Cold Monsters_No Secrets To Conceal

by Simon J. Townley

  “Did you love him?”

  A pause. Prolonged. “No."

  “What about the other man, the one you knew as Rob Jarsdel, who turns out to be Bob Shepherd, another policeman? How did you feel, when you heard?” The cliché question: how did you feel? He was embarrassed to ask it but it had to be done.

  “Angry,” she said. “And ashamed, for being such a fool. And… abused. As though I’d been raped by the state.They used me, my body, they’ve changed my whole life."

  Tom braced himself. He knew the answer, but had to pose the question, anyway. “How old were you, the first time, with Rob Jarsdel?”

  “Fifteen."

  “When you had sex?”

  “Yes."

  “How old was he?”

  “He said he was twenty-six. That might have been a lie, like everything else."

  “That didn’t bother you?”

  “I was young, foolish. And rebellious. And he understood so much about the world and was involved in the environmental movements. He had a way with words."

  “He wrote the pamphlet? The one you circulated, about McTavey Foods. That company is suing you for libel. But the policeman, Bob Lambert, was behind it?”

  “Yes."

  “Should be made to answer for that?”

  “And for the rest of it."

  “So he was getting people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise have done?”

  “I guess so."

  “Did he encourage you to break the law?”

  “Lots of times. He bought me weed, and drinks in pubs when I was too young.”

  “Did Mark Waterstone ever buy drugs for you?”

  “Yes."

  “Did he influence you, or others, to commit offences?”

  She detailed a dozen different times Mark had made the protest plans and found ways for them to trespass or end up in a confrontation which got them arrested.

  Tom asked the questions to which he knew the answers, getting it all on tape for the editorial team, to put their minds at rest, and for the lawyers, so they had their evidence. He led her through the events of her life, picking over the controversies and revealing the lies and the crimes carried out by officers of the law. She cried by the time he was done, though he kept at it, ever the professional, knowing she understood why, and that this represented her best chance of beating the injustice. The gaze of the public and politicians must be turned towards this corruption. Because, without doubt, the powers that moved in the shadows had orchestrated all of this. And it wasn’t just about her. It was aimed at him.

  He let her go and urged her to sleep. As he hung up, he wondered, for a moment, what he had become, churning over every detail of his sister’s love life for the sake of a story. But as he began to type, the act of moulding and shaping the article absorbed him, taking his mind off the realities as he obsessed over the details. He worked half in a dream until he realised Jon Fitzgerald stood behind his chair, reading over his shoulder.

  “Strong stuff. We have today’s photo of Emma? And Ben?”

  “Leave the boy out of it."

  “Just her?”

  “She was photographed, coming out of court."

  “Set something up at home."

  “She’s had enough."

  “Tom…”

  “I said enough."

  Fitzgerald put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “She’ll beat this. It’s a miscarriage of justice, everyone can see it."

  “They nobbled the magistrate. They’ll nobble the appeals court as well."

  “No one can do that. It would be insanity to try.”

  “That depends who you are. How much power you have."

  “You’re getting carried away Tom. She’s your sister, you love her, but she’s not important in the scheme of things."

  “Don’t be so sure. This is all connected.” Capgras turned around to face his news-editor, his mentor, his friend. “It’s connected to Albright.”

  Fitzgerald’s expression flashed a mix of bafflement and disbelief.

  Tom gestured to the nearby chair. “Have a seat. We need to talk. There’s something I haven’t told you."

  Chapter 41

  Dead Man's Handle

  Tom paused, giving Fitzgerald time to take in the tale. He’d told him about the package dumped on his doorstep months before with a data disk and a note that mentioned ‘Apostle.’ He explained how two experts had looked at the algorithm and come to the same conclusions though he omitted any names. And he revealed how he met Connor O'Loughlin. Fitzgerald’s eyes lit up at mention of the name. He sat forward as Capgras related everything that happened at that meeting on the Norfolk Broads, and the single, solitary lead that Connor had given him: the identity of a woman who might help.

