Shadow Creatures

by Andrew Lane

  ‘Did it help?’

  He shook his head, remembering the sessions he’d had in a small front room in an old three-storey house in north London. He’d still been in a wheelchair then. ‘He told me that I was failing to acknowledge the truth of my injuries because, if I did, it would mean actually admitting that my parents were dead. I told him that I knew my parents were dead, and he was just wasting Gillian’s money.’ Calum laughed briefly: a harsh sound. ‘If I could have walked out, I would have done. Instead we had to wait half an hour until the session was over and Mr Macfarlane came to get me.’ The thought of Macfarlane made him glance at his watch reflexively. ‘Speaking of which, you’d better get that drink down your throat. He’ll be here in a minute or two.’

  Tara eyed the smoothie suspiciously. ‘What exactly is that thing?’

  ‘Goat’s yogurt, Manuka honey, kiwi fruit, bran and banana, all expertly blended together. It’s the best thing for you in the morning.’ He indicated the kettle. ‘The water’s just boiled as well, and I got in some of those green-tea teabags that Gecko says you like.’

  Tara glanced around and reached out for the sealed container of ground coffee that Calum kept on the counter. Opening it, she poured a large spoonful into a mug and then poured hot water from the kettle into the mug. She swilled it back and forth for a bit, and then put it down. Looking around, she saw a large bowl in the sink. Retrieving it, she poured the breakfast smoothie into it, then added the coffee, straining it through a tea strainer to remove the coffee grounds. Finally she whisked the whole lot together with a spoon, then raised the bowl to her lips and drained it in one go.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, yogurt still on her upper lip.

  Calum watched with morbid fascination. ‘That was disgusting. And I thought Gecko said you’d given up coffee.’

  ‘I had, but it hadn’t given up on me.’ She gazed up at him through her black-encrusted eyelashes. ‘Look, I need the caffeine to keep me going, OK?’

  He raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, that’s fine, but you know that coffee isn’t actually a stimulant if you drink it regularly, don’t you? The apparent stimulant effect is only due to the fact that your body gets used to it and gets withdrawal symptoms if it doesn’t get a regular dose, and what you think is a stimulant effect is actually just your body avoiding the withdrawal symptoms.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she growled. ‘At least it makes me feel better.’

  Calum frowned. ‘And by the way – that’s a very expensive coffee to be mixing with fruit and goat’s yogurt. If you’re going to do that again, then I’ll get some instant coffee for you. I wouldn’t touch the stuff myself, but at least you won’t be depleting my special supply.’

  Tara glanced at the container of coffee suspiciously. ‘Do you get that stuff imported?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is it a special gourmet coffee?’

  ‘It is.’

  She winced. ‘Please tell me it’s not that special coffee that I’ve heard about – the one where the ripe coffee berries fall off coffee bushes growing wild in the jungle, and they get eaten by jungle cats, and by the time the seeds inside the berries have passed through the digestive system of the cats they’ve been softened by the stomach acids, so if they’re collected from the droppings, and cleaned and roasted, then the resulting coffee is really sweet and not bitter at all. Please tell me it’s not that coffee.’

  ‘It’s not that coffee,’ he said reassuringly. After a pause, he added: ‘Although that particular coffee, which is called kopi luwak, by the way, is exceptionally good.’

  ‘You’ve drunk it?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And this isn’t it?’

  ‘It isn’t.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I would have remembered.’

  ‘OK,’ she said dubiously.

  ‘This is an organic nkempte from Ethiopia. It hasn’t been near – or through – any cats. Trust me on that.’ Calum took the bowl from her with one hand and put it in the sink. He paused, thinking, then turned back to Tara. ‘It’s civet cats in Indonesia that eat the coffee berries,’ he said seriously. ‘And, yes, the enzymes and acids in their stomachs do soften and sweeten the seeds – the bits that we call the coffee beans. The trouble is that the local Indonesians, knowing how much the coffee sells for in the West, have taken to capturing the civet cats, keeping them in battery cages in their thousands, and feeding them any old coffee berries that they can find. They’ve turned something special in nature into something grotesque in farming. I stopped drinking the stuff when I found out.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Tara said as the door buzzer sounded.

