Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2)

by Simon J. Townley

  Ben had been right. There was something wrong about the man, but what? Even if could find out, how would he tell Emma, without making matters worse? Or breaking her heart? Tom sauntered back inside and closed the door. He found Ben on the sofa in the living room, playing a first-person shooter computer game. His avatar was a half-cyborg maniac, armed with machine guns and machetes, pistols, rifles, shotguns and a futuristic laser, all lugged over his ample shoulders. Bang, bang, he shot the bad guys dead. Or were they the good guys? It was hard to tell.

  “You can’t play this game Ben."

  “Mark said I could. He bought it for me."

  “He’s not your father. Your mother makes the rules. No shooting, no killing."

  “But it’s fun."

  “Killing people is fun?”

  “They’re not real. And it’s good practice."

  “You won’t ever need to shoot people, Ben. Trust me."

  “How do you know?”

  “Ben, please, do as I say.”

  The boy tossed the game controller onto the floor. “Did you see him?”

  “Sure, he said hello."

  “What did you think?”

  “He seems fine. Leave it alone. Best not interfere."

  Ben scowled. “I heard him on the phone, talking about you."

  “When was this?”

  “Today. He was in the kitchen. I was listening at the door."

  “You shouldn’t spy on people."

  “He said your name. He called you ‘the brother’ at first and then ‘Capgras.’ But I don’t know who he was talking to. It sounded important. And Mark talked different."

  Tom frowned at the boy. Was he making this up? No, he wouldn’t. “What did he say?”

  “That he couldn’t get close. It was risky. Then he said you were dry-cleaned.”

  “That makes no sense."

  “It’s what spies say.” Ben shuffled on the sofa, sitting up straight as if he had something important to say. “It means you’re evading surveillance.”

  Tom sat next to the boy. “Go on. What else?”

  “He said ‘all he has is open source’ and then later ‘a disappearance would be counter-productive.’ He sounded scared."

  Tom paused, watching Ben’s face. The lad wouldn’t lie about this. He trusted him. And yet… “Why would Mark say stuff like that?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something wrong about him."

  “So you keep telling me."

  “Well, I’m right."

  “Say nothing to your mother. Promise me. I’ll find out who he is, one way or another. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Ben said. “If I can play the shooter game."

  “No game,” Tom said. “Do your homework, I’ll do mine.” He dropped one of Ben’s school books on his lap then opened up his files on the Apostle case and began to go through it, one more time, hoping it might finally make sense.

  Chapter 12

  Peaceful Protest

  The group met in a car park behind a library a few streets over from King’s Cross train station. A hundred and twenty protestors, including five children, two dogs and a pet rat. Between them they had sixty placards, a drum, three salsa shakers, a whistle and a megaphone, which had been Mark’s idea. They’d never brought one before, he hadn’t consulted on it and Emma was unsure why he would need it. Even at the best of times, men with megaphones were a danger to public health. Today, it was asking for trouble.

  The leader for the event was Sally, a woman who wore large sunglasses, a multicoloured knitted dress and knee-high boots. She possessed a grin to make a Cheshire cat jealous and an infectious laugh that was the best antidote to police intimidation that Emma had ever seen or heard. Things would be all right, Sally would see to that. She was calm in the face of fury.

  The group wound its way down an alley and out onto the main streets of London, joining the throng of protesters descending on the centre of the city, coming from Dagenham and Dulwich, Bristol, Belgium and Belfast, Poland and Padstow, all to tell the leaders of the world’s most powerful economies that enough was enough and something had to change.

  Those world-weary leaders had heard it all before, Emma knew that. They didn’t listen then and they wouldn’t listen now, but she wasn’t about to sit on her hands at home and let them think no one cared and that they could get away with this forever.

  She was not alone in her hopes. They came in their tens of thousands, defying police orders to gather where they were told and stay where they were permitted. So many, they could have stormed the lines and lynched every last politician in the capital had that been their intention. But they didn’t come for violence. They came to stop it, if they could.

  Emma walked arm-in-arm with friends from the protest groups and political meetings, the evenings down the pub and the fund-raising events. She saw familiar face from the allotment, parents from school, a nurse from the local doctor’s surgery. She bumped into companions from schooldays and two ex-boyfriends. It was a grand day out, like a carnival or Christmas. Except that the police cordons kept moving around them, bottling them in, diverting them, stopping them from getting too close to the democratically elected leaders of the world who didn’t appreciate the sights and sounds of too many ordinary folk all at once.

  “They’re forcing us towards the river,” Sally yelled to her group. She pointed away, across the throng, against the tide of people, to a side street. Clever move, Emma thought. Head off, go around, keep probing to find a way through. No point getting stuck here.

