Cold Monsters_No Secrets To Conceal

by Simon J. Townley

  On the other hand, there was no place to hide. Everywhere you stood or sat or walked, you could be seen. Most of the desks were in open-plan offices. Even the private rooms were mostly glass, and the blinds gave little privacy. It shouldn't be a concern. He'd done nothing wrong. All the same, goofing off, practicing your putting on the office carpet, surfing the web for sports results, or porn, or gadgets to buy - all these things could be observed by others and it put him on edge.

  The light on his desk-phone flashed at him. He hadn't heard it ring though the settings were beyond him. Far too complex and controlled through a PC. Why couldn't they put a button on the damn thing? He picked up and the receptionist from downstairs, (an attractive young brunette in her late twenties, he had noted), announced there was someone here to see him: detective constable Waterstone. Should she show him up?

  "I'll meet him at the lift."

  She purred a thank you and he cursed himself for not having the wit to go to the lobby. It would have been a good chance to get her talking. Then again, Waterstone was always taking mental notes. Shepherd sensed him doing it and it annoyed him. The man needed to learn his place.

  Shepherd lurched from his chair and headed for the lift. He paused to flirt with the redhead who had arrived as a new employee only weeks earlier. He asked how she was settling in but she appeared flustered, busy and distracted, refusing to make eye contact. Probably shy. Or playing hard to get.

  He arrived at the lifts as the door was opening. Waterstone strode out and nodded a greeting. His pony tail, tattoos and traveller-chic were not only incongruous in a place like this, but a positive embarrassment.

  “You could have tidied yourself up, man. This is a professional environment."

  “I work here, technically,” Waterstone said. “They pay my salary, at least. And I have to be careful. The hippies are onto me. They might be watching."

  “They didn’t follow you here? My god…."

  “I’m not a fool."

  “Well, you’re here now. Though why? Unannounced? No phone call?”

  “I needed to speak to you, in person. It’s important."

  “I’m busy, make it quick."

  Shepherd led him the long way around, keeping a good distance from the young ladies he was eager to impress. Back in his office, he told Waterstone to take a chair. “I don’t like people stepping out of character, not unless it’s for essential home visits or debriefs."

  “The group I’m watching confronted me after the demo."

  “And the girl?”

  “I’ve been keeping away from her. Things are tense."

  “This is not a proper relationship. You’re there to work. Don’t give me ‘tense.’ I don’t care about ‘tense.’ Get the job done. How’s it going with her brother?”

  “She’s been charged."

  “Who?”

  “Emma. Just her, no one else. Why?”

  “I have no power…”

  “Yes, you do. You get us off, every time."

  “That’s different. Emma is a civilian. If she goes on these illegal demonstrations…”

  “Are you behind this?”

  How dare he make accusations? “I’m your superior officer.”

  “That’s kind of a grey area, isn’t it, when we’re paid by a corporation?”

  “The chain of command still holds. Don’t forget that, or you’ll find you’re not being remunerated by anyone. Now, the brother?”

  “He knows nothing."

  “That sounds a little vague."

  “I have to get the charges dropped. I can’t go back in there as things stand. She’s angry, won’t speak to me. She blames me and she has a point. I told you it would mess up everything but you wouldn’t listen."

  “That was an important assignment. Don’t question your orders again, not if you want to remain in my programme."

  “I’ll have to start over, find a new group in a different part of town. But word spreads. They talk to each other. They meet up on demos. And once they become suspicious they don’t let go."

  “They love a conspiracy. How’s the boy?”

  “If Emma goes to jail, I promise you…” Waterstone’s words trailed off into a mumble.

  “If she’s charged, she’ll face the courts. She might get off, you never know."

  “You did this. Why?”

  Shepherd leaned back in his chair and turned to stare out the window. “When – if – you ever reach a senior command position, you will come to understand that sometimes sacrifices must be made."

  “For what? It’s wrecked everything. If you want me close to the brother, sort this out. I can’t do anything until it’s dropped. I promised her…”

  “That was foolish."