  Calum called out, ‘Come in, Mr Macfarlane!’

  The door opened. Standing there was Mr Macfarlane, the chauffeur and handyman of Calum’s Great-Aunt Merrily. He was small – smaller than Tara – with close-cropped hair that was barely distinguishable from the stubble that spread across his cheeks and chin. He wore a pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a spotted tie. He had always reminded Calum of a cross between a garden gnome and an East End gangster.

  ‘Mornin’, sir,’ he said in a husky voice. He nodded towards Tara. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘We’re heading off towards Farnborough,’ Calum told him. ‘I can give you the exact address when we get closer.’

  ‘You’ve got a satnav?’ Tara asked. ‘If not, we can use my tablet. I’ve got a 4G connection and a GPS chip, so it’s always receiving.’

  Macfarlane tapped his forehead. ‘Don’t need a satnav, ma’am. It’s all up ’ere.’ He glanced back at Calum. ‘You got a box for me, sir?’

  Calum indicated the crate containing the bionic leg braces. ‘We’ve got to take that with us. Can you manage?’

  ‘I can manage stuff bigger than that, sir, with respect.’ He frowned. ‘But what about . . . ?’

  Calum felt his muscles tense, and forced himself to relax. Macfarlane was talking – or, rather, not talking – about the wheelchair. It was use the wheelchair to get down to the limousine or be carried. Calum didn’t particularly fancy either option, but of the two the wheelchair was the least objectionable. Marginally.

  He turned his head to look at Tara. ‘Would you . . . ?’ he started, unexpectedly tongue-tied, ‘I mean, could you . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘of course I could.’

  Calum was about to ask her how she knew what he meant, but she was already going to the cupboard near the door where he kept his wheelchair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tara murmured. ‘I won’t tell anyone about it. At least, I won’t if you keep quiet about me falling off the coffee wagon.’

  ‘It’s a fair trade,’ Calum said. He swung himself across the room towards the door. Macfarlane moved inside, out of his way, and walked across to the crate. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get this out of the way so we can concentrate on the big rat.’

  ‘I saw a big rat once,’ Macfarlane said conversationally to Tara. ‘In a warehouse by the side of the Thames. Big thing, it was, ’bout the size of a cat.’

  ‘This one is larger,’ Tara confided.

  ‘Right.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘You’ll probably need a shotgun, then. I just used a revolver.’

  Calum swung himself into the wheelchair, while Tara went out into the corridor and held the lift doors open. Macfarlane emerged from the apartment with the crate held in his arms like a dancing partner. He swung the door closed with his foot, and Calum activated the security systems with a remote control on his key ring.

  Tara hadn’t used the warehouse goods lift to go downstairs before. She’d always used the stairs. It was old, wooden and creaky, and it shuddered so much that she was worried they might not make it to the ground floor.

  Outside, the limousine was a symphony in polished black metal and chrome. ‘Ready to go?’ Tara asked.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Calum replied.

  By the time Rhino had read and considered the text message from Gecko, the solic
itor representing the Somali kidnappers – Tzuke – had left the cafe.

  Moments later, the elderly woman who had been sitting in the corner of the cafe got up and walked out without catching Rhino’s eye. She turned the same way that Tzuke did as she left.

  The blonde waitress watched her go with a frown. She seemed to be just about to run after her when Rhino caught her eye.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay for her coffee. I . . . know her.’

  The blonde smiled uncertainly. ‘OK – thanks!’

  Rhino sat there for a few moments, imagining the elderly woman following Tzuke discretely from a distance. Her age made her almost invisible. Anyone looking for a follower would be expecting someone younger, stronger, more military-looking.