  “I tracked her down, never mind where. She didn’t seem the type for all this cloak and dagger stuff but she must have contacts among powerful people because she came through. I’m sure it’s from her.” Capgras pulled out the bundle of print-outs from his own GCHQ file. “They monitor everywhere I’ve been. Every call made."

  “That’s no surprise, with your record. They collect this data on everyone. Nothing new there."

  “But it’s being used. That’s new. Apostle isn’t a project in development, not an idea for something they might do, one day. It exists, and is live. They can run the algorithm to generate a score. Make a decision."

  “Such as?”

  “Life or death."

  “Sounds a but melodramatic, Tom.”

  Capgras handed him the print-out of the PowerPoint presentation. “This is an overview of the project, an internal document."

  “We shouldn’t have this…”

  “Or any of it. They’ve kept Apostle secret for years. Why? What are they hiding?”

  “You and I might think that suspicious, but this is secret service stuff we’re dealing with. They keep things under wraps. The clue is in the name."

  “The funding that’s gone into this suggests they’re planning something immense but I can’t be sure what."

  “Contingency. They can always argue that. And Governments have to make hard decisions at times."

  “Behind closed doors? And who decides what criteria to count? Who has the right to say ‘this one lives but that one dies’? Who has the wisdom?”

  “Isn’t that the point? That’s why they get a computer to do it. It’s fair, you’ve got to admit."

  “Depends on how it’s programmed."

  “I’m playing Devil’s advocate here, Tom. It’s not cut and dried that this is evil."

  “No. But it’s news. Everyone will want to check how they score, to find out what the government would do with them if there was a plague, or a war, or the climate collapses. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Hate to think what they’d do with the likes of you and me, Tom. But left-wing hacks can’t claim to be key workers. Better to save the doctors and nurses, all things considered."

  “What about the civil servants? The land owners? Members of the House of Lords? Would you save them?”

  “Would Apostle?”

  “Who can tell. But we have a right to determine how and when and if it gets used. That’s how democracy works: the people get a say."

  Fitzgerald smirked at him: “There are those who would accuse you of being idealistic, even naïve. That’s not how this country is run. Never has been. And I still don’t see the connection to Albright.”

  “He was killed because of Apostle and because he was connected to DarkReach. He’s a shareholder, one of the founders. He’d have insight into everything they were doing. They’re behind all of this, somehow, I’m sure of it. Connor insisted he wouldn’t help me. Only when I named DarkReach did that change. Only then did he find a way to help. That’s when he gave me the name of the woman who’d been his informant. She was being helpful, at first. Polite at least. But as soon as I mentioned that company, her face changed, her demeanour too. She ordered me out of the house. It hit a nerve."

  “But sh
e sent you the parcel? Is DarkReach mentioned?”

  “No, but look at this.” Tom held up the paper with his score. “A random nine digit number, starts with zero and I’m guessing they all do. Sixty-four million and then some. But here: there’s a date. The twelfth of September last year. Then again this year in January, a higher number. Gone up into sixty-five million. And again, two weeks ago. Sixty-seven million.”

  “UK population figure,” Fitzgerald said. “If they start at the top, eight zeroes and one would be, who? The reigning monarch? Prime Minister? You’re a long way down the list, Tom. Don’t fancy your chances when the apocalypse hits.”

  “If they can do it for me, they can do it for everyone. They have a score. Bottom five per cent, that’s me. What do you think that means, when the revolution comes, or the government gets the jitters, or a dictator takes over? They’ve already identified who to eliminate, who to jail, who to round up.."

  “The usual suspects, tagged and marked and bagged,” Fitzgerald said. “Scary as all hell, but impressive at the same time."

  Tom waved sheets of paper. “There’s other code as well, who knows what it means. Could be anything. This one’s a subversive but not violent, maybe. Or ‘question this one before you kill him.’ God alone knows how sophisticated this might be.”

