‘The cult going public,’ Walton elaborated. ‘Going out with a bang.’
‘Why do you think that?’ Belsey asked.
‘In their communications, there is increasing reference to something called eclosis. Have you heard of that?’
‘It’s how a chrysalis becomes a butterfly.’
‘Well, I believe in this context it refers to whatever spectacular end they have planned.’
‘Really? I think it’s about becoming enlightened,’ Belsey said. ‘Shedding your earthly identity. That’s what they’re into.’
Walton looked unconvinced. They had something else, Belsey could tell. They were hesitating.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
It was Walton who gave in. ‘An hour after the meeting in Finchley we intercepted a call from a known associate of Teresa Glynn. A man, warning a family member to avoid central London on Saturday.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
‘It could have been about traffic,’ Belsey said. ‘Central London’s a nightmare on Saturdays.’
‘Maybe,’ Walton said, with a sigh. But the room had become a little cold with reality. ‘Only he gave a specific time.’
‘Go on.’
‘Between twelve and two p.m.’
‘Not rush hour.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t think they’re like that,’ Belsey said.
‘Where are they all then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dreyer cut in. ‘We think that members of the group have congregated somewhere. They haven’t travelled far. They are in London, maybe at this Research Centre you’ve mentioned.’
Belsey sat back. His phone buzzed with a text. It wasn’t a number he had stored. Then he saw the message: ‘This is Josie. You visited me today. Please call this number asap.’
He got to his feet, handed Walton the crime reference number from the Marquess Community Centre. ‘This is one of the places they recruited from. In September 2013 they broke in and removed all traces of their presence. I think Majorana was interviewed as part of the investigation. He’ll be on record if you get the file. Excuse me for a second, I have to make a call.’
37
HE STEPPED OUT TO THE corridor under their watchful stares, dialled the number. Josie answered immediately, whispering, terrified.
‘Nick?’
‘What’s happened, Josie?’
‘You led them to me.’
‘Where are you? I’ll get you somewhere safe.’
‘Don’t say anything else on the phone, please. I need to show you something.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Is your phone safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meet me at 201 Scrubs Lane, as soon as possible. In Acton. Please. Please make sure they don’t follow you.’
Belsey moved through the open-plan office to the stairs, out through reception and back to his car. Scrubs Lane – a long way from her home. Maybe that was the point. She sounded genuinely terrified. He drove fast, throwing in late turns with no signals, sudden bursts of speed, keeping an eye on his mirrors until he was sure he was alone.
She’d sent him to a stretch of dilapidation between Wormwood Scrubs and St Mary’s Catholic Cemetery – a long row of terraces that became a threadbare industrial estate as you drove north, with piles of tyres, a rickety van selling bacon rolls and three hand car washes.
Number 201 Scrubs Lane was derelict, a former garage stripped to its crumbling bricks. Belsey parked. He wondered if she’d made a mistake. Then he began to wonder what he’d been called to. The units either side were shuttered. A mound of sand and a cement mixer in front of the garage suggested someone had intentions. No sign of any builders, though. No one in sight. He climbed out of the Bentley and picked up a rusted length of engine pipe from the rubble, stepped past the sand into the dank interior.
‘Josie?’
‘Nick.’
Her voice came from beyond what had been a second doorway, now a crude gap amidst bricks. Belsey walked through. A bag came down over his head.
He lashed out, dropped the pipe, reached up to the bag and his arms were pulled back. Two hands on each arm. He could hear a third person close by. He checked his instinct to struggle. One of his few rules of survival: if you’re the only one who can’t see, stop fighting. There was a ripping sound and then his wrists were bound with gaffer tape. His phone was taken out of his pocket. He was marched to the back of the building, then they were outside again and he was forced into the back of a van, down to the floor.
The engine started a moment later. Someone kept a heavy, booted foot on his head. It meant there were rear seats of some kind. A minibus or maybe a modified Transit. His hood had a distinct smell of hairstyling wax. He reckoned a pillowcase. No mouth gag. A used pillowcase and gaffer tape around the wrists: amateurs using whatever came to hand. Where were they going?
