THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ each expletive more intense than the last.

  The DCI slumped back in the passenger’s seat.

  ‘Two men dead, and he’s fucking got away!’

  As the police squad car sped its way southwards on the M20, it hurtled passed a registered Dover Port Authority taxi on the other side of the carriageway. The taxi was carrying a single passenger. The cab driver repeated his question to the dark silhouetted figure reflected in his mirror.

  ‘So where exactly do you want go, mate?’

  This time the driver heard the reply over the receding police sirens.

  ‘Cambridge.’

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday 24 November

  Max Crossland had done the calculation. With another 100,000 euros tucked away in an offshore account, he could disappear for a very long time. If he was disciplined and didn’t throw too much of it away on cards and women, then this might even be his final job. He took a large mouthful of Guinness and felt the bittersweet liquid quench his parched throat. He sat with his back to the wall and watched the landlord deliver his standard Cambridge history spiel to the overfamiliar American couple who had just ordered fish and chips and pints of gassy Danish beer.

  His focus abruptly shifted to the figure that just entered the bar. He recognised the tall and powerful outline immediately. The recognition was mutual, and the figure quickly passed the American couple and stopped at Crossland’s table.

  ‘Good to see you, Sergeant.’ Crossland slapped the new arrival on the shoulder. ‘So it looks like the team is back for another job.’

  ‘It very nearly didn’t happen. I got delayed at Dover, by an immigration officer.’

  Crossland’s face turned serious.

  ‘What you mean?’

  Denic lowered his voice and checked that the American couple at the bar were still engrossed in the landlord’s history lecture.

  ‘It was a real fuck-up. I was travelling on the passport Vinka got hold of from that Haitian cockroach. As soon as the passport guy swiped it, I was blown.’

  Crossland hit the edge of the table in frustration.

  ‘That bastard! He can’t be trusted.’ His face tightened even further. ‘So, what happened?’

  Denic leant over the table, picked up Crossland’s drink and drained the remaining Guinness from it. An inch of creamy white froth slowly collapsed at the bottom of the pint glass.

  ‘I was resourceful,’ Denic said.

  The two men looked at each other earnestly for a second and then broke into laughter.

  Denic gave his old corporal the once-over in the faded light of the pub alcove. He looked fit and battle-ready. He was wearing jeans, Converse boots, and a scratched black leather jacket that looked like it had a long and exotic history. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk, the result of obsessive gym work. His trademark long moustache, which reminded Denic of old Fu Manchu films, was framed by Crossland’s characteristic two long sideburns that ran into a continuum with his closely shorn scalp.

  Denic’s expression turned rigid as the distinctive double bleep of his secure satellite phone was clearly audible above the background noise of the bar. He removed the device from his pocket, carefully studied the decrypted message, and then reread it twice. Crossland waited patiently, his concerned expression mirroring that of his comrade. At last Denic slumped back in his chair.

  ‘It’s the Drakon, with final arrangements for the equipment pick up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The container arrived yesterday and is being trucked up to Cambridge tonight.’

  It was obvious from Denic’s expression that there was more.

  ‘And?’

  A long pause followed.

  Denic’s eyes lowered.

  ‘The Drakon knows about my fuck-up at Dover.’

  ‘Shit!’ Crossland’s enormous hand hit down hard onto the table.

  The two men looked at each other.

  ‘We can’t screw up on this one, Max. There’ll be repercussions. Serious repercussions.’

  ‘You mean like Vinka?’ said Crossland.

  ‘Vinka ended up with a bullet in his head because he got sloppy. Remember? He dropped his phone during the job in Cannes. The police found it, and they were there waiting for him at the drop. He fucked up all right. Mark my words, he would have squealed to the cops. Just get the job done and we’ll be able to walk away from this okay.’

  ‘You’ve worked for the Drakon for years,’ said Crossland.

  Denic nodded.

  ‘What the hell do you actually know about him?’

  Denic shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No one has ever seen him. He always communicates through intermediaries, secure lines, messages routed through multiple servers. You know the stuff.’ He paused, pushing his satellite phone into the centre of the table. ‘The word is that he’s rich, very rich, but make no mistake: he’s a serious piece of work, a real evil fucker. The only thing I know for sure is that people who try and track him down always end up dead.’ He paused again. ‘I’ve heard some things, but they’re all spook stories.’

  Crossland leant forward in his chair, urging Denic to continue.

  ‘I did a job once with a guy, a con from Marseilles. He heard a story from a lifer he did a prison stretch with. The story goes that the Drakon was adopted into a wealthy family near Sarajevo. He was still a child when the Yugoslavian war broke out. During the siege for the city, an officer deserting from the Bosnian Serb army broke into the family home and did some crazy shit to the boy’s guardians before butchering them with a hunting knife.’

  ‘Crazy shit? What do you mean?’