  Fitzgerald swung his feet off the desk. “I’m beginning to wish you’d never told me any of this. Who else has seen it?”

  “No one. This arrived today while I was at the courthouse."

  Jon hunched over in his chair, his face in his hands and his finger massaging his forehead. “The chances of us getting this in the paper are slim to none.”

  “Agreed, but I wanted you to be aware, because it relates to Emma. The editor deserves to be told, at the least."

  “I’m not looking forward to that. Let’s just run the story straight, don’t tie in any of this. It’s an injustice, but don’t speculate why. We’ll see what happens. She hasn’t been sentenced, she’s still free. And a judge might overturn it."

  A judge might. Emma could walk away from all of this unscathed, apart from the emotional torment and the humiliation, the knowledge that she’d been raped by officers of the law, one of whom was Ben’s father. “I’m going to mention the libel case, it came out in court."

  “Absolutely,” Jon said. “Embarrass the Met as much as you can. But nothing about Albright for now, or magistrates being nobbled. Or doomsday algorithms.” He gestured to the paperwork. “What’s happening to all this?”

  “You’ll get a message, when the time is right."

  “You’re putting it someone secure? Not in a desk, not in here, not in this office. Please, tell me it won’t stay here. When you leave tonight, take this with you."

  “Don’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson."

  Fitzgerald left him to tidy up the copy for the Emma backgrounder. Once he was done, Tom headed for the scanner in the bowels of the building and set the paperwork to go through. The machine was fast, automated, and capable of doing an optical character recognition on the spot. The only concern was the data trail left on the newspaper’s servers. A chance he would have to take.

  Tom transferred the scans to his own laptop then returned to the office, typed up a series of articles on Apostle, on Albright, but most of all, about his own file and what it revealed, how it picked apart a life with cold precision. From writing about his sister earlier in the day, now he wrote about himself, endlessly, revealing the secrets and the embarrassments, hinting at the betrayals, the womanising, the drinking, the drugs. He laid the facts bare for all to see, no longer locked in the vaults of GCHQ. This is what they had the power to do to my life, he told the world. What might they do to yours?

  One o’clock, two, three, four o’clock rolled around and still he worked, long after the last of the editors and subs had slipped away into the night.

  He logged into the journalism service he used, based in the wilds of central America, and uploaded his articles, his scans, his evidence and data, all of it set to be broadcast to every news organisation that mattered a damn. All the UK TV, radio and newspapers, most of the US and European media. Websites and campaigners, human rights bodies, anyone and everyone. It would go live, at midnight - tonight and every night unless he pressed a button to halt it. A dead man’s handle: if anything happened to Tom Capgras, if he were arrested, or killed, or inconvenienced, if he got badly drunk and hung over, or if he simply forgot, then everything he had on Apostle would be sent out into the world to fend for itself, burning bridges as it went.

  He finished up, closed his laptop, yawned once, extravagantly, and put his head down on the desk, for a moment, a quick doze he told himself, long enough to bring himself around. But he woke to sharp claws scrabbling through his hair.

  Chapter 42

  Assignation

  Capgras lurched out of his dreams as the fingers scraped across his scalp. Supple, feminine arms curled around his chest and the softness of a woman’s tresses tickled his face. He sat up in the office chair where he had slept, and Angie Gossage pressed her cheek against his: “Hello stranger. You didn’t call.” She pecked his temple.

  He stopped himself from wincing at the smack of lipstick. Don’t wipe it yet, not while she’s looking. “Hi Angie, sorry, been busy. What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock. You been here long?”

  Too long: all night. He should have been to Emma’s, to show willing and be there before the morning papers arrived. Before Ben had to go to school.

  Angie tried to massage his shoulders. Tom’s upper torso went stiff with embarrassment. His eyes scoured the room, terrified that friends and colleagues would witness this scene. Angie, standing behind his chair, bent over and pressed her face against his once more. “Sorry to hear about your sister. How is the family doing? How does Emma feel?”