The van lurched right onto Scrubs Lane. He tried to keep a sense of direction. They were driving south, past the cemetery; then they turned left. After another few minutes he thought he could hear the Westway beside them. So they were heading into town. He wondered whether Josie Christie was OK. He listened whenever they stopped at lights or junctions as if parts of London might announce themselves. Eventually they slowed, dropped to the speed of residential roads. He heard a radio outside – the hysterical pitch of football commentary – then it was gone. They made a final turn and stopped.
Nothing happened for thirty seconds. Then the van’s back door was thrown open and he was bundled fast across what was definitely cobblestones, led up four stone steps. He was indoors. There was a sound of a tap running, or a bath of some kind. But he wasn’t stopping. The hands on either arm dragged him through successive rooms, one door after another, to somewhere darker, then down concrete stairs.
The temperature dropped. He smelt salt water.
They pushed him through a final doorway and his toes hit a box on the floor.
‘Sit down,’ a man said. Not a voice he recognised: middle-aged, middle-class. Belsey eased himself down. He heard the rip of duct tape again. His ankles were bound. That was a blow. The edge of the pillowcase was lifted up just enough to expose his mouth. He felt a finger at his mouth, then a pill forced in. He wedged the pill between his teeth and bottom lip. The neck of a plastic bottle touched his mouth. He accepted the water, made a show of swallowing. The hood dropped back down. He held the pill between his front teeth to stop it dissolving.
‘Get some sleep,’ a woman said. Belsey listened. Maybe four pairs of feet marching out? Then a door being locked.
He spat out the pill then shuffled in each direction. He couldn’t get far. There were shelves, boxes. A store cupboard. He felt along the wall, found a corner, a rough edge of brick. He sawed the tape against the brick, steadily, silently, until his upper arms were aching. He couldn’t tell if he was doing anything. Then it began to give. After ten minutes he could force his hands a little further apart, stretching the tape. After another five it snapped.
That felt good.
He lifted the pillowcase. Found his lighter, sparked it. The room was approximately ten feet by ten. Shelves of cleaning products, light bulbs, tea lights in metal holders, bags of Epsom salt, tubs of chlorine. Stacks of towels in plastic wrap, black robes: the kind he’d seen Stanford wearing.
Was this it, then – the Research Centre?
The lack of a gag suggested they were relatively confident of his isolation. He untaped his ankles, but kept the loose tape attached, ready to wrap back around them. If he heard steps he could revert to hostage mode in ten or fifteen seconds.
Belsey found the pill he’d spat out on the ground. Pale blue, oval-shaped: marked APO 7.5. Zopiclone, a sleeping pill; easily available. He pocketed it and went over to the door.
Through the keyhole, he could just make out a large space, faintly lit from a corridor beyond. It contained what looked like chest tombs, alongside white pods big
enough for an individual. He could smell lavender. Aromatherapy oils? He looked at the towels, the robes, thought of his journey from the van, over cobblestones, up four steps. That sound of a tap; maybe not a tap after all. He knew where he’d heard it now. It was a water feature. He was in the Retreat Spa. Was that possible?
He listened for movement outside. After several moments’ silence, he tried, very gently, pushing the door. Locked tight. Were they waiting to kill him? Killed in a boutique spa. Luxurious. Holistic.
Belsey shook a tea light from its holder and crimped the metal into something resembling a blade. Slipped it into his back pocket. He swept the candle beneath the shelves. There was a blue aerosol can of WD40 on the floor. He checked it sprayed, then placed it inside his jacket.
He sat back down in the corner, wrapped the loose tape around his ankles. The pillowcase was ready, over his head. He practised rejoining his wrists so that it looked like they were still bound.
Then he waited.
38
BELSEY HEARD A KEY TURN in the lock several hours later. He’d been deep asleep, long enough to leave his muscles stiff. He wondered if some of the Zopiclone had got into his system after all. There was just enough time to pull the pillowcase fully down and put his hands behind his back, pressing his wrists together.
He was shaken by the shoulder, lifted to his feet.
