Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  Toni listened as those present debated various options – from blanket denial through to full public disclosure. Things became heated, with one or two people more interested in finding someone to blame rather than thinking about the consequences should the news become public. She kept quiet, all the while thinking about the repercussions for her career, her ambitions.

  Finally, a decision was made. They would recommend the cause of death be attributed to food poisoning. The Director agreed he would take the proposal to the Prime Minister.

  As the meeting broke up, Dave Batey walked across to her. ‘My office, please Toni.’

  She followed him silently along the corridors until his door closed behind them.

  ‘Sit.’ It was an order, not an invitation.

  ‘Right,’ he continued. ‘Continuing where we left off before the meeting, you won’t be surprised to learn I’ve been checking on your movements.’

  Gone was the friendly supervisor who had warned her to think before she spoke. She listened attentively as he explained that, at first, he had presumed the visit to McGlinty was genuine. Then he had checked Toni’s work diary, only to discover that the prison visit wasn’t mentioned. That left him with two possibilities. Either she had forged her diary or the visitor wasn’t her. CCTV records from the prison had allayed his suspicions.

  She was not the killer.

  Batey’s orders came fast and furious. She was not to talk to anyone about the murder, not even colleagues. She was to keep him informed of her movements at all times and, inside of three days, she was to compile a thorough list of her movements and meetings over the last six months.

  It was a mammoth task but she understood why. Somehow, somewhere, somebody had got hold of both her name and a copy of her identity pass.

  Batey also gave her a warning: this breach of security could mean her future as an MI5 officer was compromised. She had already worked that out for herself.

  As a dejected Toni Fellowes headed back to the street, she was surprised to find the Director waiting in the foyer. She half smiled a greeting.

  ‘Do you have a minute, Miss Fellowes?’ The Director indicated for her to accompany him.

  Refusal was out of the question, so, shoulders hunched, Toni followed him along the nearby corridor and up the stairs to his office. He shut the door behind her.

  ‘Please sit down and make yourself comfortable, Fellowes.’

  It was only the second time Toni had been in the Director’s office. The other occasion had been her first day with the department. The room looked exactly the same – comfortable, but not ostentatious.

  ‘I thought it appropriate that you should attend that meeting, Fellowes. Nasty business about your pass. Do you have any idea how it may have happened?’

  Toni was embarrassed. ‘I don’t … I’m really very sorry.’

  The Director sat down opposite her and smiled. ‘Look … Fellowes. I’ll be straight with you here. Right now I’m sure you’re thinking this could spell the end of your career.’

  Toni lowered her gaze for a moment. As she went to speak, the Director raised his hand to silence her.

  ‘Hear me out, Toni. I want you to know that your work here hasn’t gone unnoticed. It’s why your name was put forward to do the closing report on the Hastings operation. Once this furore has blown over, I think you would do well to apply for a Section Head position. Your boss, Mr Batey, is due to retire fairly soon. I can see you being an ideal replacement for him.’

  Toni was stunned. She had fully expected to be given her marching orders.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ she answered.

  ‘Nothing you haven’t earned. I’m sure this business with your security pass can be resolved satisfactorily. Just make sure that you give Batey all the information he needs. In the meantime, I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Anything, sir.’

  The Director smiled. ‘Nothing too onerous, believe me. Just keep me fully up to date with the progress of the Hastings enquiry, particularly if it takes you anywhere interesting.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Very good … bad business, the way that Monaghan behaved. Could have caused a lot of bad press.’

  ‘The way that Monaghan behaved?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry … I presumed you knew. It will be in his file, no doubt … something about a personal vendetta. I had a request from MI6 for you to be allowed access and I thought you’d already seen it. I’m sure it will answer any questions you have.’

  The Director handed Toni a small business card. She could see there was a handwritten email address on it. ‘That’s my private, secure email, Toni. Feel free to use it.’

  ‘I will … and thanks. Thanks a lot.’

  Toni was in the process of leaving when a final question occurred to her. ‘Do you mind if I ask what you think will happen over the McGlinty death?’ she asked.

  The Director smiled. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about it. I’ll be recommending to the Prime Minister that it be kept under wraps. And I don’t think McGlinty is going to be missed.’

  As Toni headed back to New Scotland Yard, she reflected on the unexpected conversation that had just taken place. She was curious why the Director should be so interested in monitoring her progress, but, such was her relief she still had a job, she wasn’t going to question it. The offer was a lifeline, an opportunity to get noticed.

  She would make sure he was rewarded for his faith in her.

  Chapter 37

  Monday morning journeys into London are the worst. I didn’t enjoy the tube, even on the rare days that it was quiet. The number of people milling about left me feeling distinctly uneasy. Often I would find my eyes darting from one person to another, trying to make a quick assessment of any threat. It wasn’t logical – common sense told me that – but I still found myself doing it.

  Emerging from the train at Victoria, I had a choice as to whether to change trains and head for St James’s Park station or make the tenminute walk along Victoria Street to New Scotland Yard. I chose the walk and the fresher air.

  I was halfway to my destination when my phone buzzed.

