‘What happened?’
‘Someone got into the office. Hence this.’ She gestured at the bars over the office’s single window. ‘Not very friendly.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Took some computers. And files.’
‘Files?’
‘Yes. Membership files. Centre users. Personal details.’
‘Did the police arrest anyone?’
‘No.’
‘But you think it connects to the Bridge.’
‘Yes. Can you tell me what’s going on?’
‘I think the classes were a front for a group that was recruiting people from here. Here, and maybe other places.’ She looked curious, not disbelieving. ‘Did you mention your suspicions to the police when they investigated the burglary?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did the police speak to anyone from the group?’
‘Yes.’
Belsey felt the old CID pleasure-centre light up. So the group were in the system. Majorana was in the system. He had history.
‘But the police didn’t charge anyone,’ Belsey clarified.
‘No. Not enough evidence.’
This was standard enough. A nicked community-centre PC not inspiring investigative dedication. Good old Met.
‘So then you barred them.’
‘No. We’d cancelled the classes a couple of weeks earlier. That was the thing, you see. They were switching off the security cameras – coming into the office and switching them off at the main control panel. I’m fairly sure it was them.’
‘Why?’
‘It had to be. It happened a few times before we figured out it coincided with their classes.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Anonymity, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some of their workshops advertised themselves as dealing with drug rehabilitation, addiction treatment, abuse trauma. Even in here you can get some high-profile individuals coming in, or their kids.’
‘See any high-profile individuals?’
‘Not personally, but you learn not to look too closely.’
‘Any idea where they were based?’
‘No.’
‘Did anybody mention a research centre of some kind?’
‘A research centre? I never heard about anything like that. I really just processed the bookings. Why? What kind of research centre?’
‘I don’t know. Look, I’ll level with you. I haven’t got much to go on, but I believe this group has become progressively more dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes. So please – do you remember anything about the individual running it?’
‘Really, I never saw him. I don’t have the emails any more or I’d show you. But the police might be able to help. They interviewed him, I think.’
‘You think the guy running these sessions was interviewed by the police?’
‘Yes. I specifically remember them telling me that. Because I was frustrated that nothing came of it.’
‘Do you have a police reference number?’
‘I guess I must do.’ She went into her emails. Ten unbearable minutes later, Belsey had the police reference.
‘So what exactly have they done now?’ the manager asked.
36
BELSEY SAT IN ANDY PRICE’S Bentley with the reference number useless in his hand, like a record with nothing to play it on. An interview with the man setting up the Bridge. Andreas Majorana. With his date of birth, home address. Maybe his real name.
But he couldn’t do anything without proper police back-up. With a warrant out on his name, the chances were nil.
Maybe he could call on some international support.
He tried Lindy Voskuil’s mobile number again. No answer. Sifted through the notes he’d dumped on the back seat. He’d written her hotel down somewhere.
Five minutes later he was en route to the Park Grand, Kensington.
The hotel wasn’t, in fact, particularly grand, shoehorned into a residential road behind Earls Court, the only modern building amongst the monotonous stucco of west London. The lobby was bright, plants reaching protective tendrils over scattered armchairs. A small, neat man on reception smiled as he approached with a thick sheath of notes under his arm.
‘I believe you’ve got a Lindy Voskuil staying here,’ Belsey said. The receptionist didn’t need to check.
‘Yes. Are you collecting her?’
Belsey wondered at this for a split second.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘She says she will meet you here.’
‘When?’
The man checked a clock over his shoulder. Almost four o’clock. ‘In a few minutes, sir. Want me to call her room?’
‘No, that’s OK.’ Belsey went and stood amongst the armchairs. No one else present; no man for whom he could be mistaken. Then one walked in.
He was tall, bald, in a loose-fitting grey suit. He looked around, checked his watch. Belsey stepped back, turned his face, and when the man began towards the desk, he walked out and positioned himself across the road behind a delivery van, watching the hotel entrance.
