had made it plainly known that, should she be widowed, then a Browghton brother would be her next husband. And it was obvious which brother she preferred, even though her lust seemed to encompass both.

  She was much younger than Sir Godfrey, yet older than the brothers. Not that this mattered. Marriage to her would bring wealth and power, and she was still a rare beauty, one whose twinkling eyes and sly smile bespoke pleasures she longed to bestow upon a young lover. Assuming Sir Godfrey died of course, and assuming her favoured brother proved his worth by ridding the manor of its troublesome curse.

  Nicholas looked down, finding calmness each time his boots struck the frosty ground. Would it really be so bad if Roger became the next lord of the manor? Nicholas knew his brother would give him land, and he would be favoured then to marry Matilda. She was young and comely, and she liked him.

  Would it really be so bad?

  “There, brother! It worked!” somehow Roger found new reserves of energy and bounded even quicker onwards.

  Nicholas took a deep breath and struggled after him. Ahead of them loomed the edge of the forest, the thick tangled wall of trees seeming as impenetrable as a mountain. The forest covered many square miles, and was not a place to be ventured into at the best of times, and especially not whilst the terror was abroad, hence the nature of the bait to be found in the clearing before the woodland. Here the frost was stained red, and pink flesh lay torn and ripped about the carcass. The head was still attached to its shoulders, and the rope that had tethered it to the spike driven last evening into the ground was still tied firmly around its neck, but little else of the pig remained.

  And there, just the other side of the bloody remains, lay the wolf bitch, her white fur matted with dirt and offal. Her head lifted at their approach; dark eyes narrowed and she let out a low rumbled growl, breath visible in the cold air as she exhaled between blood-stained teeth. She didn’t move though, either to attack or retreat. Instead she merely lay there, conserving what strength she possessed until the optimum time, realising in her way that she would only have the energy to strike once.

  It seemed Nicholas’ plan had worked. It was he who suggested laying out bait to tempt the wolf from her woodland lair, and he who had proposed dosing the bait with valerian, hemlock and other herbs known to induce sleepiness. Now the white wolf was languid enough that the two of them could easily overcome her.

  Nicholas suppressed a bitter laugh. The two of us indeed, he mused, even as Roger gestured him to stand back, so that he alone could approach the wolf, his would be the honour of the kill.

  Despite her drugged state, the wolf still looked dangerous. She was bigger than Nicholas had fancied, and imagination had not done justice to her teeth or her claws. He knew how tough pigskin was; yet the wolf had torn through it as if it were dried leaves. He remembered as well just how many pigs and chickens this beast had slaughtered, how many deer, and not to forget the Crokesly child, who’d been no whelp yet had still been dismembered within seconds. Despite his apprehension, Nicholas moved close behind his brother, stepping with care to be as quiet as possible, fooling himself that this was so as not to alert the wolf.

  “You’re a monstrous bitch, aren’t you,” said Roger under his breath. “And you’ll make a fine rug for before my lady’s hearth.”

  Nicholas’ eyes widened. There it was! The truth of it!

  Roger seemed content for the moment to taunt the wolf, jabbing at her with the haft of the poleaxe. Each time she snapped at the wood and each time he quickly drew it back. He wasn’t so foolish that he would step close enough that her jaws might reach his flesh. It reminded Nicholas of similar taunting he had suffered when the two of them had been much younger.

  “Enough I think,” said Roger now, and lifted the weapon above his head.

  Would it really be so bad, thought Nicholas once more. In his mind’s eye he saw Matilda, her eyes were blue as still water, her hair the colour of summer wheat, but her left arm was withered, as dead as a lightning struck tree. Once more he recalled the lustful glances of Lady Agnes, and something in his loins stirred. Without pausing to think about what he was doing, he jabbed the blunt end of the spear hard into his brother’s back.

  It was surprise more than anything that did for Roger. The haft of the spear caused no real harm, but with the poleaxe raised high above his head his centre of gravity was off kilter, and the nudge was enough to make him swing early. As a result, rather than he directing the weapon, it was the poleaxe that pulled him to his doom.

  He missed the wolf, the axe head striking the ground inches from her exposed neck. The blade didn’t dig deep into the ground, but Roger had no opportunity to pull it free because, with an exultant cry, the wolf snapped once more, and this time Roger was in range.

  Nicholas felt his breath catch as the wolf clenched her jaws around his brother’s thigh. This wasn’t what he’d expected, and now he might have to use the spear, finish the job himself, and it would be that much harder to blame the wolf.

