Cold Monsters_No Secrets To Conceal

by Simon J. Townley

  “Just a moment,” she called out.

  A key turned in the deadlock. The door swung open far enough for him to see her face – grey wispy hair, wrinkles and glasses. A welcoming smile mutated into a grimace of dislike. Or was it fear? She slammed the door.

  Capgras rang the bell once more.

  The letter-box flipped up. “Go away."

  “Miss Carruthers. Barbara. I’d like to talk. My name is…”

  “I’m well aware who you are. Tell Connor I’ll never speak to him again."

  “It wasn’t…”

  “Don’t lie to me, Mr Capgras."

  “Please let me in. It’s important."

  “I can’t be seen with you."

  “No one will learn of this, I promise. I wasn’t followed.”

  Through the door, he heard her snort with derision. “They’re probably filming it as we speak."

  “There’s no law against us meeting. Or talking. This is a free country."

  “I have obligations. And responsibilities,” she said, clipping the words for emphasis. “I have nothing to say, can’t help you, don’t know anything."

  Now he had her. “I haven’t told you what I’m here to discuss. It might be the Brighton and Hove bowls club committee minutes.” Research could come in handy, in the most surprising ways.

  “You’ve been spying on me?”

  The door opened a crack. A more ruthless man would stick his foot in the jam, put his shoulder to it and barge his way through. But she was an old woman, alone in her home and he needed her help freely given. Either she invited him in, or she didn’t. “In truth, I’m not here about the bowls committee…”

  “Of course not, you stupid man."

  “Then you know why?”

  “I can guess."

  He watched her face intently as he dropped his voice to a whisper: “Apostle."

  She flinched, and twitched but then seemed to wilt, or fade, as though her resistance had been a bubble and the word alone enough to burst it. She stepped back, swung the door open. “Five minutes. Then you leave. Promise."

  He promised. Though he was sure he could keep her talking for longer. Get across the threshold and take it from there. It was a skill learnt early in his career, in the days when he had to visit the relatives of the recently deceased, the victims of crime and the wrong-doers whom the newspaper hoped to call to account.

  She led him to a living room decorated with floral curtains and a sofa deep enough to swallow a man whole and never let him leave. “I suppose I should offer you tea, though it’s against my better judgment."

  “Never touch the stuff. Coffee for me."

  “I should have guessed.” She twirled and headed for the kitchen. While she clinked her crockery, Tom’s eyes devoured the room for information. The photos on the walls were recent, elderly friends on walks in the countryside or holding up trophies. Bowling. The pleated skirts were a give-away. A selection of faded black and white photographs on the mantelpiece suggested family archives: parents perhaps, or siblings. There was a thought. Did she have nephews, nieces? Where did they work?

  A bureau stood in one corner of the room, the desk pulled shut. Probably locked. In the kitchen, cups rattled. No time for a search and being discovered prying through her papers would bring a swift end to the interview. Besides, she didn’t seem a woman to keep incriminating secrets in her living room.

  She returned with a tray which she set on the table in front of them. They sat side by side on the sofa while she poured. He sipped his drink. “Excellent. I wasn’t sure you’d have any…”

  “One of my many lovers, when I was younger, introduced me to the art of making exceptional coffee.”

  “He did a good job."

  Barbara Carruthers gave him a meaningful stare over the rim of her glasses. “She, Mr Capgras. She did a wonderful job."

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “You should be apprised of who you’re dealing with. I’m not as frumpy or as old-fashioned as appearances might suggest. I was, at one time, considered worldly-wise. And something of a tearaway."

  “Do they allow that in the civil service?”

  “What they don’t notice doesn’t worry them."

  “I thought they knew everything…”

  “Hah!” She gave him another stare. “Information pools in the corridors of power. It doesn’t flow freely but stagnates, Mr Capgras, stagnates and becomes good for nothing."

  “You lasted a long time…”

  She gave him another old fashioned glare over her glasses. “One doesn’t have to like it. And the only way to change the system is to work within it."

  “You’re not the first to make that mistake. You don’t change the system. The system changes you."

  “That’s always a danger, not confined to the civil service, Mr Capgras. I believe it’s true, even of journalism. Be wary of the stories you pursue. They might change you more than you care to imagine."

  Was she threatening him? Not her style. He decided to try a different tack. “I researched you, but found little of use, not even the department where you worked, or why you should be able to help me."

  “I’m not able to help you, I told you that at the door."

  “But you let me in."

  “You looked cold."

  “I don’t know what I’m dealing with and I didn’t ask for it. Someone dumped this on me. It’s possible I’m being led astray, or into trouble, and I need to find out what’s going on."

  “You think too much,” she told him. “It ties you in knots, trying to second guess what they might do. Or who they are. Or what they want. I can tell you this: they are good people who mean well and work hard to protect this country."

  “Good people can overstep the mark."

  “It’s easy to sit in the wings and carp. Those responsible for security have to act in the real world."

  “But Apostle… what is it?” Her face twitched as he used the word as though a gun had gone off. “I’m guessing you don’t approve."