The tall man emerged three minutes later with a woman in her fifties: short, copper-coloured hair, a green two-piece suit and raincoat over her arm. The receptionist accompanied them. All three looked up and down the street. They conferred, then Voskuil and her visitor set off west.
Belsey followed. They walked briskly, away from Earls Court to the back of Cromwell Road. To the tower block at 19 Collingham Place: the National Crime Agency HQ.
Belsey gave it thirty seconds, then went in after them.
The place had seen better days. The lobby was scuffed, one row of plastic seats bolted to the floor, one guard at a desk next to electronic gates. He stood up when Belsey entered. Unfamiliar faces are never very welcome in police HQs. Behind his desk was a room filled with parcels and post.
‘You’ve got a parcel for DCI Ronald Jeremy,’ Belsey said. The man studied him.
‘Here?’
‘That’s right. It came here. Might say DCI Jeremy, National Cyber Crime Unit. It’s a hard drive. Should be obvious.’
The guard went to check. Belsey took the visitors’ book from the desk. Lindy Voskuil had been signed in by DCS David Walton. Europol Unit.
Belsey returned the book to the desk as the guard came back.
‘I can’t see it. When was it delivered?’
‘Today. It might be with DCS Walton. He told me it was here.’
‘OK.’
‘Can you check? It’s urgent.’
The guard scratched his head with a pen. He looked through a list of extensions stuck to the desk and eventually picked up the phone.
‘DCS Walton? Reception here,’ the guard said. ‘There’s a gentleman asking about a parcel . . . No, I don’t know. He’s here.’
‘Let me speak to him,’ Belsey said.
The guard passed the phone.
‘I’m here about the Bridge Foundation. I’d like to speak to you and Lindy Voskuil.’
There was a pause, then Walton said: ‘Who is this?’
‘Someone you need to speak to.’
‘Stay there.’
Walton appeared a moment later. Not the man who’d accompanied Voskuil: young, with a flush to his cheeks. He looked like someone who’d had a job at a merchant bank but felt they had to prove themselves, so joined the police. But he hadn’t been cut out for the streets and ended up here. With him was Voskuil. She had a hard stare, smoker’s lines around her mouth.
‘What is this?’ Walton demanded. ‘Who are you?’
‘You’re investigating a group called the Bridge,’ Belsey said. He turned to Voskuil. ‘I’m guessing you’re here in connection with the woman who was picked up near Spier. She was a member of this group. You were also at the Comfort Hotel when they met. Several members have died or been killed since that meeting, probably as a result of someone secretly filming it. Have you got information about who’s running it?
A man called Andreas Majorana?’
‘What do you know about him?’ she asked.
‘Very little. But I’ve got something you need to chase up if you haven’t found him yet.’
‘What is it?’
‘Can we talk?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’d rather not give my name.’
Walton stared at him searchingly.
‘Do you know about a possible attack?’ Walton asked.
‘I know all sorts of things. I collaborate better when offered a chair.’
‘Maybe you should come up.’
They took a lift to the tenth floor, walked through open-plan offices. He was in an outpost of SOCA’s International Crime Department: the UK Europol National Unit. They arrived at a conference room with a grey view of building works, an unused flip-chart, water bottles and loose papers in evidence bags scattered across a large, round table.
Two men waiting, seated at the table. One man in a short-sleeved white shirt, with a military-style buzz cut, the other the man who had collected Voskuil. He stood when Belsey entered. He had a slight stoop and mournful eyes. He glanced at Voskuil as if waiting for her to make an introduction.
‘He knows about the group,’ Voskuil said. The man put his hand out. Belsey shook it.
‘Nick.’
‘This is Superintendent Dreyer,’ Voskuil said.