‘Take this off me,’ he said. And, after there was no reply: ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘You can breathe fine.’ It was a different man, older. Someone cut the tape between his ankles so he could walk.
‘Where are we going?’ He wanted to hear voices, discern numbers, scraps of identity. You never knew what would give you leverage. They didn’t play along. He listened for the number of footsteps. More than two people, possibly four again. He was careful not to break the superficial bindings around his wrists as they moved him back up two flights of stairs, into the brightness of what he was sure was the reception. The water feature trickled. The can of WD40 felt bulky and conspicuous in his jacket.
He could hear what sounded like a four-litre engine growling as they left the building and the air became fresher. They crossed the cobblestones towards it. There was a step up to the back seats.
‘Lie down.’
He lay down on the seats. An SUV, he imagined. The upholstery smelt new. A heavy blanket was thrown over him. But the general situation was positive, relatively speaking. He wasn’t in the boot. That would have been the obvious place to put him. He wasn’t in the boot with his throat cut. He had room to manoeuvre here.
Doors slammed closed. Three people: two up front, one beside him, pushing Belsey’s legs up into a foetal position to make room. They drove fast, out of the residential area, back into the sound of main roads. Hit traffic. No one was talking. Belsey sensed nerves. Kidnappers were at their most vulnerable out and about with a hostage. Eventually someone turned on the radio: 9 a.m. news. He had thought it was earlier. Unrest in Ukraine, car bomb in Nigeria. Sirens pealed out, close enough to spook his co-passengers. The car slowed. Someone turned the radio off. A phone rang and was answered brusquely.
‘Turn left,’ the man who’d answered the phone said. They turned. There was something odd about the way they were driving. Approaching lights and junctions the driver slowed well in advance. Which was foolish – made you more conspicuous, not less. Then Belsey realised: they were in convoy.
The same phone rang again and they pulled over. The driver got out, climbed back in; after another thirty seconds’ driving they sped up a steep gradient onto a faster road. A flyover. The Westway again.
Belsey eased his hands free behind him.
So, possible minimum of two cars: he could be up against six or seven individuals, possibly eight, heading somewhere fast. He didn’t want to get there.
‘Stop moving,’ the man beside him said. They nudged into the fast lane. Belsey felt a lorry buffeting them. They must have been up to 50mph, which would do the job. The car moved back into lane. A klaxon blared. Belsey eased his hands to his front. He found the crimped metal in his back pocket, moved it to his right hand.
The seat bounced. Belsey froze. But his guard was leaning forward to begin a debate.
‘Let me speak to them.’
‘We don’t have time.’
Belsey took the pillowcase off. He sat up, threw the blanket over the driver’s head, stabbed his back-seat companion in the face. The man was middle-aged, unshaven. Belsey went for the jugular, ended up ripping out half his cheek as the car swerved. Blood hit the back window. The front passenger grabbed the wheel then produced a lock knife from his jacket with the other hand. Belsey sprayed him in the eyes with lubricating oil. They careered into the central reservation, Belsey wedging himself against the front seats to soften the blow. A vehicle slammed into the back of them and they came to a stop facing the wrong way.
The three men bailed, injured and staggering, but finding a burst of energy. They ran to a black Vauxhall Zafira that had pulled onto the hard shoulder ahead. It tore off once they were inside, doors flapping. Belsey looked around. He was in a Jeep Cherokee, beige interior bloodstained. Outside: the elevated dual carriageway of the Westway – a steep drop down towards trees, the rooftops of an estate, a pub he didn’t recognise.
A minor pile-up had occurred behind him, a collision of three or four cars. Police would be on the scene soon enough. The driver of the Ford Focus that had crashed into the back of them climbed out, pale with shock, wife and kids silent in the car. He looked at the blood on Belsey, then the remains of tape on his wrists and ankles.
‘Where exactly are we?’ Belsey said.
