Cold Monsters_No Secrets To Conceal

by Simon J. Townley

  Connor glared at him with eyes like Martian death rays.

  “And the theory is… among the very few people I’ve spoken to about this, the theory is they can decide, should they ever need to, or want to. Or if they got the chance…”

  Connor’s mouth twitched with indecision.

  “They could use it to decide subtle things. Like, who needs to be assassinated when the revolution comes. Who to save when the climate runs riot and the harvests fail and the world is starving. Or when the bombs start to fall, where to find the doctors and engineers, needed to rebuild the whole bloody mess."

  “Sounds eminently practical."

  “If you’re a maniac. Apostle. Funny name."

  Connor’s face twitched every time Tom used the word. His body had gone stiff with tension as though a battle raged inside him.

  Capgras sat forward, elbows on the table. “They think they have the right to choose, to decide life and death. You give someone that power, you know how the world works, you’ve been around politics long enough, and police and the army and petty committees at the local council. You’ve been close to human beings when they get authority over another person. They have to use it. Otherwise, it feels as if they squandered it."

  Connor deflated, like a balloon that’s been popped. He slumped into the chair and looked six inches shorter. And ten years older. “Go away."

  “It’s ripe for being abused. They have a database. Everyone is in it. They give us points, the same way Google ranks a web page. People are graded: get a good score, you go to the safety bunkers. Get a bad one, to the gas chamber. I’m in that database. So are you. And everyone you’ve ever loved. Your whole family."

  “Including my grandson, I hope.”

  “It’s in the hands of the authoritarians. You trust them with it?”

  “Small minded bigots.” Connor spat the words out, like bullets from a sniper’s rifle, each one meant to deliver a fatal payload. “But we can’t stop the buggers. You’ll never beat them Tom. Can’t be done."

  “We shine a light onto the darkness. You taught me that."

  “You shouldn’t have listened. I was wrong. It’s hopeless."

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Connor’s hands were shaking.

  Tom saw the man’s left eyelid twitching. “Tell me.”

  “They picked me up, after your court case."

  “The police?”

  “Secret services, probably, though they never told me who they were. Blackops, I guess. Might have been one of those arm’s length security companies doing the dirty work on the government’s behalf."

  “What did they do?”

  “Threatened my family. Tortured me. Nothing bad."

  “You should have spoken out."

  “You don’t understand. They weren’t normal spooks or police. Much worse. Like criminals or terrorists."

  “I’ve never seen you scared of anything. Or anyone."

  “They threatened to hurt my children. And grandchildren. They had everything. Where they lived, worked, went to school. Who their friends were. Stuff they’d done.” He waived his hands in the air as if trying to swat away the memories and stop them from haunting him.

  “What did they want?”

  “Information. On you."

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing."

  Tom looked at the table, unable to meet his old friend’s eye. “Thank you."

  “But that didn’t please them, of course. Five days I was in there."

  “But they let you go."

  “With more threats. They meant it. Nasty pieces of work. Ex-military or special forces. You know the kind."

  “They’re always the worst."

  “Damaged. Psychopathic.”

  Tom paused, wondering whether to ask. “When they released you…”

  “I didn’t tell them anything. I promise."

  “You never came to see me."

  “I didn’t dare. For your sake. They’d have been watching. Might still be watching. You shouldn’t have come here."

  “I’m a free man. I can go where I like, and so can you. We can’t let them win. Why hide out here? Was it really that bad?”

  “Bad enough. The cancer was worse, and the divorce. All of it together. Needed a change of scenery. I was no good in a newsroom anymore, there was too much rage in my head. I couldn’t write without it spilling out. Stories getting spiked. Editors telling me to take time off. Cool down. I had to walk away. So I burned the bridges and left everything behind."

  “You should have told me. You should have been in touch.”

  “Better this way. Didn’t think you’d come looking."

  “Had to.” Tom paused, looked his friend in the eye once more. “I need your help, remember."

  “Meant what I said. Don’t want to get involved."

  “But I saw your face, when I mentioned Apostle. You’d heard it before."

  Connor stared at the table. His fingers writhed with tension.

  Tom gave him a moment. He hated to pile on the pressure but he needed to know. Connor was one of the few people, in all the world, that he totally trusted. Connor wouldn’t give bullshit. Or lies.

  O'Loughlin pulled his hands apart as though by sheer force of will. He gripped the edge of the table. “I overheard the word."

  “Tell me everything."

  “I owe people their secrecy. You understand that."

  “Introduce me. Contact them. Tell them I want to talk."

  “Can’t do it. Besides, it’s a dead end, that route."

  “There’s something you’re not telling me."

  Connor took a long slow drag of oxygen, filled his lungs and held it in his chest.

  Tom’s fingers tapped on the table top. He noticed the sound, looked down and forced himself to stop. “If you send me away empty-handed, then I’ll be back. I have to get to the truth."

  “Leave it, Tom. Live your life. Get married, for god’s sake. Have kids. Settle down and find a job in PR, or go live in France or Spain and grow oranges. The troubles of the world aren’t your business, or mine."

  “Yes they are. We’re journalists."