The buzz cut didn’t get an introduction. He didn’t get up. He studied Belsey closely, another Europol liaison officer, or maybe a more muscular arm of the Yard, Organised Crime or its satellite sections. Belsey took a seat, laid out the CCTV stills and DVLA records for the Comfort attendees, the files from the Bridge Foundation website; finally, Thomas’s lecture notes. Walton leaned over, hungrily. Do you know about a possible attack? he’d asked. No – but Belsey smelled a middle-ranking investigator uncertain whether to take a specific worry higher. Half pumped with authority, half nervous about calling the shots.
‘These people are connected to the Bridge Foundation?’
Before Belsey could answer the military-looking man sat up with a look of recognition.
‘This is Nick Belsey,’ he said. ‘He’s a disgraced police officer. There’s a warrant on him.’ He got out of his seat, went to a phone mounted on the wall of the conference room and called back-up. The others exchanged glances. Not great, Belsey thought. At the same time, it made him slightly less random. A disgraced police officer has more authority than a madman.
‘Want me arrested?’ Belsey asked. ‘Or do you want to know why the woman was in Spier? She was trying to get into the Netherlands Institute for Radio Astronomy. Probably looking for proof, looking for Group 1, or some other crucial element of the Bridge.’
Walton looked between the buzz cut and Belsey.
‘Have you been involved with the Bridge Foundation?’ Voskuil asked.
‘Not on the inside.’
‘What do you know?’
‘They’re dangerous and we need to collaborate to stop them. It’s led by a man going by the name of Andreas Majorana. They’re training for the next, post-terrestrial phase of humanity. Which suggests, as well as being dangerous, they’re deeply unhinged.’ Then, to maintain some advantageous urgency given Walton’s apparent concern, Belsey added: ‘Have you contacted anti-terrorism?’
‘We didn’t want to be pre-emptive,’ Walton said, quickly. ‘To jump the gun, so to speak. But this . . .’
Walton and Voskuil sifted the CCTV stills, the details of attendees. A pair of thick-necked constables appeared in the conference-room doorway, hesitant.
‘He has their names and addresses,’ Voskuil said to Dreyer, gesturing at the research. Belsey continued.
‘A man present, Ian Harper, secretly filmed the Comfort Hotel meeting. He was killed on Saturday. Word of the filming got to Majorana, I think. Another meeting was arranged on Saturday night at a research centre they have. I don’t know where it is. I think Harper was drowned there, possibly in a flotation tank. His lungs were filled with salt water. Chloe Burlington was present. She was murdered on Monday night to stop her talking. A couple involved, John and Melissa Shaw, just killed themselves.’
‘Is this true?’ Voskuil glanced at Walton. ‘The deaths?’
Walton looked to the UK officer for assistance.
‘These are ongoing homicide investigations,’ the anonymous man said. ‘No one has suggested they connect. The suicides are fresh.’
The four of them turned back to Belsey.
‘What about the rest?’ Walton asked.
‘Want to send the guards away?’ Belsey said.
‘Please,’ Dreyer said to Walton.
Walton dismissed the two officers, shut the door. Took a seat. Belsey’s antagonist shook his head, sat back down, glaring. ‘How are you involved in this?’ Walton asked.
‘I was having a look into someone who’s gone missing. It led me to the group. Simple as that. What about you?’ Belsey said. There were nervous glances. They looked at his notes again as if assessing his value. ‘Here I am, being generous. I can help, but I’m not going to do this one-way.’
Dreyer raised an eyebrow at Voskuil, which seemed to communicate that they had little to lose.
‘The woman who was found near Spier is called Teresa Glynn,’ Voskuil said. ‘We traced her from travel tickets. She flew from London to Amsterdam on 4 May, and travelled north from there. She has told us very little. But from what we can discern her involvement with the Bridge Foundation dates back to 2011.’
Dreyer leaned forward in his seat. ‘We believe she attended a seminar at the Holiday Inn in Swiss Cottage, in June that year. Do you know about this?’
‘No. What does she say happened?’
