Shepherd (he refused to think of the man as ‘Dad,’) insisted Ben persevere with his lessons, until they found a ‘suitable’ place. He had mentioned a private boarding establishment in Wiltshire, which sounded impossibly far away. It would cost absurd amounts of money, and Ben would have to wear a uniform. The other boys, and it was a school for boys only, would doubtless all be posh, rich and arrogant. And Ben didn’t want to go. He wanted to be home with his mother. Failing that, he wished to be free. And he had a plan.
Earlier that morning, Ben had overheard a phone call. Shepherd mentioned a meeting at one o’clock today. There was a chance, a possibility, a hope, that at last he would be left alone – trusted to behave and not to run away.
Shepherd has been bustling around the house for the past half hour, getting things and putting them in a briefcase. He’d changed out of his chinos and polo shirt into a suit and tie, even though it was Sunday and he wasn’t supposed to be working. Whenever he passed the kitchen doorway he peeked inside. Ben scribbled furiously as if engrossed in his homework.
Shepherd clattered down the stairs. He put on shoes, then a coat. Ben noted every clue. Shepherd appeared once more in the doorway. “Son?”
Don’t respond.
“Ben?”
He looked up.
“I have to go out, won’t be long. Don’t leave the house, you promise?”
Ben nodded. Teachers said it was wrong to lie. His grannie agreed. Ben remained unconvinced. It was wrong to hurt people, to cheat and steal, to harm animals and damage trees. And to put his mother in prison. Lots of things were wrong. Lying to this man was necessary.
“If you get hungry, there’s bread and stuff."
“Can I watch television?”
“If you finish your homework. Don’t go out. I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down."
Ben scribbled on his piece of paper. Shepherd sighed and jangled his keys as he moved along the hallway. As the front door clicked shut Ben sprang into action. He charged upstairs and gathered the few belongings Shepherd’s men had recovered from the hippie camp. They hadn’t returned his penknife or the compass or the book on how to live off foraged food. Or the books on philosophy and eastern religions. He’d been allowed to keep his phone, though. Ben had pleaded, insisting it held important school stuff, notes and photos for a wildlife project. In the end, Shepherd relented. He was a fool.
Ben stuffed his best things into his ruck-sack and slung the straps over his shoulders. It was heavier than he would have liked. He would be walking, maybe running, for many hours each day. He had no money for trains and buses and wouldn’t dare to stand by the road hitching. He sat on the floor in the kitchen and tied the laces of his gore-tex shoes.
He paused at the back door, checked his pockets. Phone, small change taken from the bowl Shepherd kept in the hallway, torch, and a knife from the kitchen. His clothes were in the rucksack. He had left his homework behind and anything given to him by Shepherd. He peered outside. No sign of anyone watching. Did they trust him? Or was this a trap? A test? Only one way to find out. He walked to the end of the lawn and stopped, looking around at the neighbouring houses, listening intently. Satisfied, he clambered over the fence into the next-door garden, ran down a path by the side of a house and out onto a cul-de-sac. He strode along the pavement, heading for the big wide world and the open road.
Chapter 62
Under Observation
Sitting in a car was too obvious. Even with blackened windows, Shepherd would notice. The man lived on a leafy cul-de-sac of middle class homes. He had probably clocked every vehicle that parked there and would spot anything out of place. Waterstone wasn’t about to let his old boss turn the tables. He needed to observe the house without being seen, and in comfort too. So he resorted to breaking and entering.
In black jeans and a jacket with a balaclava covering his face, he climbed the back fence of a neighbour’s garden and dropped to the ground. He used a crowbar to remove the frame of a downstairs window. It took less than five minutes to lever it out and lift it down onto the grass. He jumped inside, opened the door, then lifted the window frame into place once more. He’d fix it right later, he told himself. It didn’t look so bad. Draughty, but he’d cope.
He carried out a swift reconnaissance in the gloom, not turning on lights until sure there was no one here. He’d done his research: the family at number six had flown to Ibiza for a two-week holiday so he would have the place to himself and was looking forward to a warm night in a comfortable bed. He checked the freezer: plenty of food. And at least a month’s worth of booze in the cupboards. He would live like a king.
The master bedroom overlooked the road and gave a direct view of Shepherd’s front door. He knew enough about his former boss to form a good idea of his movements. Shepherd’s wife, sick of the infidelity, had left him six years before and she took the children with her. They were grown now and at university. Shepherd lived alone. That’s explained this crazy notion to build a new family around Ben. As for the rest of the household, Mark had heard the rumours about Shepherd’s quest for a Thai wife. Several had been trialled, two had even been brought to the UK, but none had been deemed suitable.
He examined each of the windows. There were no lights on, no sign of movement and no car in the driveway. One o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Where would Shepherd be?
A figure moved across an upstairs window. Did he imagine that? Maybe. Was Ben there? He might be alone. Though it was tempting to go grab him and get this whole thing over with, what if Shepherd was there, or some of his men? After twenty minutes with no more signs of movement he put down his binoculars and set off in search of entertainment. He found a radio in the cupboard under the stairs and took it to the bedroom, tuned in the sports channel and let time drift by.
