by Jim Eldridge
‘Maybe they couldn’t be sure,’ said Jake. ‘They see people pass me by while I’m standing there, and for all they know someone had slipped something to me. A book. A piece of paper.’
Lauren shook her head.
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘No idea,’ admitted Jake. ‘It could be any of the people we’ve come across since we started. Pierce Randall. MI5. The Watchers. Or maybe it’s somebody completely new.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, for the moment we can forget about them. The only thing we know is they’ve got my bag.’
‘Yes, but when they find out it’s just got a bar of chocolate and a packet of nuts and a bottle of water, maybe they’ll come after you again,’ suggested Lauren.
‘Good point,’ muttered Jake. ‘Once we get into the flat, we’ll lock all the doors firmly and barricade ourselves in for the evening.’
‘Do I get to choose which DVD we watch?’ asked Lauren with a smile. ‘Nothing too scary, I promise.’
Jake grinned.
‘Sorry, I know I’m starting to get paranoid,’ he said.
‘It’s only a bag,’ stressed Lauren. ‘We’ve been in a lot worse situations and come out of them OK.’
As they neared their small block of flats they were still joking about some of the life-threatening situations they’d been in, when suddenly Jake stopped in his tracks and any smile on his face vanished.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lauren.
‘Two men waiting outside our block,’ he muttered.
Lauren followed his look, and gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘I think we’d better go,’ she murmured.
‘Good idea,’ said Jake.
He turned, and as he did so he found a large man standing in his way. A tall thin woman was beside the man. Both were holding out what appeared to be police warrant cards.
‘Mr Jacob Wells? I’m Inspector Bullen from the CID. This is Detective Sergeant Aziz.’
Automatically, Jake stepped back, prepared to run, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men from his block of flats hurrying towards them. Inspector Bullen was still speaking, and as his words registered, Jake felt his mouth open in shock.
‘I am arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Alexander Munro . . .’
‘Munro!’ Jake echoed. ‘What?’
‘You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say may be taken down and may be used as evidence,’ continued Bullen. With that, he turned to the two men, who had now arrived. ‘Handcuff Mr Wells and put him in the car.’
‘No!’ yelled Jake. ‘I didn’t do anything!’
As the two men took hold of Jake and handcuffed him, Lauren demanded, ‘Where are you taking him? I’m his girlfriend and I’ll be contacting his legal representative, so I insist on knowing where you are taking him.’
‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Bullen. ‘That depends.’
They’re not real policemen, thought Jake with alarm. If they were, they’d name the station they’re taking me to.
‘Phone Gareth,’ Jake said to Lauren. ‘Tell him what’s happened.’
‘I need to know where you are taking him,’ persisted Lauren doggedly.
‘We’re taking him to Holloway Road station,’ said Bullen, ‘but the chances are we’ll be moving him on for questioning. If you give me your phone number, we’ll contact you as soon as we know which station Mr Wells is being held at.’
‘Phone Gareth!’ repeated Jake urgently.
‘Who is Gareth?’ asked Bullen.
‘You’ll soon find out,’ said Jake.
And let’s hope I’m not exaggerating, thought Jake. Gareth Findlay-Weston, Jake’s boss at the Department of Science and a covert section head of MI5, had pulled strings on Jake’s behalf before. As the police officers pushed the handcuffed Jake into the back of the police car, Jake prayed that Gareth would be able to get him out of this one too.
The interview room was small, almost claustrophobic. The walls were painted a deep dark green, making it seem even smaller. There were no external windows; just one large internal blacked-out window in one wall. People outside could see in, but people in the room couldn’t see out. The overhead strip lights blazed harshly down.
Jake sat at the one table in the room looking at Detective Inspector Bullen, who sat opposite him. DS Usma Aziz sat next to DI Bullen. A uniformed constable stood by the door.