  It was Kevin. He got straight to the point. ‘Did you see the Sunday papers?’

  ‘No. I haven’t so much as turned a television on since we got home from the airport. Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘McGlinty’s dead.’

  It was like a bolt from the blue. I stopped walking, much to the annoyance of the frenzied commuters bustling along the pavement.

  I ducked into a doorway as Kevin explained. From what he understood, the papers were saying the Irishman had died in the prison hospital at Belmarsh. The cause of death was yet to be determined, but it was being reported as food poisoning. The conspiracy theorists were having a field day with stories of IRA hit squads sent to silence him and ideas on what kind of poisons could have been put into his food to make him die so suddenly.

  To Kevin it was a loose end tied up and I was inclined to agree. If McGlinty had suffered an unexpected end that saved the price of a trial, it was not going to cause us any loss of sleep.

  ‘One other thing,’ Kevin continued, ‘I’ve had Gayle Bridges on the phone over the weekend.’

  Gayle was Bob Bridges’ widow. I hadn’t seen her since the funeral, after Bob had been killed in the Marylebone bombing. I had tried to contact her, but she had moved home.

  ‘How did she get your number?’

  ‘She tried you over the weekend but you were away. So she phoned Hereford. They gave her my number. She wants to talk to you.’

  I had asked the Police Pensions Branch to forward my number to Gayle. It seemed the message must have got through. ‘Did she say what about?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s just been going through Bob’s stuff. She found some papers she thinks we should see. Plus a Browning nine mill, some mags and rounds … she wants us to get rid of it all for her.’

  ‘How much ammunition?’

  ‘She didn’t say. I ge
t the impression that as soon as she found it she froze and decided to contact us.’

  I paused for a moment. There was a woman standing just within earshot, lighting a cigarette. I waited until she walked away, before continuing. ‘Did you get her address?’

  ‘Yep, want me to text it to you?’

  ‘Do that. And get her contact number as well, could you? I’ll call her when I get into the office. Heard any more about Beaky’s book?’

  ‘Shit hit the fan,’ Kevin laughed. ‘The BBC showed an interview they’d recorded with him. They set him up, poor bastard. Anyway, the upshot is people think the whole book is bollocks and that Beaky made it up. The CIA are off the hook for now.’

  ‘I still think the Agency will be looking to have a little word with him.’

  ‘Too bloody right, boss. To be fair to him, it wasn’t a bad book, just too many wild stories mixed in with the truth.’

  I had to pause again as yet another commuter came close to where I stood in the doorway. With the coast clear, we agreed to head over to see Gayle Bridges in the next couple of days, and that the Browning would best be taken into Hereford so it could be discreetly disposed of.

  Returning the phone to my pocket, I headed towards Broadway and the entrance to New Scotland Yard.

  Chapter 38

  ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’ Toni slammed the copy of Cyclone back onto her desk. ‘Who put this here? Is this your idea of a joke, Nell?’

  The target of Toni’s anger sat impassively as she answered. ‘It wasn’t meant as a joke. I thought it was yours.’

  Toni hesitated for a moment, realising immediately she had overreacted. Heart racing, fists clenched, she realised she was spoiling for a fight. Nell didn’t deserve to be the recipient of her wrath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, finally. ‘I’m just having a bit of a bad day.’

  Stuart popped his head around the doorpost of the tea room. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

  Toni faked a smile. ‘Not our finest hour, Stuart.’

  ‘The TV appearance of Chas Collins, you mean?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Err … nothing. But … well, it was a closely kept secret … even in the BBC. Nobody knew Collins was going to do a recording with them.’

  ‘That’s what you may think, Stuart. Most people in the service will say we’re a bloody laughing stock.’

  ‘If it’s so important we get to speak to him, why didn’t we have him picked up as he came through immigration at the airport?’

  ‘You imagine I didn’t think of that? He must have used a ferry or something. God … if anyone else tells me how to do my job better, I swear…’

  Stuart ducked back into the tea room and then re-emerged carrying a mug of tea in each hand. He placed the first in front of Nell before handing the second one to Toni.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said. ‘I was also under investigation during my last couple of weeks in the Met. Things have a way of working out.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Toni, realising word had spread. ‘Don’t tell me you both know about that as well?’

  Stuart returned, sheepishly, to his desk, Nell didn’t react. For several minutes, they continued to work in complete silence. Finally, Toni stood up and reached for her coat.

  ‘I’m going out for some fresh air,’ she announced.

  In the downstairs foyer, she walked through a small contingent of press photographers who were waiting for the Met Press Officer and a statement from the Commissioner. The news of McGlinty’s death had broken on the TV news channels that morning and the late editions of the national papers would, no doubt, be running the story as well. The journalists were digging. They sensed there was more to the death than had been released through the Downing Street press office. Nobody seemed to be prepared to accept a notorious terrorist could die from food poisoning.

  She was feeling frustrated and, generally, hacked off. Her future lay with the investigation Dave Batey had started. If he concluded she was an operational risk then she may well find herself redundant. At the very least, it meant her idea of a move to MI6 would be in jeopardy, however well her unexpected meeting with the Director had gone.