  “Please."

  “No."

  “Why? Is it the boy?”

  Shepherd glared at Waterstone. “Don’t question my orders or motives."

  Waterstone stormed out without another word. He was on a visitor pass and shouldn’t be allowed to roam, but he would cause no harm. And there might be a bonus to it: Shepherd decided to pop downstairs to the lobby in a few minutes, check everything was all right. Maybe chat a little, to the oh-so attractive brunette. Find out more about her. He smiled to himself, and lurched, once more, out of his padded leather office chair.

  Chapter 21

  A Change Of Scenery

  The trailer blocked his view of the road ahead. He had to get past it. Capgras edged out to take a look. Not far to the next bend but the Norton had enough power to make it. He snicked the old girl down to second gear and grabbed a handful of throttle. The bike shot forward and was soon alongside the tractor. He changed up to third but instead of the usual tug on the wrists as the bike accelerated he found her slowing as the revs shot into the red zone. Tom snapped the throttle shut and grabbed the front brake. Emergency stop at that speed was a delicate operation. Too heavy on the rear brake pedal and the rear wheel would lock up and break away. Too heavy on the front and the rear wheel would lift and swing around.

  He was still alongside the trailer when a truck came around the bend towards him. The driver flashed his lights. Capgras gripped the brake hard, balancing the machine through instinct and force of will. With only feet to spare, Tom tucked in behind the trailer. As it pulled away, he eased the pressure on the brakes and looked down the road ahead. He saw a lay-by, coasted into it and stopped inches from the hedge, still grasping the handlebars. For a moment, he sat astride the bike, his mouth dry, letting a shiver run through him. That had been close. The tension drained from his body and he puffed out his cheeks.

  He turned his head as he heard a bike approaching from behind. A modern BMW raced by, an R 1200 GS. Tom knew the bike, a friend of his had one and they had tried racing each other, but Tom’s old Norton was sorely outpaced and he lost badly every time. The rider on the beemer wore racing leathers and a metallic blue helmet. He glanced towards Capgras and continued on his way. So much for the brotherhood of bikers.

  Tom pulled the Norton onto its centre stand. “Well old girl, you pick your times to protest. What have I done to deserve this?” Talking to the bike was a habit he’d picked up from his father. Over time, it had become second nature and helped him focus during running repairs.

  He examined the rear wheel. “Your chain’s in place, no damage to the gearbox. That leaves the clutch and primary drive.”

  Prising off the cover, he put a finger through to check the chain tension. He probed around with his finger. The chain wasn’t there. “Looks like, I’ve been neglecting you.” And he’d pay the price for that. A hundred miles from home, a dozen or more to the nearest garage. “Oh well, time to get my hands dirty.”

  Twenty minutes later he had the chain case removed and was busy removing the broken link from the primary chain. Experience had taught him to always carry a spring link for repairs but this was the first time he’d had to use it on the primary chain. If he’d only checked the tension when the juddering started, he wouldn’t be in
this position.

  Another bike approached from the other direction. Another BMW. Or the same one, heading back? Capgras nodded at the rider but the man revved and roared away.

  He had lost an hour by the time he’d got everything back together and had no oil to replenish the chain case but if he took it easy, she should make to the next garage.

  He rolled her off the stand and glanced over his shoulder. There was no traffic but something glinted in the distance. He revved three times for luck and eased her into gear, saying a prayer to a wide range of gods, goddesses and semi-mythical deities, none of whom he believed in. Either the prayers worked, or the repair had held because the juddering was gone and the bike rode smooth and true. He accelerated gently, easing her up into second and then third gear. She seemed as good as new. He took her up to fourth and settled for a speed hovering around the fifty mark, unwilling to go faster until he got some oil in there.

  Passing the town of Acle he resisted the temptation to call in at a garage and get the bike inspected. He would lose too much time. Take a chance. Trust the repair. But he stopped for oil at the service station, filled up the tank for good measure, and patted the Norton affectionately on the seat before setting off once more.