  Emma kept hold of Ruby’s arm, while holding her placard high above the crowd so it could be seen.

  “We’re heading for Trafalgar Square,” Ruby yelled down Emma’s ear, trying to be heard over the singing, the hubbub of voices, the chanting, the recorded music blasting from a nearby building, the sirens in the distance, and the background din of bodies moving, clothes rustling, boots stomping on the pavements and tens of thousands of human beings breathing, relentlessly, and with no sign of giving up, any time soon.

  “Why? Too far away."

  “Cameras, she reckons. Get close to the news crews."

  “How does she know where they are?”

  “She’s Sally, she knows somehow."

  Where was Mark and his damned megaphone? He always wanted to go where the press hung out, even though he never talked to them or got his picture in the papers. He rarely got arrested and was never charged. He led a charmed life. She glimpsed him through the crowd then lost sight as the group surged forward. They emerged from the main throng of marchers and headed away looking for a crack in the police defences.

  Emma scurried to keep up. Mark wasn’t waiting for her. All that talk about the dangers of this demo, but he wasn’t protective or concerned for her welfare. Was he still sulking or trying to make a point by leaving her as far behind as possible?

  Sally knew her stuff, and soon they picked up speed, bypassing the crowded main streets, ducking and weaving through narrow alleyways. Finally, they broke through on Wardour Street. The way along Whitcomb Street onto Trafalgar Square was blocked by metal fences, six foot high, but there was no sign of police. The group gathered close to the fence, hiding Mark as he used bolt croppers to cut through. He pulled one of the panels loose and they surged onto the square.

  They were not alone. Around ten thousand protesters already filled the area between the National Gallery and Nelson’s Column, all of them, it seemed, either chanting, singing, shouting or playing some kind of makeshift musical instrument. It sounded like a party, felt like a festival, looked like a revolution and had to mean trouble. Sure enough, rows of police lines blocked the exits from the square that would take them towards Whitehall, home to the civil service. Whitehall led to Abingdon Street and on to the houses of Parliament and Downing Street, where the heads of state would be entertained by the Prime Minister.

  Emma felt the urge, the group imperative, to arrive as close as possible to the source of that power. Why? What could they d
o? Would the sight of so many unwashed, unkempt young folk make a difference to the will of the powerful? No. But something must be done, for the show of it if nothing else.

  First, though, the police lines.

  “How do we get through?” Ruby tugged on Emma’s arm. “We’ll have go around, back through the fence and try again."

  But ahead of them, Mark had climbed onto a plinth, home to the statue of a lion. He leant on the flank of the beast, megaphone in hand, addressing not simply their group but anyone who could hear. “Move to the police lines. Push through. Don’t let them stop us. Who are they protecting? Not the people. Not the planet. Force your way through.” He pointed to the lines, yelling like a madman. Others around him took up the call. Soon hundreds were chanting. Mark leapt from the plinth and urged the mob forward towards the barricades.

  “He’s mad,” Ruby said.

  It didn’t sound like him, that was for sure. Often Emma had questioned his commitment, never openly, but in her heart. He was along for the ride much of the time, keen to hear what people had to say, but she’d caught him chatting with coppers as if they were long-lost friends, even after a demo had been broken up with truncheons and flying fists. Now, he seemed intent on starting a riot. What good would that do anyone? Who could benefit?

  “Stay back,” Ruby urged her, “There’s going to be trouble.” Others shared her view. Parts of the group moved away as if frightened at how the mood had changed so fast. Yet there were young men rushing forward, eager to get involved.

  “I have to check on Mark, make sure he’s all right,” Emma said. “I’ll be back."

  “He can look after himself. He’s starting this."

  “Then I’ll stop him. No one else can."

  “There’ll be a riot,” Ruby yelled. “Don’t get hurt. Stay clear."

  “I’ll find you later.” Emma clutched her placard and followed the stream of people pushing towards Whitehall. The police seemed panicked, moving back in the face of such overwhelming numbers. It would be a ploy, it always was. They had organisation on their side. They would know when and where to make a stand.

  Yet the crowd were jubilant as they forced their way across the roundabout. Where were the police? All she could see was heads and shoulders and placards in the air. She lost sight of Mark. Then she heard him, through his megaphone. “Storm the lines, storm the lines."

  Don’t be such a fool. They had not come for violence, or to start a fight, but to stop wars. How could attacking the police send that message? What had got into him? She had to make him calm down. Get him out of there, for his own good. He’d lost all reason.

  She was jammed between bodies, unable to move. Then the crowd surged ahead down Whitehall, spreading out. She had room at last and hurried forward, looking for Mark. Find him, before the police worked out who was causing the trouble. They’d have cameras, of course. They’d be filming all of this, and Mark knew that well enough but he was reckless beyond reason today.