After another hour of waiting, a silver Vauxhall saloon pulled into the driveway. Shepherd got out, carrying a briefcase and wearing a suit and tie. It was unlike him to work on the weekend. Shepherd’s car beeped as the man locked it. He opened his front door and disappeared inside. Lights came on across the house. Shepherd appeared in first one room, then the next, as though looking for something – or someone. Moments later he emerged at the front, a phone clutched to the side of his face. Shepherd leapt into his car and drove off. Now what? Mark cursed his lack of planning. He needed backup. Capgras should have been here to help – one of them could have followed Shepherd while the other watched the house. He’d have to take a risk.
He walked straight across the road towards Shepherd’s house. The side-gate was locked. Damn the man and his security. He scrambled over and tried the back door. Unlocked, no alarm. Shepherd must have left Ben alone in the house and by the time he came back the boy was gone.
Ben had done a runner. Good for him. Mark slipped inside. Time to make sure. He called Ben’s name but received no answer. Upstairs, the floor of the second bedroom was littered with clothes, books and computer games – the general detritus of a young kid. He picked up a school notebook. It was Ben’s handwriting. The boy had been here. Now he was gone. But how far would he get with Shepherd on his tail?
Waterstone headed downstairs and out the front door. He strolled over to number six, nice and casual, inconspicuous, then took up his post in the upstairs bedroom. Shepherd would have called on all his resources to find Ben – DarkReach agents, trained police officers most of them, at his beck and call, along with the surveillance capabilities of GCHQ. He could find anyone in five minutes flat. Any normal person, for sure. But Ben wasn’t normal. What would he do? Where would he go? Even for an eleven-year-old, he was erratic and unpredictable.
Darkness had fallen by the time three cars turned into the driveway. Shepherd dragged a boy off the back seat and led him inside, in handcuffs. Did they have no humanity? Was this how he intended to win the his trust? Some way to rebuild a family. After half an hour, a group of men emerged, with Ben. Shepherd put two suitcases in the boot of his car. He was moving out, taking the boy somewher
e more secure. Where? Waterstone sprinted down the stairs and out of the back door, vaulted over fences and ran to his car, parked three streets away behind lock-up garages. He pulled out onto the main road just in time. Shepherd’s car was up ahead, accelerating fast. Waterstone jabbed hard at the pedal, overtook a bus that was between him and his prey, and locked on his sights. No time to call for help. He’d do this himself.
Chapter 63
In Captivity
Ben woke, his thoughts muddled, still half in a dream. Memories flooded back. He was in his father’s car. But not his father. A man who called himself his father. A man who had hurt his mother and would always be Ben’s enemy.
They had caught him at the train station as he waited for the sixteen-ten to Waterloo. He’d used up the money he took from Shepherd’s house to buy the ticket and thought he would make it. But sitting on the bench, waiting for the departure, men appeared, surrounding him. He tried to run, but they were bigger and faster. Shepherd had been there, full of fury.
Ben, lying on the back seat, threw the blanket back and peered through the blackened windows, hoping to see a road-sign. The car moved slowly, turning corners, stopping for junctions. They had left the motorway and had been driving for three hours so they must be a long way from London. A long way from home.
They approached a roundabout. The road-sign mentioned Calne and Corsham, Chippenham and Swindon. They were in Wiltshire. Why? “Is this your home?”
“It will be, soon,” Shepherd said. “I’ll be moving out here, sell the old place. That’ll take time. We’ll be living on the base for now, so you’ll have to behave."
It sounded like an airfield. “What kind of base?”
“There’s not much to see from above ground.”
“Will I be going to school?”
“Not until I can trust you."
“I don’t live with you. I have my own home. My own family."
“I’m your father. That’s special."
“Not to me,” Ben muttered.
The car turned off the main highway. Five minutes later they entered a village, most of it square, modern houses, with gardens crushed into wooden boxes. Shepherd steered around another corner, into a side-road with a set of metal gates at the far end. A man on guard held out a hand, ordering them to stop. He peered through the driver’s window. He wore a uniform but he was no policeman, nor soldier. Shepherd showed ID, and the guard examined it, spoke to someone on a radio, then waved the car through.
Shepherd wound up his window. “You’re inside now. This place is secure. Don’t try breaking out, you won’t get away."
“Is this a prison?”
“It’s a facility."
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind."
“But I have to live here?”
“Yes."
“I don’t have any choice?”
“You shouldn’t have run away."
“You were coming here anyway. This isn’t because I ran off. You said…”
“Shut up, all right? Just shut up.” Shepherd thumped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Don’t argue with me, Ben. Stop doing that. You’ve got a lot to learn."
Ben didn’t answer back. Not this time. But for once, he agreed – to escape from this place, and the clutches of this man, then he had much to learn. And he would learn it fast and well and take it all to heart.
Chapter 64
Bland Assurances
Capgras woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He flapped an arm from under the duvet and flailed with his fingers. He grabbed it, answered.
“Tom, it’s Jon Attwood, news-desk. Got a job for you."
He checked the time – seven in the morning. Why was the graveyard-shift deputy news editor calling him at this hour? “I’m kinda busy."