But the driver had been distracted by the boot of the Cherokee, smashed open. Inside were three bulletproof Kevlar vests, a box of olive-green military biohazard suits, respirator masks. Belsey picked up a mask, then he closed the boot as best he could, got in the front of the Cherokee, checked the car was still working. The engine purred. A fallen Nokia was ringing in the footwell. He picked it up, answered it.
‘You’ve just made a really stupid mistake,’ someone said.
Belsey hung up, pocketed the phone, put his foot down.
When he had half a mile between himself and the crash site, he reached for the radio. The presenter, a chirpy-sounding woman, was debating the ‘celebrity story of the morning’, whether a video posted online by Amber Knight was genuine.
‘Has she snapped for good this time?’ the presenter asked, laughing. She played a clip. It sounded like Amber: calm, young, sincere. Only she wasn’t Amber any more. This was, she began, ‘a message for anyone in the world who cares about me.’ And the first thing they should know was her new name. Stella Polaris. ‘Latin’, she said, ‘for pole star.’ Then it got really interesting:
By the end of today you will have heard of the Bridge Foundation, and probably read a lot about how I’m involved with it. Given what society is like, there will probably be a lot of anger at our actions, an attempt to ridicule us, and finally an attempt to portray us as evil. This is in a world where crimes and genocides are taking place every day and no one cares. Those in power will spread more lies through a media that has reduced the consciousness of the population to a bare minimum. I ask you to use your own minds, and decide for yourselves what you think.
Whatever happens now, let it serve as a beacon for those whose hearts are not already ashes.
He took the exit at the next junction, then the ramp onto the eastbound carriageway, and drove back towards the Retreat.
39
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL DAY to enter a new epoch of life on earth. Sun out, sky blue. Belsey tore the rest of the tape off his wrists and ankles as he drove.
He left the Westway at Edgware Road, cruised into Marylebone. Parked on Montagu Place and approached the Retreat Spa with caution. Its front doors were open. No one on the desk.
The water feature was still going, the only movement in the place. A cover for a massage table lay on the floor. Around it w
ere loose papers fallen from the reception desk.
Belsey tried to retrace his steps.
He wandered in, looking for a way down. Through exercise rooms, massage rooms, studios. Blankets and pillows lay tangled on the floor. People had been sleeping here. He smelt sweat.
He found stairs up, not stairs down.
But he’d been taken down.
Belsey tried every room, until he saw a camera above an anonymous metal door, currently propped open with a fire extinguisher, a code pad beside it. ‘STAFF ONLY’.
It led to fire stairs. Here was his down option – down to a neon-lit basement corridor, bare but for motion sensors every few metres or so, ending abruptly at two large, panelled mahogany doors.
Belsey stopped at the doors, listened. He tried a black, iron handle and it turned. He opened the door slowly and stepped into the Research Centre.
Green exit lights cast a dim glow across a space the size of a community hall, double-height, with a balcony looking down over forty plastic seats that had been arranged in neat rows. Circular charts of the night sky covered the walls at either end. A line of writing stretched across the top of each wall, in a script he’d never seen before, involving triangles and parallel lines.
Beyond a dividing shutter was a separate area with a combination of fitness equipment and clinical-looking apparatus. Along the right-hand wall were eight computer monitors. Stacked hard drives had been locked inside two wire-mesh cages in the corner.
Belsey entered a smaller side room with benches and lockers, a single bin overflowing with clothes, shoes and empty mineral-water bottles.
Where had they gone?
In a fourth room at the back he found the isolation chambers. These were the chest tombs he’d seen: squat, black boxes. Opposite them, in white plastic pods, were individual flotation tanks, dry now. He wondered which one Ian Harper had died in.
Beyond the tanks was the door to the storeroom they’d locked him in. Beside it were double doors, an emergency-exit bar across them.
He returned to the smaller side room and the bin, took the bin bag out and emptied it across the floor. Beneath the clothes and water bottles was an oddly familiar detritus: wraps for powdered drugs, squares cut out from a body-building magazine. With these were vials, and inside the vials were the soggy remains of blotter acid tabs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done someone for possession of acid. Where did the Bridge score? Then, out of the daze, the truth began to emerge.
The House of Fame Page 25