  ‘Tortured them, real twisted. Anyway, the boy escaped and hid out alone in the bombed-out remains of the university library. He survived for over a year by scavenging tins of food in the rubble of the library canteen and killing rats and stray dogs. Alone with the books he began to read, I mean for the whole damn year. Fucked-up books, about magic and Satan worship and stuff. Whatever the boy learned in the rubble of that library turned him into a real sick piece of work.’ Denic rubbed the back of his neck. ‘And that’s not all.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Crossland.

  ‘Well, the war came to an end. After years of searching, the Drakon finally tracked down the army officer to a town just outside Sofia. The soldier was running guns along the Bulgarian border and was shacked up with a hooker. The Drakon drugged them both with horse tranquiliser, tied them up, and transported them to the sewer under the city. So the story went, the hooker was made to watch as the Drakon acted out his … revenge.’

  ‘Revenge?’ asked Crossland.

  ‘One by one, the Drakon bit off the soldier’s fingers. When there were no more fingers left, he bit off his nose, then his nipples and then large chucks out of his thighs. When he was finished, the Drakon poured molasses onto the wounds and then waited for the rats to come. Before long, there were hordes of vermin all wild with hunger. The soldier was eaten alive, his flesh picked clean within hours. Only bones and a few scraps of clothes were left. When it was done, the Drakon let the hooker go. She told her story to a priest before going mad and blowing her brains out with a shotgun. As I said … a real evil fucker!’

  Chapter 22

  Blake tried to ignore the banging on the front door of his bedsit.

  ‘I know you’re in there. You owe me two weeks rent money.’

  Blake held his breath.

  ‘End of the week or else,’ shouted the landlord in a strong Glaswegian accent.

  Finally, the banging stopped. Several seconds later, Blake could hear the sound of his landlord’s heavy boots climbing the stairs outside.

  Blake lay on his single bed, a thick vein throbbing in his temple. He stared over to the stack of five large packing boxes standing like an island in the centre of a sea of t
attered blue carpet. They had stood there unopened for two weeks. To unpack them would mean conceding to the notion that he was staying.

  Blake’s mobile began to beep. He looked at the vibrating phone for several seconds before picking it up. It was Milton.

  ‘How you doing, Vincent?’

  ‘How am I doing?’ said Blake in a forced whisper, conscious that his landlord might still be lurking outside. ‘What do you want me to say, Lukas? Everything is great?’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Why are you ringing?’

  ‘I went over to your house last night. When did you move out?’

  ‘Two weeks ago. To a bedsit in Shoreditch. Before you ask, it’s a dump. I moved because I need cash for Sarah’s hospital bills. Lukas, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got things to do.’

  The detective gave a hard, obvious swallow, sensing that the conversation was about to be terminated.

  ‘Vincent, I wanted to see you because I promised to keep you in the loop.’

  ‘Right?’ said Blake.

  ‘Look, there’s something you need to know, and it’s best you hear it from me.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Yesterday, a man was stopped at Dover Ferry Port coming in from Calais. He was stopped because he was travelling on a stolen passport.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The name on the passport was François Pineau.’

  By the silence, Milton knew that Blake had registered the significance of the name.

  Finally, Blake spoke. ‘The man they stopped, who is he?’

  ‘He escaped.’ Milton’s words were resigned, almost apologetic.

  ‘Escaped?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s not all.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Blake.

  ‘He killed two immigration officers busting his way out.’

  ‘Oh my god. Did they get an ID?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Nothing firm. He was a pro. Never looked up at the security cameras. He’s in the country and we’ve no idea what he’s up to.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? They’re preparing for another robbery,’ said Blake in a low voice. ‘Hell, for all we know, the man in Dover might even be the Drakon.’

  Milton said nothing.

  ‘You’ve got to get me back on the case. I know more about the previous jobs than anyone else. You know it’s true.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vincent, you’re just too damn close. That’s the problem,’ said Milton. ‘After you decided to rough up Eight Ball, the Commissioner came down on me like a category-ten shit storm.’

  ‘Forget Eight Ball.’ Blake kept pushing. ‘Do you want to catch these people or not? For Christ’s sake, get me back on the case.’

  ‘Look, man. I’m sorry. My hands are tied. I’ve got to go.’

  The line went dead. There was a sudden bang, and Blake’s mobile came to rest by the stack of plastic packing boxes. He got out of bed and began to pace around the room. His pulse was racing. In frustration he kicked out at the lowest crate, sending the tower crashing to the floor. He stumbled forwards and then, after regaining his balance, brought his heel smashing down onto the nearest upturned box.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

  He kicked out again, this time punching a large hole through the side of the crate. He hauled it up to his waist and then hurled it at the back wall of his bedsit. It exploded, sending plastic shrapnel and its contents spilling out across the floor. Blake readied himself for the next crate but stopped in his tracks. With nostrils flaring, he looked down at the small bottle of bright blue nail varnish by his feet. It was given to him at the hospital, along with Sarah’s clothes, the day of the accident. Electric blue was Sarah’s favourite colour. He picked up the bottle, closed his eyes, and rubbed it against his cheek. He tried to stop himself crying.