  “You’re more than that. You’re a good man Tom. There’s more to life than this."

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m not sticking my neck out on this one, I promise you that. Once I know, for sure, then I’ll drop it."

  “Why?”

  “Someone set me up. Sent me information. Then there’s Albright."

  Connor’s face went blank.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “I don’t read the papers.”

  “He’s dead. Suicide, or so it appeared. I found the body. He asked to see me, to give an interview. He’d been caught with his pants down, girl in her late teens, tabloids having a field day."

  “Nothing changes."

  “He was mixed up in this, somehow."

  “Of course he was. DarkReach."

  Tom sat forward, grasping the table top with both hands, harder than ever. “What do you know about them?”

  “Albright was on the board. Helped set up the company, ten years ago or more."

  “And Apostle? How does the connection work?”

  O'Loughlin sat, silent.

  Tom waited.

  “I forget. Honestly. The cancer drugs, they scramble your memories."

  “Think."

  “Only this,” Connor said. “That they’ve been taking over sensitive projects from the state. All the things ministers don’t want to be accountable for. All the stuff that needs moving away from freedom of information requests. It’s buried, you see? Double indemnity. DarkReach is a private company, not listed on the stock exchange, so it doesn’t have to reveal much. Yet it does state security work, so it gets covered by the whole ‘need-to-know’ blanket."

  “But there’s a link. You put your finger on it straight away."

  Connor breathed in long and deep, sucking the air through
his teeth. “I had a contact, one time, used to help me out when it suited her. Used me, in truth, to further her own agenda. I let it happen because she gave good information, though it was drip fed. All the same, better than nothing."

  “And she mentioned Apostle?”

  “She never told me what it was, only that it was costing too much, other projects were suffering, being mothballed or killed off. Everything was being devoted to this one big thing. And she didn’t trust the people from DarkReach. That’s all she said. At the time, I was working on something else. That was a side issue, so we moved on."

  “But she could tell me more?”

  “She could, yes. But she won’t. Doubt she’ll even see you."

  “You could make an introduction…”

  Connor grimaced. “Nice try. Not a chance."

  “Give me her name at least, where to find her."

  “She’s retired. Gone to ground. And she doesn’t have any blabbermouth grand-kids either, who can be bribed to spill her secrets."

  “Give me anything."

  Connor pulled out a piece of paper and shielded it with his arm while he wrote. He folded it and kept a firm hold of it. “Two conditions."

  “Name them."

  “First, you leave and never return or tell anyone where you found me."

  “That sounds like three already."

  Connor ignored him. “And second, if she tells you to get lost, respect that. Walk. Don’t expose her, or push her around, or come on heavy."

  “I don’t do those things."

  “You’re determined, you always were. A dog with a bone that won’t let go. But she’s an old lady with a lot to lose.” He held out the scrap of paper, but looked ready to snatch it away at any moment.

  “I promise,” Tom said, “on both counts. Though if you ever need help, or just a friend, call me. You’re not alone."

  “I have family, don’t forget. Lovely grandchildren.” He grimaced with a dark humour and handed the paper to Capgras. “Now get out of here. Go. Don’t read it here. Don’t look back. And don’t let anyone see you."

  Capgras slipped it into a pocket of his Belstaff jacket. He nodded his thanks and ducked his head as he passed through the door.

  He scurried to the bike, kicked her into life and hit the open road. Ten miles later he saw a BMW in his rear-view mirror, the rider in full leathers with a metallic blue helmet, keeping its distance, matching his speed, though it could go much faster if it wanted. He’d never win a race against that bike. But it was no race. The rider was trying to stay unnoticed, out of sight, tucking behind cars.

  Capgras cursed his stupidity. He’d been followed and had given away Connor’s location and now he was being tailed home. As he turned a corner, he opened the throttle and accelerated hard. He kept speeding up, even as he approached a hairpin bend, knowing the only things that could shake off that bike would be skill or luck. Or cold blooded murder.

  Chapter 22

  A Trip Up Town

  Emma wanted it all to go away.

  She slumped on the bus seat, staring through the window, listening through headphones to meditation music mixed with a backing track of brainwave entrainment, though the promised state of euphoric relaxation eluded her. She worried, incessantly chewing over her fear. She tried reading, but the words became a blur. What she would give for a fragment of peace of mind.

  She nestled her bag on her knees as she headed into the city. This would be no day trip, no jaunt to visit the sites or go shopping in the swanky stores. She had no money for any of those things, and couldn’t spare the time, what with Ben and his behaviour, and the business with Mark, and her commitments with the group and her work at the health food co-operative.

  What to do about her boy, she wondered, as the bus sped up. He’d had been picking up on her agitation, her fears. She’d tried to talk to him, to explain how everything would be all right, but she heard the doubt in her own voice. Ben wasn’t fooled.

  Emma watched the buildings flash by as the bus jostled and bumped its way towards her appointment with fate. Her chest felt like stone. Hard to breathe. Don’t dwell on that. Stay positive, she urged herself, it might all be over in a few hours, the pressure lifted and her life her own once more.