  Ten minutes later he arrived at the village of Stokesby, a sleepy hamlet of scattered houses, a smattering of shops, a pub, and a motley collection of boats moored on the river.

  Tom parked outside the post office and chained her up, then strolled down to the waterside.

  The skin around his neck and shoulders tingled. He sensed eyes, watching him. That was nonsense, but should he trust the intuition? He examined the moorings. There, a houseboat, painted green and gold, down the riverbank, beyond all the others, where few people would pass by. And where anyone approaching could be clearly seen. A bearded man stood at the rear, trying to appear nonchalant. A sure giveaway. Tom strolled closer. He was looking forward to seeing his old mentor, though he was almost unrecognisable. The scraggy beard was new, and it hid most of his face. The eyes were concealed behind reactions lenses and he had aged. How long had it been? Three years? More? It felt like a lifetime. But their last meeting had been brief, and hurried, held as Capgras headed for the courtroom to hear the verdict read out: guilty. And then prison. He had expected Connor to visit, but the call never came. And by the time Tom was released, O'Loughlin had gone AWOL. Friends said he'd done a bunk, run off and abandoned all journalistic endeavours. He refused to answer calls or letters. His email addresses no longer worked, or sent back automated replies telling people to go away. He dropped off the face of the planet as far as friends and family and public awareness were concerned.

  For an old and trusted friend, O'Loughlin had been a hard man to find.

  Tom held up a hand in greeting. Connor watched, impassive. He bent over to pick up something. For a moment, Capgras thought it might be a gun, or a megaphone. But he lifted a cup to his lips and sipped as Tom scrambled down the grassy bank towards the houseboat.

  "You took a deal of finding."

  "You always were stubborn," Connor said. “Never did know when to give up. Or leave a guy alone."

  "We were friends, last time I checked."

  "I've given up on friends. They're not worth the bother."

  "Live alone, I take it."

  "I've got a cat. That's all I need."

  When Tom saw Connor last he had a wife, children, a house in London. An Alsatian that chewed the furniture. A mortgage to pay off. He surveyed the boat, weighing up how to get aboard. He leapt across the narrow gap and grasped the handrail, then hauled himself over.

  "I hope you weren't followed."

  Capgras thrust out a palm. "You seem a little... paranoid."

  Connor ignored Tom’s proffered hand and turned away. “Best go inside. Never can tell who's watching."

  Tom surveyed the scene. No windows overlooked the wooden jetty. There were no homes, no buildings in sight. No spy cameras. No people loitering, pretending to be going about their business. He ducked low as he went through the doorway. "Cosy place. What brought you here?"

  "It's remote." Connor moved to a small table in the cramped room of the narrowboat. He pulled a fold-up seat out of a cupboard, flipped it open and set it down for Tom. Then he sat in what appeared to be the only solid, comfortable chair.

  "You don't like visitors then?"

  "Not as a rule."

  "You were sociable enough, back in the day. Long evenings in the pub. Attending meetings, going to the football."

  "Can't stand crowds these days."

  "Any reason why?"

  "None I care to discuss. What brings you here?"

  "A social call." Tom kept a straight face as best he could. "I'm doing the rounds, looking up former friends."

  "Why?"

  "Because I haven't seen you. Not since before..."

  "How did that go?"

  A vision of the prison cell where he endured five months of hell flashed across Tom's mind. "It ended."

  "Bad as that? Truth this time. Why are you here?"

  "I need your help."

  "Of course you do. What kind?”

  "Information. Advice. Guidance."

  "I'm short on all three."

  "There’s a political investigation..."

  "I'm not interested."

  Tom gripped his hands together, kneading his knuckles. “Our kind of story."

  “The sort that got you put away? No thanks."

  When Tom studied journalism, Connor had been a visiting lecturer. He had wangled Capgras his first big break on the national papers and groomed him to be an investigative reporter, specialising in secrets the state doesn't want its people to know. "What happened to the campaigning journalist? The fearless investigator?"