“Thought you’d want to hear about this one. It involves DarkReach. Fitzgerald asked me to keep an ear out, call you if anything came up."
Tom swung his legs out of bed. “Tell me more."
“Joint press conference involving COBRA, MoD, GCHQ and DarkReach called for ten this morning. Just arrived. Real last minute stuff. An announcement on government plans, changes to protocols.”
“Send me the details, I’ll be there."
Ten minutes later he was heading into central London on his Norton. He detoured to the offices of The Monitor and spent an hour researching home office prisons, the new privatised options, and in particular those run by DarkReach.
The company had the contracts to operate three jails in the southeast of the UK. Only one of them was a women’s prison. They would move her to the unit at Littlewick, halfway between High Wycombe and Reading. The journey would take a couple of hours. That was their only chance. But first, he had to find out when it would happen. And then figure out how, in this day and age, to intercept a prison van.
By the time he arrived at Marsham Street, headquarters of the Home Office, the room was overflowing with reporters, camera crews and snappers. Across the hall stood Angie Gossage, flirting with a young journalist from the BBC. Was she lining up a new career move or merely her next conquest? She flashed a defiant smile, and turned her back. Just as well. The sight of her made his blood boil, but not in a good way.
He headed for the front. All the seats were taken, so he fetched a chair and put it down on the end of the row. A civil service flunkie tried to move him, but Capgras scowled and the kid soon gave up. Tom settled down with pen and notebook in hand, watching as the stage filled with the great and the good of the British security establishment.
The news was dire: GCHQ was overwhelmed by the need to keep track of dissidents, trouble-makers and external threats. They required more resources, more people, more expertise. This would be provided by the private sector – a first for the British government. Finally, even the security services were to be outsourced. One day maybe the government would be privatised. Or perhaps it already had been, long ago, quietly and with little fuss.
Who would provide this support for GCHQ? Its existing partner and provider, DarkReach. Until now, the journalists were told, the company had provided logistical support such as guards on buildings and back-office administration, whatever that meant. But now they would take over the mundane, day-to-day tasks. What would that include, Tom wondered, the surveillance of internet traffic and telephone calls? The Apostle programme, perhaps?
“A true synergy,” the minister pronounced. “Private sector operatives working alongside GCHQ agents."
When the man had said his fill, Sir Leo Fulton-Rhodes took the stand and talked about how proud his company would be to step into the breach at this crucial hour in their island story. There was plenty of other sub-Churchilian rhetoric, with a dose of Shakespearian sceptred isles throw in for good measure. The usual nonsense.
The questions came thick and fast from the floor – about security and privacy and safety measures, all batted away with bland assurances. This was a done deal with no going back and no stopping it. Why the press conference? To show the world that the government was taking action, and it meant business.
Sir Leo appeared far too pleased with himself. Not only would he be rolling in tax-payers’ money, but he’d have all the power of the security services at his fingertips, along with his private mercenary force which Capgras felt confident would soon be deployed alongside the British army, or the police. Or both. Or to replace them. Was there anything that couldn’t be privatised?
Tom, however, asked no questions. He longed to use the word ‘Apostle’ – to ask who would be charge of the life and death decisions. But this wasn’t the time or place to spill his exclusive, or break the injunctions, or destroy Emma’s last hope of getting out of prison.
He held his tongue, sat and watched, aware that Sir Leo kept glancing his way. The man, for all his bluster and self-assurance, seemed nervous. Did he fear what Tom could do, with all that data? Possibly. Apostle would be a revelation, for sure. But in the present climate, it wouldn’t bring d
own the government or even knock it off course. That called for proof of real wrong-doing, of crimes committed. Who killed Albright? Who murdered Izzy Huxley? That was the evidence Capgras needed. And he still didn’t have it.
The questions petered out into trivialities, such as costs and ministerial oversight. No one bothered to ask what GCHQ thought of all this – did they approve? What about the blue collar guys down in the boiler-rooms? How did they feel about having their jobs outsourced? Or finding that their cushy public sector contract just became a private sector nightmare? Did they want to work for Sir Leo? Had anyone asked? The assembled reporters failed to raise the question and Capgras kept the thought to himself.
Once the questions dried up the TV crews jostled for priority to do their interviews. The minister slicked his hair and prepared for his close up. Sir Leo, however, waived them away. He caught Tom’s eye and gestured towards a side door. He put a protective arm around his shoulder, as though they were buddies about to discuss old times. “We need to talk.”
Sir Leo led him to a meeting room with a table and eight chairs. They sat opposite each other with no heavies, bodyguards or hired assassins on hand. “Thank you, for your restraint out there."
Capgras regretted passing up the chance to inflict damage on Sir Leo. But there were bigger battles to fight before this was done.
“Now then, our little arrangement. You’ve had your time. I need an answer. This dead man’s handle of yours is a sword hanging over us like a loaded gun. Put an end to all that, stop making threats."
Tom studiously ignored the mixed metaphors. “I talk to my sister. Only then do we discuss deals."
“She will call you Wednesday, around five in the afternoon on your mobile. Please have it turned on."
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