  When she returned, Nell and Stuart were busy at their workstations. Thanks to Howard Green providing the necessary clearance, they were both working on the Monaghan enquiry. From their subdued conversation, it sounded like Nell was bringing their new addition up to speed on how far she had progressed.

  Stuart looked up and offered to deal with the Monaghan personal effects. An email detailing where and how they could carry out an examination had arrived the previous evening. Things were moving along nicely and getting Stuart to do the leg-work would take the pressure off. She agreed; having him out of the office for the remainder of the day would also give her a chance to talk to Nell.

  At Toni’s insistence, Nell made some tweaks to the checks they had in place to search media references for Chas Collins. Her researcher had also been embarrassed to discover the author had slipped through the net, but she reacted positively, with a promise it wouldn’t happen again. The next time the author appeared in public, Toni would know about it in advance, and the opportunity to ask him some important questions would be secured.

  Nell reported that Stuart had been doing some digging of his own. Not only that, he was starting to unearth some strange quirks in the Monaghan enquiry. Having succeeded in persuading the police forensic laboratory to allow him access to Monaghan’s briefcase, he had discovered the deceased MI5 officer seemed to have had two other former soldiers in his sights. Two further slim folders contained files on an Iain Blackwood and a Brian McNeil. Both were ex-Special Forces soldiers from the same era as Finlay and Jones. Neither were mentioned in the SO13 Operation Hastings report and, when Stuart had checked with the Met Personnel Office, they were not listed as police officers, either serving or retired.

  Aware the Hastings report had concluded Monaghan was behind the attacks on former SAS soldiers, motivated by revenge after he discovered they had been having affairs with his wife, Nell explained that Stuart had checked military records. He discovered there was remarkably little information on either man. She had told him to keep digging. They needed to know why the files on Blackwood and McNeil hadn’t been subject to any follow-up enquiry by the Anti-Terrorist Squad.

  Nell had also checked on the names. Blackwood was listed as a mercenary, killed recently in a suicide bombing in India. McNeil was reported to be a private security contractor working in Iraq. It was her suggestion that, if Monaghan had also been responsible for Blackwood’s death, then McNeil, if he was still alive, could possibly have been another target.

  It was when Nell was about to switch off her computer and head home that she stumbled upon a connection between the dead former soldiers that none of them had anticipated.

  She had a name for it. Synchronicity.

  Chapter 39

  Nina was curious to hear about the Romanian wedding.

  She wanted to know how I’d coped with all the drinking and dancing that was involved. I laughed her jokes off, most of which were directed at my age. Nina thought such events were better suited to the young, it seemed.

  Matt had been doing a little research and had put together some facts and figures on girls reported missing from UK cities. There were very few foreign girls listed as missing persons but, when he had extended his search to include Europe, the list became much larger. Going back several years, the reports ran into thousands. Girls just seemed to disappear from their home villages, never to be seen again.

  It was the exact scenario the NATO investigator, Irena Senovac, had alluded to in her reports to the UN. A huge trade in women, most of whom had been forced into the sex trade and some of whom were ending up in London.

  Nina was planning to take some photos of missing girls to Relia Stanga, the rescued slave, later that morning to see if she could pick out anyone she knew. She asked me to join her and offered to drive.

  Unfortunately fo
r me, I hadn’t heard about her reputation or I would have declined the offer. She liked to drive fast, and she was also heavy on the brakes and intolerant of all the ‘wankers’ that got in her way. Luckily for me, the only car that had been available from the motor pool was a former flying-squad Volvo that had seen better days. It was reliable, but lacked the acceleration Nina craved.

  By the time we reached Hampstead, I was feeling queasy. Maybe my system still hadn’t recovered from the weekend. For once, I actually felt grateful for a traffic queue. The main road from Belsize Park into Hampstead High Street was bumper to bumper. Nina was quiet as she concentrated on her driving. I wound down the window to the passenger door and gulped in the fresh air.

  Nina explained that it was still undecided whether Relia would be provided with safe passage home or if an attempt would be made for her to be granted asylum. The paperwork was complicated but Nina was certain that if Relia went home to what remained of her family, she would be recaptured by the slavers and would either be murdered for talking to the British police or sold back into the sex industry.

  The safe house was a flat in a block called Redhill, at the top end of the High Street, close to the tube station. It was privately owned but council funded. There were several in the area that were normally reserved for the victims of domestic violence, but, with good contacts in the Camden Social Services Department, Nina had been able to secure her witness a place.

  Relia was at number 43, on the third floor. Nina pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no response.

  ‘I only spoke to her last night,’ she said. ‘What’s the time, Finlay?’ She looked a little annoyed as she buzzed the flat twice more.

  ‘Five to twelve. Maybe she’s popped out?’

  ‘She doesn’t tend to go out in daylight. She’s paranoid that someone she knows will recognise her and tell the slavers where she is.’

  I could see Nina was starting to get frustrated. A concerned look was registering on her face. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Try the concierge buzzer,’ I said.