  One of the surfers at the other table got up and went to the counter to pay for his coffee. As he handed the money across, he half turned and, without looking at Rhino, said: ‘What’s our next move?’

  ‘When Liz reports back on where his office and home are located, I want both of them bugged. Surreptitiously, of course. Landlines and mobiles bugged as well,’ replied Rhino.

  ‘Of course. “Surreptitious” is my middle name.”

  “Your middle name is Franklin. I’ve seen your personnel file.’

  ‘You want him followed after that?’

  Rhino shook his head. ‘He’ll pay the banker’s draft into a bank as quickly as he can. Unless we’ve got someone actually looking over his shoulder we won’t know what account it gets paid into. He’ll let his clients know that he’s paid it in though, and that the handover went smoothly. If we can trace the call, we might have a shot at identifying them and where their base is.’

  The surfer nodded. ‘Probably won’t help these particular hostages,’ he said grimly.

  ‘They’ll be free, if the pirates fulfil their side of the bargain. Knowing who and where they are might help us when the next hostages are taken for ransom.’

  ‘Or,’ the surfer said quietly, ‘we could just go in mob-handed and take them all out in whatever rat-infested corner of Somalia they have their base. Stop any more piracy.’

  ‘But who would pay us to recover hostages if there are no more pirates?’ Rhino asked.

  The surfer frowned. ‘Doesn’t that make us—’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ Rhino interrupted harshly. ‘Just be content that we’re on the side of the angels.’

  The surfer smiled. ‘As long as someone has told the angels that, I’ll be happy.’ He gestured to his friend, who got up and collected their possessions from the table. ‘Good working with you again, Rhino.’

  ‘Likewise. I’ll have your fee paid across via bank transfer.’

  ‘Appreciated.’ He slid some money across the counter towards the waitress and left, along with his companion.

  The girl looked curiously at Rhino. ‘Do you know everyone in here?’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of friends in the area. It’s nice to see them from time to time.’

  She smiled sunnily. ‘Fair enough. It’s good to have friends.’ She paused. ‘Did you want that other coffee now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He sat there until he had finished his second coffee and until Tzuke was a good distance away, and presumably unaware that he was being followed by a little old lady who had been one of the first women in Special Forces. Everyone called her ‘Grandma’, but Rhino knew some of the missions she had been involved in over the years, some of the things she had done, and she was about as far away from the popular conception of a cuddly grandmother as a lion was from a Siamese cat.

  He thought for a moment about Gecko’s text message. Hong Kong. He hadn’t been there for a good few years, but he remembered its bustle, its life and its vibrant energy with great affection. He’d still been in the British army then, and was on a highly sensitive mission close to the Chinese border, but he’d managed to take a week’s leave afterwards, and spent it enjoying Hong Kong’s nightlife. It was the island, just a little way off the mainland, that was officially Hong Kong, of course, but the former British dependency expanded to the area of Kowloon on the mainland and back into the New Territories.

  After waiting long enough for Tzuke to clear the area, Rhino walked the couple of miles to the station. The sun beat down on him, bringing out a light sweat, but there was a cooling breeze coming in from the sea, and Rhino comforted himself with the thought that he had been in places a lot hotter than this while wearing body armour and a helmet at the same time.

  From Poole station he caught a train to London. He had a netbook with him, so he was able to catch up on work – responding to emails and bringing his accounts up to date. The netbook was fully encrypted, of course, and virus-protected too. It had to be. It would be embarrassing at the very least if his contacts list, his mission reports and the contents of some of his emails were obtained by someone like Tzuke, or the people for whom he worked.

  As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced around casually, as if trying to work out where the train was on its journey. Nobody in the carriage was paying him any interest. Three of the other passengers had got on at Poole with him, and so theoretically could have been following him in the same way that his people were following Tzuke, but he wasn’t detecting any interest from them. He would just have to keep an eye on them when he got out at Waterloo station and, of course, make sure that if he got up to go to the toilet that he took his netbook with him.