I should have someone here with me, thought Jake. This was the fourth or fifth time he’d found himself in a police interrogation room since he’d first become involved in the hidden library of the Order of Malichea. I should be used to it by now, he thought. But he wasn’t. There was still that feeling of helplessness that came with being in a windowless room, with accusing glares from unsmiling police officers.
‘Shouldn’t I have a solicitor with me?’ he asked.
‘This is just an initial interview,’ said Bullen.
‘Yes, but I’m accused of murdering someone,’ defended Jake.
‘Do you have a solicitor?’ asked Bullen. ‘This person you mentioned? Gareth?’
No, thought Jake. I used to have Alex Munro at Pierce Randall, but now he’s dead and I’m accused of killing him . . .
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘But my partner, Lauren, will be arranging one through Gareth. He’s my boss.’
‘And Gareth’s full name?’ asked Bullen.
‘Gareth Findlay-Weston at the Department of Science,’ replied Jake. ‘I’m a press officer there.’
He wondered whether DI Bullen knew that Gareth was a head of section with MI5. He doubted it. Gareth’s true role as a spook was only known high up the chain of command.
He looked around the interrogation room. Jake had been relieved when they’d actually pulled up outside a police station. He’d been sure that they’d been fake police officers with fake IDs, the next stage of trying to find out what Jake had picked up from his meeting at Muswell Hill. But no, they’d brought him to a real police station.
‘Has anyone told Lauren where I am?’ asked Jake. ‘She’ll need to know in order to arrange my solicitor.’
‘And I suppose she’ll arrange it with this boss of yours,’ said Bullen. ‘Gareth.’
‘Yes,’ said Jake.
‘He must be a very good boss if he doesn’t mind being disturbed on a Saturday night,’ said Bullen. ‘We find that’s very rare in the Civil Service.’
‘Gareth is a very rare boss,’ said Jake. ‘And can you please answer my question: has anyone told Lauren where I am? You said you’d let her know.’
‘That’s all in hand,’ said Bullen.
‘I’m allowed a phone call,’ said Jake. ‘I’d like to make that call now. To Lauren. To tell her where I am.’
Bullen looked directly at Jake.
‘If you give us her number, we’ll make that call,’ he said.
‘She gave it to you already,’ protested Jake. ‘I saw her give it you. Anyway, I thought I was allowed to make the call myself.’
‘That is a popular misconception.’ Bullen nodded. ‘And yes, she did give us her number. But just to make sure we’re calling the right one, if you could give it to us yourself?’
Jake gritted his teeth to stop himself from shouting out loud angrily. He knew it wouldn’t do him any good. He was sure they were playing for time, making sure they kept him for as long as possible without a lawyer being present; but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it right now. They were in charge.
DI Bullen passed a piece of paper and a pen across the table to Jake, and Jake wrote Lauren’s number down. Bullen took the pen back, and passed the piece of paper to DS Aziz.
‘Tell her where Mr Wells is,’ he said.
DS Aziz nodded, and got up and left the room, pulling the door shut after her.
‘For the tape, DS Aziz has just left the room,’ said Bullen. He turned back to Jake. ‘As I said, this is just an initial interview to find out if there is a case against you.’
‘So I have
n’t officially been arrested, as such?’ asked Jake.
‘You’ve been taken into custody because we had information that you may be able to help us with our enquiries,’ said Bullen.
‘What information?’ asked Jake.
Bullen was silent for a moment, looking at Jake thoughtfully. Then he asked, ‘Where were you at two o’clock this afternoon?’
‘Why?’ asked Jake. ‘Was that when Munro was killed?’
Bullen seemed to soften his attitude a little.
‘Look, Mr Wells, we can counter questions with questions all afternoon and just go round in circles, or — if you’d prefer — we can wait and see what happens about your solicitor. Although, with it being Saturday evening, my guess is that might take some time. Or, as I said, we can treat this as an initial interview to find out if there might be any substance to the suspicions concerning your involvement in the death of Mr Munro.’