  The geyser of crimson that sprayed up from between the beast’s fangs took Nicholas by surprise, as did the speed with which the life drained from his brother. In one moment he still seemed vital, the next the colour fled from his flesh, and the life vanished from his eyes. In that last instant between life and death their gazes locked together, and Nicholas saw anger, hate and betrayal in his brother’s eyes.r />
  The wolf released her prey and shuffled back, a low whine escaping her as she licked blood from her lips and looked up at the other man, the man she had no strength left to fight. Even moving just a few inches proved too much, and she fell back to the ground once more, chest rising and falling, able to do nothing but watch as Nicholas stood over her and raised the spear in both hands.

  In the instant before the spear pierced her blood splattered pelt, Nicholas saw a similar look in her eyes to that he’d seen in his brother’s.

  Nicholas didn’t pull the spear free; instead he left it there, the point dug into the earth, staking the wolf’s body to the ground. For a long time he just looked at the bodies, unable to move, despite the foul smells that began emanating from both corpses; the stenches of blood, shit, and death. I should feel something, he thought; Guilt, sadness, exultation…something.

  And at last he realised he did. He felt fear. He didn’t want to turn away because he had the strangest feeling that if he did, then both Roger and the wolf would rise up and slay him before he could take a single step away from this place.

  He knew he’d have to move eventually, lest the chill of the ground work its way into his bones and leave him dead as those he had murdered, and so at last, with an effort of will he turned.

  And saw a world in flames.

  No; not flames. It was the sunlight blazing across the distant treetops, so that the far off oaks in the valley seemed alive with colours; reds, oranges, yellows - a forest of fire contrasted with the river of cool blues and whites that swept beneath the treeline. It was a vision alive with beauty and potential, the most wondrous sight he had ever seen, and the fear left him. Without another thought he abandoned the dead behind him and walked towards his bright new future, and as he did so a curious thought took hold in his mind.

  This would be a good place to build a house…

  Chapter one

  Seventeen years ago…

  “I hate these guys.”

  John Tyrell took his eyes off the street ahead to regard the man in the Sierra’s passenger seat. Charlie Sutton wasn’t even looking his way; instead he was engrossed in the process of unfolding the foil wrapped package that rested in his lap.

  “You mean Keegan and his pals?”

  The package looked like a flower now, only one with petals of tinfoil. Sutton continued to stare at the contents like a man trying to see the image hidden in one of those magic eye pictures. He shook his head. “Egg again, she knows I hate egg,” he muttered.

  Tyrell took a drag on his cigarette, grateful for it, and for the fact that they had the windows wound down. He’d smelt Sharon Sutton’s egg masterpieces too many times before.

  “What did you say anyway?” said Sutton now, head turned towards his partner at last, his voice muffled by the limp white sandwich he was stuffing into his mouth.

  “You said you hated these guys, I assumed you meant Keegan and co.”

  Sutton shook his head. “No, well I mean, yeah, of course I hate them, but I was talking about these guys.” He gestured towards the car stereo with an insipid bit of crust.

  Tyrell had actually forgotten the radio was even on; it was turned down so low. Now he paid attention though, and quickly ascertained the subject of Sutton’s ire. “You hate Take That?”

  Charlie Sutton sneered. “Yeah, bunch of puffs. The missus can’t get enough of them. Keeps playing their bloody songs all the time, and the kids love ‘em too. I really don’t get it.”

  Tyrell allowed the flicker of a smile to skip across his lips. “Well if the IRA ever stop blowing things up the boss might let us take out Gary Barlow.”

  “Ha bloody ha,” said Sutton, and started on a second sandwich.

  Tyrell returned his attention to the road ahead. It was a hot July day, hottest of the summer so far so the radio had said. Hence why they had the windows wound down. He rested his elbow on the window frame and sucked in another lungful of nicotine. The cigarette was practically dead now, and without looking he flicked it away to join several of its peers already abandoned on the pavement. It had been a long day, these kinds of stakeouts always were.

  A front door slammed and Tyrell’s gaze snapped towards Keegan’s house. Instinctively his right hand reached for the key in the ignition. A skinny blonde in a tracksuit bounded down the driveway of the house next door to their target’s, before getting into a Golf that was haphazardly parked on the street in front.

  “Thought we were on then,” said Sutton as the Volkswagen pulled away. As the sound of the engine faded he burped and suddenly the smell of egg got stronger.

  Sutton was now fidgeting in his seat again. Despite the heat both men still wore their suit jackets—though their ties had long since been discarded—and Charlie was now reaching under his to adjust his shoulder holster, again. So far that morning Tyrell had noted him adjusting it myriad times, popping the restraining strap open then closed again a couple of times, and once actually taking the Browning out and checking the action. For his part John Tyrell hadn’t gone near his Beretta since he’d slipped the holster on three hours before. He knew it was loaded and there was a live round in the chamber, knew the restraining strap would snap away if needed, and that the gun would fire as smoothly as always.