  The journey took just over two hours. By the time he looked up from his screen again he was approaching London Waterloo station. Calum’s warehouse apartment was a reasonable walk or a short taxi ride away. He decided to go on foot – the route would take him along the Thames, past a number of historic sites, and Tower Bridge. He always enjoyed walking around London.

  As he walked off the train and on to the concourse at Waterloo station, he kept an eye on the three people who had got on with him at Poole. He made sure that he was last off the carriage, following them rather than the other way round. None of them looked back to see where he was, and as soon as they got through the ticket barrier they headed off in the direction of the Underground. Either nobody was following him or, he thought with a prickle of unease, whoever was following him was exceptionally good. Unlikely, but possible.

  As he headed for the exit, his invisible mental antennae pricked up. Something had caught the attention of his subconscious mind – something important. Was it a watcher – a follower? Instead of glancing around to see what or who it was, Rhino let his mind and gaze wander. He knew how his subconscious operated. It would either bring the anomalous element to his attention, or it wouldn’t find it again.

  His gaze drifted to the coffee shop on the far side of the station, and his conscious mind suddenly realized that his subconscious had identified two people there. They were sitting at a table talking, heads close together. The reason his conscious mind had ignored the information was that he’d never seen them together before, and he hadn’t known that they knew one another. In fact, there were very good reasons why they shouldn’t know one another.

  One of them was named Craig Roxton. He was tall and thin, with a face that was all angles and planes. His hair was blond and fine, and in high winds it would whip back off his face into a short comet’s tail. Rhino knew that because he knew Craig Roxton. The man had once been in Special Forces, fighting alongside Rhino in some of the most unpleasant places in the world. They had both left the British army at more or less the same time, and for more or less the same reasons, but they had gone in different directions. Rhino had ended up in hostage rescue and bodyguard work – things that made him feel as if he was doing some good in the world. Roxton had become a mercenary, hiring himself out to anyone who could pay, and willing to do anything they wanted. And the last employer that Rhino had heard about, the last set of people whose money Roxton had been taking, was Nemor Incorporated.

  Nemor Incorporated – the secretive, mysterious company that had tried to use Tara t
o spy on Calum, and then had kidnapped Natalie and threatened to torture her. Not a nice bunch of people, which meant, as far as Rhino was concerned, that they and Craig Roxton deserved one another.

  If it had just been Roxton there by himself, sipping a cappuccino, or if Roxton had been sitting with a total stranger, then Rhino would have slipped back into the crowd and gone on his way. He had no desire ever to encounter Roxton again. The problem was that he was sitting at a table with someone Rhino knew.

  It was Professor Gillian Livingstone – Natalie’s mother.

  Rhino moved into the shadow of a row of ticket machines. He let his body and head point across the concourse, towards the main exit, but allowed his gaze to drift sideways so that he could see the two of them without them being aware that he was looking in their direction. The fragmentary hope he’d nurtured that the two of them had accidentally ended up on the same table – two travellers heading in different directions whose lives had momentarily crossed – was dashed when he saw Gillian pass Roxton a sheet of paper. He picked it up and read through it, then nodded and said something to her. She shook her head.

  This, Rhino decided, was bad. The possibility that there was a link between Gillian Livingstone and Nemor Incorporated meant that Calum’s team potentially had a spy in its midst. Rhino didn’t believe that Natalie was involved as well – he had seen how terrified she had been when she had escaped from Roxton’s clutches – but her mother was privy to all Calum’s secrets.

  The question was, what was he going to tell Calum?

  And what was he going to tell Natalie?

  ‘Comfortable?’ Tara asked Calum as they set off in the car towards Farnborough.

  ‘Not so’s you would notice,’ he said. He and Tara were sitting in the back of the limousine and Tara could see that Calum’s knuckles were white as they clutched at his knees. ‘Cars make me nervous, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The limousine joined one of the main arterial roads that linked the beating heart of London to the rest of the country.