‘I had no involvement in it,’ said Jake firmly. ‘I haven’t seen Alex Munro for months and months. I certainly didn’t see him today.’
‘But your name is in his dairy with an appointment for today. At 2 p.m.’
‘I didn’t have any appointment with Alex Munro, or with anyone else from Pierce Randall, today, or at any time recently.’
‘Do you know a Guy de Courcey?’ asked Bullen.
Jake shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘And I’ve never heard that name before, either.’
‘According to Mr Munro’s diary, he was due to meet you and Mr Guy de Courcey at the Red Hen Café in Crouch End Broadway at 2 p.m. this afternoon.’
Crouch End! The shock of it hit Jake. He was being set up! Framed!
Bullen gave Jake a questioning look, then said, ‘You look as if that’s triggered something, Mr Wells. Were you around the Red Hen Café in Crouch End Broadway this afternoon?’
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘But I was driving past it.’
‘And you didn’t notice any disturbance in that area?’
I should wait until my lawyer gets here, thought Jake. But, as Bullen said, that could take ages. He didn’t know if Lauren had even managed to get hold of Gareth. And, if she had, would Gareth want to get involved in this? Jake was sure he would once he knew it was Alex Munro who had been killed, but for all Jake knew, it had been Gareth who had had Munro killed.
‘Mr Wells?’ prompted Bullen.
‘I’m being set up,’ said Jake, reaching a decision. If he came clean with the police at this early stage, they might see he was innocent and let him go.
‘Being set up?’ repeated Bullen.
Jake nodded.
‘I had a phone call telling me that if I went to Muswell Hill Broadway at half past one, I’d be contacted by someone who had some information that would help me.’
‘What information was this?’
‘About a book called The Index. It’s an old book that was compiled by the Order of Malichea.’
The door opened and all eyes turned towards DS Aziz as she came back into the interview room.
‘For the tape, DS Aziz returns to the interview,’ said Bullen.
‘I’ve told Ms Graham where you are,’ Aziz said to Jake. ‘She said she’s arranging legal representation for you.’
‘Did she say if she’d got hold of Gareth Findlay-Weston?’ Jake asked.
‘She didn’t volunteer that information and I didn’t ask her,’ said Aziz.
‘I should have made the call!’ said Jake angrily.
‘The phone call has been made and she’s been notified,’ said Bullen flatly. ‘Now, can we return to the matter in hand. You were talking about something called the Order of Malichea.’
Jake glared at him. He wanted to pursue the business of his phone call, demand that he be allowed to speak to Lauren, but he knew arguing about it would just slow things down. He needed to get out of here as fast as he could.
‘Yes.’ Jake nodded.
‘Are they a religious order?’ asked Bullen.
‘They were,’ said Jake. ‘They died out in 1539.’
‘And this person you went to meet, they had a copy of this book?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jake. ‘I doubt it. It’s very rare, and people have been searching for it for years.’
‘Why?’ asked Bullen.
‘Because of the information it contains.’
‘What information?’
‘It’s said to be a list detailing where each of the books from the Library of Malichea were hidden,’ said Jake. ‘You see, the books in the library were forbidden.’
‘Dirty books?’ asked Bullen.
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘Nothing like that. They were scientific texts, written over hundreds and hundreds of years. Right up until the library was hidden in 1497 by the monks. They hid the books because the sort of sciences described in them were considered heretical by the Church at the time, and if they were found . . .’
‘Yes yes.’ Bullen nodded impatiently. ‘Can we get back to the present time. Today. So, you went to Muswell Hill?’
‘Yes. I got there just before half past one and waited, but no one turned up. Then, at a quarter to two, I got a text from them saying they couldn’t make it after all. So I drove back home.’
‘Through Crouch End Broadway?’
‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘That’s the most direct route to Finsbury Park from Muswell Hill.’
‘So you would have been in Crouch End Broadway at about 2 p.m.?’