  Charlie hadn’t always been so nervous, but Tyrell figured it came with age. The other man was in his mid fifties now, and he’d let himself go. Shirt buttons strained at a belly expanded by beer and comfort, and there always seemed to be crumbs in his moustache, no matter the time of day or night. They’d worked off and on for seven years, first in K Branch, counter espionage, back when John Tyrell was a wet nosed kid and Charles Sutton was the agent he looked up to, and now in the still relatively new T Branch, counter terrorism. Somehow in those seven years Charlie had gone from a keen-eyed hard man to overweight joke, and the worst thing was that Tyrell couldn’t even pinpoint when it had happened. It was like one day he went home John McClane and the next morning he woke up Eddie Yeates.

  There but for the grace of god, thought Tyrell, casting a glance in the rear-view mirror. The pale blue eyes that stared back at him were free from age or crow’s feet, and his thick black hair sported no grey. He was thirty two, and despite the cigarettes he was in good shape. Perhaps in twenty years he’d let himself go as well, but he couldn’t imagine that right now. Maybe it was the wife and kids that did it.

  “Here we go.”

  Tyrell looked away from the mirror. Across the street Neil Keegan was carefully locking his front door. He tugged at the handle once, then turned and walked away from his home. The 1930’s semi was far too big for one person to live in. Tyrell knew this because he’d broken in two days before. Keegan’s possessions were scattered around the cavernous interior in a vain attempt to fill the house, but the effect worked about as well as sitting a hundred football fans inside Wembley stadium would have.

  He’d been careful, leaving no trace of his entry for the police to find (not that Keegan would call them) but he’d also made it clear that someone had been inside. Popped the silver cap of a bottle of milk and left it to ferment on the kitchen table, and tugged the toilet roll so that several dozen sheets ended up in a heap on the floor. No sign of forced entry though, nothing stolen. But Keegan knew they’d been inside.

  Which was, of course, the point.

  Neil Keegan didn’t look like much; a frizzy haired nerd in glasses who still dressed like a student despite being twenty seven and a teacher. He’d been born Niall McKeegan in Belfast, anglicising his name when he moved to the mainland to attend university. If he’d thought this would keep him off the authorities’ radar he was sorely mistaken. Making yourself sound less Irish wasn’t a crime, and given the various terrorist atrocities carried out by the IRA, and its kin on either side of the fence, it was probably quite reasonable, but going to the trouble of keeping your head down, then shouting from the rooftops for the entire time you were at university that you were proud to be Irish, and a communist, and cheering i
n public whenever you heard a British soldier had been shot…well that was stupid.

  So stupid in fact that for a long time Keegan hadn’t really been considered dangerous; a minor irritant at worst. But in the last year his name had cropped up in several telephone intercepts between various members of a particularly nasty Republican splinter group, actually more like the splinter of a splinter. There weren’t many of them, half a dozen at most, but they were hard-core fanatics who made their brethren seem like boy scouts, and by all accounts they were planning something on the mainland.

  Nobody in MI5 really thought Keegan was involved, he was too obviously a patsy, but the decision had been taken to spook him anyway. Break into his house and make a big deal of keeping him under surveillance for a few days and he’d be shitting himself so much he wouldn’t piss on a burning Provo. Other men were working the splinter group angle proper, and Tyrell and Sutton had drawn the short straw of scaring Keegan.

  Some back office wit had amusingly named the op Poltergeist.

  Keegan had got into his dusty beige Metro now, reversing it clumsily off the drive. Tyrell turned the key in the ignition whilst Sutton radioed in that they were on the move. Even as the engine sparked into life Tyrell checked his wing mirrors. The estate was fairly quiet, with a few kids playing further down the street. Coming their way now though was a small van, and even though Keegan was driving away Tyrell opted to let the van pass them by, it never hurt to put another vehicle between you and the target. It was a fairly new looking blue Vauxhall Rascal minivan, the sides bereft of markings so it was probably a one man with a van sort of operation.

  “Come on or we’ll lose him.”

  Tyrell chuckled and pulled away from the kerb. “He’s in a Metro, not a Ferrari,” he said as he slipped the car into second.

  Looking past the Rascal he could see Keegan turn left at the junction. The Rascal went the same way and Tyrell followed. They were on a long road now that rose uphill, though not too steeply. He saw a few people walking along the pavement, a window cleaner up his ladder, and a few kids in a front garden, but on the whole it was a quiet neighbourhood. All the houses looked the same; identical little cages of conformity. Tyrell wondered how people stood the banality of living there. He had a flat in the city, close to the action. He liked noise and bustle; peace and quiet scared him more than the IRA ever could.