  She paused. He waited. Their eyes met. She looked away, shook her head. She was fighting a battle in there, he recognised the signs.

  “It’s not the programme itself,” she said, “more, what it might become."

  He leaned forward. “Who knows about Apostle? How far up does it go?”

  Her mouth quivered. Was that a smile or a smirk? Under those wrinkles, it was hard to tell. “Do you have any idea the budget it needed? The programmes and projects that were scrapped?”

  “So it goes all the way? But how long back?”

  Her hands shook as she put her teacup onto the tray. “I never had the security clearance.”

  “Did you know James Albright?”

  “Naturally…”

  “I mean personally."

  “Only through work. What are you suggesting?”

  She seemed genuinely outraged. “Nothing improper, I assure you…”

  “His tastes run to younger women. Or they did."

  “He’s connected to Apostle."

  “Of course he is."

  “He wanted to see me, before he died."

  “Don’t bring me into all that."

  “What about…” He paused. Was this going too far? “Does the name DarkReach mean anything to you?”

  Her mouth puckered into a scowl. Her eyes seemed to sink bank into her shrivelled face. “You should go now. You should never have come. Don’t return, ever."

  “You said you’d help me."

  “I did not."

  “You let me in."

  “Common politeness, but these questions have gone too far."

  So DarkReach was too far. He’d learnt something: she was afraid. “Help me. I need proof. Or clues. Where do I turn next? Give me a name, anything."

  “I can’t. I won’t. Get out of my house. What was I thinking? A man like you. You’ve been to prison."

  “That was a fix up."

  “Prisons are full of innocent people, from wh
at I hear. Now please go. And don’t contact me again.” She braced her arms against the sofa and pushed herself to her feet, groaning with the effort. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police."

  “That would be a fantastically stupid thing to do."

  “I am friends with the local bobbies. They’ll be here very quickly if I summon them, I assure you of that."

  Tom got up, eyes scouring the room. There was nothing here that amounted to useful information. He needed a breakthrough. “Can I contact you?”

  “Certainly not.” She glared at him, parroting his words: “That would be a fantastically stupid thing to do.” She seemed pleased with her own performance. “Out. We agreed five minutes. You’ve been here too long."

  She crossed the living room, heading down the hall. He had little choice but to follow. As he reached the front door, he put out a hand and stopped her from opening it. “There’s something wrong, with Apostle, DarkReach, all of it. I don’t understand. But Albright was concerned, and he’s not alone. Others have contacted me. I’ve been sent materials. But I need a name, a direction. This story needs real proof or it’s nothing. I have to get deep into it."

  “Be careful what you wish for.” She took hold of his hand and moved it off the latch. She pulled the door open with the determination of a frail old lady who won’t stand any nonsense. “Are you religious, Mr Capgras?”

  “Not exactly."

  She shoved him through. “Every hair on your head is counted.” She paused, licked her lips as though savouring the irony of the words. “Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man."

  “Revelations?”

  She peered at him over her glasses. “We will never meet again. A man may give you a parcel. You might believe it’s from me. You’ll be wrong about that, understand?”

  He nodded. Did he understand? She’d either made a promise, crossed her Rubicon and rejoined the fight. Or she’d given him the best lie he’d ever been hit with, purely to be rid of him. There was no choice: wait and see what happened. The door clicked shut as he walked away. When he reached the garden gate, he turned to look back. He thought he saw her watching him through a window. A shadow moved, and she was gone.

  Chapter 29

  Conclave

  Sir Leo Fulton-Rhodes, parked in a lay-by off the main road from Corsham to Chippenham, hidden from the traffic by a raised bank and a line of trees, was listening to the second act of The Magic Flute . As the engine of a motorbike approached, he turned off the music, watching in the rear view mirror as it pulled in behind him. It was followed, moments later, by a silver Vauxhall saloon.

  Sir Leo gestured for them to join him. Owen Naylor and Rob Shepherd took up position on the back seat of the Jag.

  “Report,” Sir Leo said, not bothering to look around, though he adjusted the mirror to observe their eyes.

  “Capgras knows he’s being tailed. He’s taking precautions…” Naylor said.

  Sir Leo raised a hand, demanding silence. “You mean you lost him? Repeatedly?”

  “He’s good…”

  “You’re paid to be better. Don’t let it happen again. Keep on him. Does he have the material?”

  “Unknown at this time,” Naylor said. “Should we go in, carry out a search?”

  “Not yet. Shepherd? Any news? Has your insider found it?”

  “He reports Capgras is clean, on this occasion."

  “Sure of that?”

  “He says so."

  Shepherd was lying. Sir Leo glared at the mirror. “You mean he’s found nothing. How close is he?”

  “Almost family."

  “Talking of which, the sister. What’s happening with her?”

  “Matters are proceeding as planned,” Shepherd said. “She’ll be within our reach shortly. Once we control her, Capgras will do as he’s told. This is the best way…”

  Naylor shuffled in his seat, clearly ruffled by Shepherd’s overconfidence.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “I say we eliminate the problem."