‘No. I was driving through Crouch End Broadway about ten minutes or so before two o’clock. As I’ve told you already, I left Muswell Hill at a quarter to two. The road was pretty clear.’
‘We’ve checked with the CCTV cameras in the area, and they show your car in the area of Crouch End Broadway at 1.54 p.m.’
‘OK. So it was six minutes to two.’
‘But you were in the area. You could have parked . . .’
‘But I didn’t! Look, check my mobile phone records. You’ll find the text I told you I got telling me the person couldn’t make it, and the time. Quarter to two.’
Bullen nodded.
‘We will,’ he said.
‘And I never had a meeting of any sort scheduled with Alex Munro,’ Jake repeated firmly. ‘So, like I say, if my name’s in his diary for this afternoon, then it’s obvious that someone’s framing me. Especially when you add in the mystery person who fixed up the meeting in Muswell Hill, and then cancelled, knowing full well I’d be getting to Crouch End right at the time Munro was being killed. It’s a set-up!’
‘Who would want to frame you for Mr Munro’s murder?’ asked Bullen.
Loads of people, thought Jake. Nearly everyone I’ve ever met who’ve been involved in the Malichea business.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Jake. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me to find out it’s the same people who stole my bag today.’
Bullen frowned.
‘Stole your bag?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’ Jake nodded. ‘From the British Library. You can check. Their security people said they’d be reporting it to the police, and I said I’d be reporting it too. So, you can start taking details of that, as well.’
‘We will. But first, I’d like to concentrate on what happened at Crouch End Broadway.’
‘I’ve told you, I had nothing to do with that!’
‘And this Guy de Courcey . . .’
‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know anyone called Guy de Courcey!’ snapped Jake angrily. ‘Look, I’ve tried to tell you that I’ve been framed, and that this could be linked to my bag being stolen from the British Library today. Someone who the staff at the British Library can describe to you. But you don’t seem interested! We’ve had our initial chat, as you call it, and I’ve told you the truth. I’m not saying anything more until I’ve seen my solicitor.’
Bullen hesitated, then nodded.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll get on to the British Library and see what they say. And, as soon as your solicitor gets
in touch, we’ll talk again. Until then, the constable will take you to a cell.’
‘But I’m innocent!’ protested Jake. ‘I’ve told you what happened!’
‘We need to check out some of what you’ve said. Until then, we’ll need to keep you here for when your solicitor arrives.’ For the tape, he added, ‘Interview terminated at 7.30 p.m.’ Then he gestured to the uniformed constable by the door. ‘Constable, take Mr Wells to cell number two.’
Chapter 3
Lauren dialled the number again. So far she’d tried Gareth’s home number six times, and on each occasion all she’d got was an answerphone with a mechanical voice asking her to leave a message. This time she got a real voice.
‘Hello?’ said a woman.
Lauren was aware of the nervous tone in her voice. But then, that could be because her husband was involved in the espionage business, and you’d always be worried about who might be calling.
‘Can I speak to Mr Gareth Findlay-Weston, please?’ she asked. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Findlay-Weston isn’t here,’ said the woman.
‘When will he be back?’ asked Lauren.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ said the woman. ‘Goodbye.’
‘No!’ shouted Lauren. ‘Please! My name’s Lauren Graham. Mr Findlay-Weston knows me. Jake Wells needs his help. He’s been arrested on a false charge of killing Alex Munro . . .’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ repeated the woman. ‘Goodbye.’
And this time the phone was hung up.
‘I’m not letting it go like that,’ said Lauren grimly to herself; and she redialled the number. This time she got the recorded answerphone announcement, the mechanical voice asking her to leave a message.
Damn!
The turnkey unlocked the cell and gestured Jake inside. As the heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, Jake saw that there was someone else already in the cell, a young man in his early twenties. He was sitting on a bench, and he looked up inquisitively at Jake.
‘Let me guess,’ said the young man. ‘You must be Jacob Wells.’
The young man’s accent was right out of the upper class; a clipped drawl.