  What did she care? Genuine sympathy? Like hell. Never tell a journo anything. There’s no such thing as an innocent question, not in this business. “She’ll cope."

  “And the boy? How is Ben? What did he say when he learnt about his father?”

  Change the subject, fast. “I should be going. Slept at the desk. I need a shower."

  “Want help?”

  Her breasts pressed against his shoulder. He needed an escape hatch. He and Angie were not going to become an item. He should tell her straight. Her arms held him like a pair of pythons fighting over a meal. He tried to push his chair back, but she didn’t move. “Nice idea, but I’ve got to see Emma."

  “Oooh, I might come with you."

  Angie and Emma in the same room? There would be bloodshed. And as for Ruby… “She needs space. No more journalists."

  “Only you?”

  “I’m family."

  “Well, I am too. Almost."

  She’d be asking to meet his parents next. “Seriously, she wants peace and quiet."

  “I’d be useful, looking after Ben. I’m good with kids, you’d be surprised."

  She was right: he would be surprised. And Angie Gossage was not getting anywhere near Ben Capgras. “He’ll be fine. He’s probably at school."

  “I hope they don’t tease him."

  No way to stop it. Childhood years were lawless and wild. Tom wriggled free of her embrace. She put her fist on his pile of papers. “What’s all this? Something to do with Emma?”

  He moved her away with a subtle body-block and retrieved his file before she had chance to turn a page. She wasn’t getting to his family, and she wasn’t getting near Apostle.

  “Tom, I don’t think you trust me."

  “With a story?”

  “Oh, we’re beyond all that."

  It was one drunken night. And part of the next morning, admittedly. But it didn’t mean they were soulmates about to share every secret. Besides, she was lousy at keeping secrets: that’s why the tabloid put her in charge of the gossip column. He grabbed his laptop and bundled it into his messenger bag, which bulged at the seams. “Great to see you. Must be going."<
br />
  She laid her hand on his cheek. “We should get together soon. Take me out to dinner. I’m sure you know all the best restaurants."

  “I don’t eat out much, to be honest. Don’t find the time.” He didn’t have the money was the truth of it.

  “You should make time for good food. And company. I know a Thai place. How about tonight? I’m not working tomorrow.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. He’d not seen it done with such a flourish before outside of a Betty Boop cartoon. “Out of the question. Lot of catching up to do. And Emma needs my support."

  “I read your piece on her in the paper today. Quite the scoop."

  “She is my sister."

  “I’m sure there’s more to tell, about those relationships. She might open up more, to a woman. She trusts you, but sometimes it’s girl talk that counts."

  “Emma’s not the type…”

  “You want the whole story to yourself. I can’t blame you. But you’d better call me, or I’ll be cross. I’ll suspect you’re trying to avoid me."

  Here was his chance. Say something. Let her down lightly, but let her down, all the way down, so she knew this was done and over. A false start. Tell her now while she’s staring in your eyes. “Yes, I will. Honest. It’s just… once things settle down. I’m working on something."

  “Something big? I’m sure it is.” She gave him another of those sultry looks.

  Was that an innuendo? He ignored it. “I’ll be in touch. Sometime…”

  “I’ll be waiting. You have my number.” She ran a hand down his arm and pressed herself against him, her breasts squashed against his chest as she feathered a kiss onto his lips.

  Looking over her shoulder, Tom made out at least a dozen reporters and sub-editors pretending not to spy on them. There’d be no end of ribbing for this one. Did she imagine, for one insane moment, they could make a couple? “Soon, I promise."

  He headed for the lifts, but when he glanced over his shoulder she still stood in the same spot, feasting her eyes on him, like a starved hawk. She blew him a kiss. He didn’t blow one back. Not a chance. He waved, turned and was gone, rushing for the relative fresh air of London’s streets. They might stink of diesel fumes and chip packets, but at least that would shift the pong of Angie’s perfume out of his nostrils.