  Sir Leo shook his head sadly at the young man’s folly. “You must learn patience, Owen. Capgras might be useful to us. And if he is to be dealt with, then it should be subtle. Destroy him, don’t kill him."

  “The sister is all the leverage we require,” Shepherd said. “I’m certain of it."

  “When?”

  “Next week. The date is set."

  “It’s all arranged?”

  “A formality."

  “And she’ll be transferred…?”

  “To our facility,” Shepherd said.

  “She must be detained indefinitely, for the plan to be effective."

  “Our people will see to that."

  Sir Leo frowned. “It all seems… overly complicated."

  “An insurance policy,” Shepherd said. “Other options remain open, should they be needed."

  “And the other matters?”

  Sir Leo listened, though his thoughts wandered, as Shepherd delivered reports on a variety of DarkReach projects, plans and people who were kept under close surveillance. “Good, that’s all.” He waved a hand, dismissing Shepherd. “Owen, a moment."

  He waited for Shepherd to get out and walk away. “Owen, I want you to keep an eye on our friend there. He’s up to something. Do you know anything?”

  “Only that his inside man has gone missing. He’s not with the girl anymore. No one’s seen him for weeks."

  “I thought as much. Shepherd’s agents are not reliable."

  “We should…”

  “No. Please, that is not the answer to everything."

  “I was going to suggest, sir, that we bring the agent in, for a debrief. We are still paying him."

  “Shepherd wouldn’t take kindly to that."

  “Whatever you think best, sir. He is your employee after all."

  “Point taken, Owen. Find the inside man. That would be a start. And don’t let Tom Capgras fool you again."

  Naylor blathered his consent, talking too much. Sir Leo waved him away, turned the Mozart on and started the engine. As he pulled out into the traffic, the car behind squawked its horn at him. He slowed down, trying to annoy the man more and grinned to himself as he watched the driver’s impotent rage in his rear-view mirror.

  Chapter 30

  A Man Goes To See His Wife

  Detective Constable Mark Waterstone sat at a table outside a café in central London, waiting for his wife to pass by.

  She was late. He scraped the stubble on his chin with the palm of his hand. Had he got something wrong? She wouldn’t jet off on holiday without letting him know. She’d tell him where the kids were staying, if nothing else. He was about to get up, make for her office, ask to speak to her, when finally she appeared out of the crowd, heading towards him. She reached him, passed by. “Helen?”

  She stopped, turned, and recognition, then annoyance flashed across her face. “Oh. It’s you. What are you doing?”

  “Waiting to see you."

  “It’s not a good time."

  “We need to talk."

  “I’m on my break. What’s it about?”

  “Us."

  “Us?”

  “Sit down. Please. Join me."

  She glanced up and down the street as though terrified someone might notice her here, talking to this hippie. “You look like a drug dealer."

  “I’m supposed to, it’s my job, remember. Or it was."

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sit down. Please."

  She eased herself warily into a chair, her bag on her lap clutched with both hands, ready to defend herself.

  “I’m leaving the force, I’ve had enough. Can’t do it anymore."

  “What about the children…”

  “I’ll get another job.” Technically, he already had one, but that wasn’t something he intended to mention right now. And besides, his employment prospects with DarkReach were spiralling down the pan as fast as his police c
areer.

  “The mortgage. The school fees. We need the money."

  “I want us to be a family again."

  She stared at him, her eyes empty and cold.

  “That is, if you’d like… I can come home. Be there, for the kids. For you. I won’t have to live a false life anymore."

  “I don’t think…”

  “Give me a chance."

  “You’re a stranger.” Her lips quivered. “I don’t recognise you any more. You’re not the man I married. And I know about the women."

  “There’s no one, believe me.” That was the easiest lie of all. His relationship with Emma had hit the rocks and was sinking fast. There might be a spark left in it, yet, but it would take a while to rekindle. In the meantime… “I love you.” He gazed into her eyes.

  “I don’t want you in the house, or around the children. Not looking like that…”

  “This is a disguise. I’ll change it, soon enough. We can have our life back."

  “What about work?”

  “Something will come up."

  “What do we live on? My salary I suppose. Lucky for you.” She shuffled her bag. “Who is she?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you’ve been living with."

  “There’s no one."

  “Liar."

  “Trust me."

  “No. I don’t think so. No."

  “Helen, you’re my wife. Don’t forget that."

  “You forgot it, long ago. We haven’t lived like that… not for years. I won’t, can’t, don’t want you back."

  “We can fix this, that’s what people do. They work at their marriages."

  “Ours is over. You betrayed me.” Her nostrils flared with anger.

  “You owe me a second chance."

  “I owe you nothing.” She pushed her chair away from the table, preparing to leave. “I have work."

  “This is more important."

  “Stay away from me, and the children."

  “You can’t do that."

  “I can. I will. And I want to sell the house."

  “Why?”

  “Move back to Ireland."

  “What’s in Ireland?”

  “Family. My mother, sisters. I’m sick of being alone."

  “You won’t be, not any more. I’ll be there."