  She reached her stop and stumbled onto the street, her thoughts racing as she trudged up the steps towards the police station. She waited ten minutes at the desk before anyone came. The policewoman didn’t look at her, told her to sit, said she’d be called. She was no murderer and had done nothing wrong. They attacked her, a mob with fists and feet and riot sticks. She should be making the complaint, demanding justice, not treated as three-day-old shit on the bottom of a copper’s dirty boots.

  Twenty minutes dragged by, staring at the featureless walls. A white guy in his late teens dressed like a fourth-rate rap star jittered around the waiting room as if on speed or meth. Or trying to hide his fear. A woman came in with four kids, yelling at them to sit. She slumped across the plastic chairs and breathed heavily, the air rasping in her throat. She smoked too much. Emma longed to tell her to give up: she’d been drugged and hooked by the tobacco corporations and they were killing her, leaving her children as orphans.

  Emma kept to her seat, said nothing. Don’t look around. Don’t attract attention.

  When they called her name she stood up but her legs almost buckled. A uniformed cop led her into the depths of the station. The custody sergeant told her she was released from bail but was being charged, with such-and-such offences, a blur of them, words flying at her like wailing truncheons, each one of them beating down her hopes. Assaulting a police officer. Rioting. Incitement to something or other. Avoiding arrest. Actual bodily harm. She tried to tell the man that it wasn’t fair and she’d been dragged from the crowd. She was a pacifist. Her boyfriend was to blame. Ex-boyfriend. But the man didn’t care and glared at her with hatred. He gave her a date to appear in court, warned if she didn’t show they’d come and find her and it would be worse. Then he said she was free to go. That was a lie. Not free. Chained by desperation and fear wrapping around her ankles, making it hard to walk. Her hands tied with the prospect of a jail sentence. They’d make an example of her. Why charge her if not?

  Why her?

  How to tell Ben? How would he react? He’d be scared and angry. She didn’t want to do this to the boy. Didn’t they understand? She’d done nothing wrong. She went on a demo to save the world and some bastard threw a brick though god knows why he’d do that, then hell broke loose and she got beaten up by a bunch of blokes with weapons in their hands, and blue uniforms. And for that, she faced a courtroom, and the prospect of prison. Where was the justice?

  Somehow her legs carried her out of the station and she crumpled on the steps, her head in her hands and she cried to herself. Get the tears out now before she got home. She’d have to be strong for Ben, pretend she’d get by and nothing could beat her down. She wanted him to be safe. That mattered more than anything. That, and for everything, all of it, to go away.

  Chapter 23

  Leap Frog

  Tom glanced at the wing mirror. No sign of his pursuer. He leaned hard and swerved off the road onto a narrow country lane. A farm gate on the left-hand side looked like the perfect spot. He stopped the bike, put her on the kickstand but left her running. Then he crouched low to see the main road. Moments later the BMW sped past. He listened to the roar of the engine as it receded into the distance before it slowed and stopped, then surged once more. The guy had turned around. It was all the confirmation Capgras needed. The rider was using a tracker to pinpoint his location. Tom had been bugged.

  He leapt onto the bike and pulled out into the traffic. The BMW shot by in the other direction. Tom accelerated hard, urging the Norton to give every last mile per hour from her fifty-year-old-engine. He wove through the line of cars until he reached a caravan, being towed by a silver Volvo doing all of forty on a trunk road.

  The single carriageway bent and twisted, with a constant
stream of vehicles coming the other way. There was no safe place to pass. He edged the bike out into the middle of the lane and saw miles of clear, empty highway in front.

  He swerved back and forth, avoiding an oncoming bus then edged back out. There was a gap. Not big enough but this was no time for caution. He gunned the throttle, prayed to all those gods he’d neglected, slighted and slandered over the years, and ducked low over the handlebars to reduce the drag. An oncoming tanker blared its horn. The Volvo swerved erratically and its caravan wobbled, threatening to flip over. As Capgras shot through the gap, a blast of air from the tanker buffeted him badly and made the bike sway. He held firm, didn’t panic and got it under control. Now it was the turn of the Volvo driver to blast his horn in anger. Capgras looked in his wing mirror: no damage done. No accident. A lot of fuss over nothing. He kept riding hard, desperate to keep ahead of the BMW long enough to get off these Norfolk roads, into territory where he felt more familiar, where he knew the layout of the land.

  He had a spot in mind for his own little ambush. As he neared it, he slowed the bike, shot a glance behind him at the last moment to make sure the BMW wasn’t in sight and pulled into the side-road. The narrow lane lined with high hedges wound around farm fields and through a village, in front of the church, pub and post office and out the other side. He took a turning to the right which headed uphill, past another farm and a jumble of cottages on a ridge, then into woods. Capgras turned off the metalled road onto a track. He stopped the Norton and checked her over. It was as he thought: no tracking device. Something else, then. It had to be his phone.

  He laid the bike on her side, patting the seat and whispering encouragement, reassuring her he wouldn’t be long. After covering the bike with leaves, he stood back to inspect his handiwork. It would do. He kicked leaves to hide the tyre tracks. As he heard the deep-throated rumble of the BMW he scurried up a muddy path through trees to a spot that overlooked the road, his binoculars in hand.