  Connor refused to meet his gaze, preferring to stare through the cabin windows at the water outside. "I don't have the strength for it any more. Or the contacts. Or the time."

  "What happened?"

  "All of it," Connor’s voice sounded weary. "The full catastrophe: divorce, a failed affair, career going nowhere. Savings up in smoke. Cancer."

  A beat of silence passed between the two men.

  Tom put a hand flat on the table. "How's that?"

  "In abeyance. Sort of." Connor glanced towards the galley. "Guess I should offer you something, as you've come all this way."

  "Coffee would do fine."

  "Got dregs at the back of the cupboard, I guess. Given the stuff up, myself."

  "You were a twelve cups a day man."

  "Had a health overhaul. Cancer will do that to you."

  Capgras nodded, wondering how much more to ask – cancer was a broad brush stroke. How was his friend faring, behind the gruff exterior? Not too good, Tom reckoned. He seemed beat up inside.

  Connor sparked a match, lit a gas stove and set a kettle on the ring. He pulled packets and boxes out of a cramped cupboard, swearing as he did an inventory of his supplies. "Ah, thought there was some. Instant all right?”

  It would have to be. "I asked around when I was trying to find you. People were concerned, hadn't heard from you in so long. You took off, without saying goodbye. They worry."

  "Tell them not to."

  "Anything else? Like hello? Or when you're coming back?"

  Connor turned and scowled. "I'm never going back. They won't see me again. Send my best wishes. But don't tell them where to find me. How did you track me down, anyway?"

  "Long story."

  "Let’s hear it then."

  "So you can plug the leaks?"

  "Something like that. You didn't use that contact of yours. The feller in GCHQ? Please, say you didn't."

  “Not a chance. I've got Doug in enough trouble already. In the end it was your grandson that gave you away. I begged and pleaded, and told him it was for your own good, that I was coming to help you out and bring you back to the world."

  "He believed that? Bullshit. You bribed him."

  "Fifty quid."

 
"Fucking hell. Sold out by my own kin for fifty bloody pounds. How old is he now?"

  "Nineteen. Bit of a tearaway."

  "He's not spending it on drugs, I hope."

  "Women, more likely, by the look of things."

  "Well give him my thanks," Connor said, the sarcasm ladled on thick.

  The kettle screeched as the water came to the boil. Connor made a green tea for himself and a thin coffee for Capgras.

  “Boat keeps you busy?”

  “Sitting around keeps me busy, watching sunlight on the ripples. Or the way the light changes in the trees, as the wind blows through the leaves. That kind of thing. Didn’t do enough of it when I was younger. Wasted my time chasing news stories, earning money. Making a name for myself. Having a family. Bullshit, all of it. Stare at nature, Tom. That’s what life is for, take my word for it.” He sipped his green tea while looking over the rim of the cup and keeping his eyes fixed on Capgras.

  “If it makes you happy.” Tom gripped the cup. The coffee tasted terrible but at least the water was hot. It would warm his hands after that long ride. “So, this story I’m working on…”

  “Doesn’t interest me.”

  “I need to get it straight, even if it never goes public. Put my mind at rest. You could help me out."

  “Like I said, I’m out of the game. Sorry."

  “So the government…”

  Connor stuck his fingers in his ears. “La, la, la, la, la, can’t hear you,” he sang, in a childish refrain.

  “They have this project running, involving big data…”

  “More bloody conspiracy tittle tattle. It doesn’t matter."

  “Collecting information on everyone…”

  “Old news. Everybody knows that."

  “From all over the internet. Phones, email, banking. Health records. You name it. Everything, all in one database…”

  “So far, so boring,” Connor chanted.

  “They can search that database, run an algorithm on it. They can use it to make the big decisions…” Tom paused, waiting for Connor to come back at him again. Nothing happened. “They call it Apostle…”