  The sound of a police siren outside shook him from his thoughts. He put the nail varnish bottle into his pocket and looked around his bedsit. The contents of the upturned packing boxes were strewn all over the floor. CDs, toiletries, books, T-shirts, unopened envelopes, shoes and books of all kinds scattered in all directions. With a resigned breath, he crouched down and started to clear up. His foot began to ache.

  A bright red folder rested against the wall, its spine pointing upwards like the apex of a tent, and papers spilled out underneath. He tried to look away, but the word Newton stamped on its cardboard jacket wouldn’t let him go. He stared at it for a while and then gathered the papers up in his hands.

  Looking around Blake located the plastic swivel chair next to the kitchenette. Unceremoniously, he dumped the pile of academic journals stacked on its seat onto the floor. Then he dragged the chair to an area of the carpet away from the mess of the upturned packing boxes. One by one, he laid out the file’s contents on the floor in a large semi-circular fan around the chair.

  He sat down on the chair, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. After they had returned to focus, he stared down at the arrangement of papers. They were all of differing types and sizes: copies of architectural plans, photographs of museum exhibits, and photocopies of newspaper articles. All were connected in some way to the robberies, and most were collected from police crime scene reports. Blake bounced a curled knuckle against his mouth, searching for a clue.

  Since Nomsa’s death, he had studied the crime reports time and time again. How many photographs would it take? A missed fact, a figure hidden in the shadows, a small clue that would eventually prove crucial, some interlocking detail, a face in the crowd, an item out of place. Something blowing against the direction of the prevailing wind that he could use as a lever to pry the case open.

  Years of assisting the police’s Art Crime Squad had made him an expert in recognising the patterns. He knew how documents and mounts evolved over time owing to exposure to sunlight. He could detect the degradation of inks and parchment glues and the oxidisation of oil paints. He could perform a microscopic analysis of signatures and brush strokes. He was familiar with the patterns that made a work of art legitimate or fake. The truth always lay in the patterns.

  There was always an answer if you looked close enough. The problem was that the clue was often hidden in the shadows and the cracks, or in a small detail camouflaged amongst its surroundings. The scrap of evidence could be found in the smallest of sounds muffled by the din of the crowd. It had to be there: the key that would lead him to Nomsa’s killer.

  With the toe of his shoe, Blake slowly spun himself around on his chair. The outline of the papers on the floor started to whirl in his head. Abruptly his foot came down onto the carpet. The chair stopped. He crouched down and shuffled through the haphazard collection of documents and selected three photographs from the carpet. He stood up, walked over to his desk by the wall, and carefully placed each photograph side by side onto the desk. Still looking at the pictures, he reached out for the bottle balanced upright on the radiator next to the desk and filled a mug with another generous measure of whisky. He took a long sip and breathed out the vapours through his teeth. Three photographs, three police crime scenes, three robberies all linked by the same name: the Drakon. The name haunted him. As he rubbed his thick stubble, a brooding intensity filled his eyes.

  Blake had been the obvious choice to assist DCI Milton, head of the police’s Art Crime Unit, with the investigations. A man with a double first from Oxford University, the eye of a detective, and an unparalleled understanding of the black market in rare art and stolen manuscripts, Blake had been the obvious choice, but now he was high and dry and shut out.

  He bit his lip staring at the three photographs, one from each robbery. Blake had studied the modus operandi of each job carefully. They all had a consistent signature: all were tightly choreographed and meticulously planned lightning-strike robberies that usually lasted no more than a few minutes. Over the last eighteen months, the gang had pulled off heists from museums and priva
te collections across the world. The target of each robbery had been the same: artefacts once belonging to the celebrated scientist Isaac Newton.

  With his thumbnail, Blake traced a line around the perimeter of the first photograph. It was a grainy black-and-white image with a series of Japanese letter symbols displayed in its top right corner along with a date. The photograph was of a man riding a bicycle.

  The first robbery had taken place in the heart of Tokyo’s Yohogi district. The events had been caught on CCTV, and when the police made several clips public, the footage went viral on the Internet. Three individuals disguised as businessmen on their usual early morning commute to the office, their faces covered by anti-pollution facemasks, had approached Japan’s Token Hakubutsukan sword museum on bicycles. The safe room of the museum was being used as a temporary storage facility for a collection of Newton’s early papers, which were in transit to the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem. The businessmen made their way calmly to the front door of the museum and used tear gas to subdue the museum staff. The museum director was shown a picture of his wife and children along with a note written in red ink, saying that, if he didn’t comply completely with their demands, they would be executed. The doors to the safe room were unchained and the Newton papers taken. The gang then simply left the building, locking the front doors behind them, and melted back into the commuter crowds on their bicycles. Two Samurai swords considered to be national Japanese treasures were left untouched in the safe room, and subsequently police found that there had never been any hostages. They found the wife and children of the museum director playing happily in the local park. All investigations by the Tokyo police force had drawn a blank.

  Blake picked up the second photograph from the desk and, in deep thought, brought it up to his mouth. The sharp edge of the picture scratched his lower lip. Annoyed, he threw it back down onto the desktop. It was a colour picture of an ambulance car taken from an overhead gantry camera at the entrance of St James Park, London.