‘She claims she is involved in an experiment, chosen for her particular mental sensitivity.’ The Dutchman spoke fluently but with care, as if his English might break if mishandled. ‘Once involved with the group you receive instructions on everything from diet to clothing, what materials to wear, how to structure your sleep. Sometimes you will go several days without sleep. This is supposedly preparation for intergalactic travel.’
Walton smiled as if the embarrassment was his. ‘It’s nuts,’ he said.
‘What took you to the Comfort Hotel?’ Belsey asked.
‘There was a message on Teresa Glynn’s phone regarding a meeting at the hotel,’ Voskuil said.
‘Do you know what it was about?’
‘No.’
Belsey picked up one of the evidence bags. Inside he could see a flyer. It carried a photo of a man in a suit on a bench, head in hands. ‘FACT: Depression causes the greatest disability for adults under 45. Find out what is stopping you breaking free. Learn to use your mind as it wants to be used.’
‘These were all found in her home,’ Voskuil said. ‘Attendees of the seminar are then invited to entry-level workshops. In 2011 these were being run under the name Personal Potential Therapy. Here, individuals were supposedly tested for suitability for the advanced programme.’
‘How many groups have you found?’
‘We can only find evidence of the London group. We believe Majorana operates some form of pyramid scheme, financially. He is dependent on contributions from new recruits to maintain a flow of funds to Bridge projects, initially subsidising less well-off members as they become indoctrinated. This has increased in the last couple of years. Rapidly. Around September 2013 it seems the whole programme became a lot more secretive. Majorana’s public website was taken down. We think there was a fundamental change in the operating strategy, possibly due to a partner coming in.’
Around the time of the break-in; the move from the hired room on the Marquess Estate.
As if to confirm his suspicions, Voskuil added: ‘We believe a lot of money was put into converting somewhere new. Larger premises.’
‘The Research Centre.’
‘You know of this?’
‘I spoke to someone who’d been involved, a woman called Josie Christie. She c
laims she was taken there blindfolded. It’s in central London.’
Another exchange of glances.
‘A research centre?’ Dreyer said.
‘She saw it?’ Voskuil said.
‘So she says. What else changed around that time?’
‘The literature now refers more frequently to different levels, stages of initiation, ancient truths rediscovered,’ Dreyer said. ‘There is urgency. Earth is in a form of quarantine, a sick planet. Powers that benefit from this are stopping it healing; stopping mankind fulfilling its cosmic destiny. But soon the various Bridge groups will reunite, be free of the Earth.’
‘It’s a different MO,’ Belsey said. ‘The personnel’s changed and so has the operating strategy.’
‘Yes,’ Voskuil said. ‘We think so – that someone’s come in, someone working with Majorana to run the group, maybe behind the scenes. There is now tighter security, more emphasis on raising money, the targeting of wealthy individuals. Plus increased suspicion of those they don’t trust, people who are problematic for some reason.’
‘Why would Majorana agree to that?’
‘We don’t know.’
Belsey tried to imagine. You find the truth, you’re saving humanity, but somewhere along the line you need cash flow. Then you find there are indeed dark powers ranged against you, from concerned family members to HMRC, none fully swallowing the cosmic promise on offer.
‘What makes you think they’re planning something violent?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Walton said, ‘if what you’re saying is true they haven’t exactly been very peace-loving in the last few days. Groups like this—’ he looked disdainful ‘—they’re clearly fruit loops. Who knows what they’re going to do next.’
‘They worship death,’ Dreyer said. He nodded to the notes. ‘Death and fire, the destruction of the Earth.’
‘Do they?’
‘You say there have been suicides.’
‘Only two that I know of. Joint.’
Dreyer gave a deep sigh, furrowed his brow, glancing across the CCTV stills as if they were already a memorial.
‘We believe the Comfort meeting involved rehearsals for an attack,’ Voskuil said. ‘Or at least a mass suicide, a demonstration.’
The House of Fame Page 24