  Did he want a riot? Didn’t he care about being arrested?

  She saw him up ahead. Not far to go, but still there were bodies in her way. She stumbled, dropped her placard. Strong hands hauled her to her feet, set her straight, but she was carried forward by the press of people like a twig in a raging torrent, until from nowhere a solid wall of blue uniforms blocked the road. The coppers were in riot gear, with shields and truncheons at the ready, preparing a charge to break the protesters and turn them back. She'd seen the tactic before a dozen times or more.

  She had to get away. Where was Mark?

  A brick arced towards the police. It sailed over their helmets and crashed behind them. What fool threw that? Demonstrators shouted their anger, urging peace and calm and no violence. But it was too late. The first blow had been struck and it came from the pacifists. The cops were sure to act now.

  Where was Mark?

  She caught sight of him standing alone, others drawing away from him, leaving him exposed as he took back his arm and launched another missile towards the line of riot shields.

  She yelled at him to stop, hands on her face, not believing what she saw. Their group didn’t do this: everyone agreed. No attacks, no violence. Passive resistance, Ghandi style, was the only way to keep the struggle alive and on the right side of karmic laws and common sense.

  The police charged, heading straight for them. The crowd stampeded but there was nowhere to go. No escape. The shields thudded into them. Truncheons bludgeoned through the group. Emma tried to run but there were too many bodies. A crack on her back flung her forwards. Pain ricocheted through her body. She stumbled and fell. Boots landed on her, stamping and kicking. Then riot sticks pounded on her sides and legs, as if she were a drum kit and this a salsa band, banging the beat for all to follow. Hands grabbed her feet and her face was scrapped along the tarmac as they dragged her away, screaming in pain.

  Chapter 13

  Home Alone

  Ben spent the day at home under the ever-watchful eyes of his uncle, who let him play computer games most of the morning (but not the shooting one, with the blood and the splatter), while the television news droned in the background and Tom tapped away on his laptop.

  It was a time in limbo while his mother was busy saving the world and stopping the madness of war and pollution.

  He missed her. It was Saturday, their day, when all else was put aside and they went for adventures, or fun, or a walk in the park.

  Tired of computer games he retreated into a book, one of his favourites about a boy in India who runs away from home to live by a river and do nothing all day. That’s what Ben would do, when he grew up. That or go to Mars. Or be a racing driver. Or a spy.

  “Have you finished your homework?” Tom asked, hours too late. “Your mum’s taking you out tomorrow, though it’s a surprise."

  “Where?”

  “No idea. Is it done?”

  “Sure.” All of it that mattered, which wasn’t much.

  The news changed from the weather to a live report on the protests in the centre of London, showing thousands crammed into Trafalgar Square. The demonstration had brought traffic to a standstill, causing chaos for shoppers. Ben watched intently, hoping to see his mother on the TV. “Can we go?”

  “No, it’s not safe. For you, I mean. Your mum will be fine."

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  “I’m working, got stuff to write up."

  “Don’t you want to save the world?”

  “In my own way, if that’s all right."

  “Does everyone have their own way?”

  “Everyone should."

  Ben thought about this. Did it make sense? Was it true? Or was his uncle playing with words again because they sounded nice? Ben pointed to the screen. “You should write about this."

  “They’ve got people there. It’s not my job. I’m working on something else.”

  But what could matter more? “Can I turn the sound up?”

  “Not too much.” Tom tossed the remote control across the room.

  Ben turned up the volume. The reporter talked of an attack on the police, unwarranted and unprovoked, rioting and stone throwing. A senior policeman told of officers who came under a hail of missiles being forced to respond in the interests of public safety.

  Tom’s phone rang, and he left the room with it clasped to his ear, talking earnestly.

  The coverage cut to live scenes of police rushing in, protesters scattering, statues and traffic cones, sticks and stones. A woman bleeding in the road, her face terrified and in pain. A face he knew, a face he loved. One he longed to protect.

  The television flashed away, the images gone almost before he could register them. But he recognised his own mother, even if only for a split second.

  He sat on the floor close to the screen, his skin prickled with tension and fear, eyes dazed by the flickering light.

  His uncle knelt beside him. “I have to go out. It’s work. I’ve called Ollie, he’s on his way round. Are you all right?
What’s wrong? Talk to me.” Tom gripped his shoulders, hugged him tight, but Ben didn’t respond. He sat stiff as a gravestone, unable to speak or move or even to tell Tom what had happened.

  “What is it? What’s happened? Is something wrong? Ben… Ben…. Ben?”

  Chapter 14

  Pigs And Lipstick

  Her legs felt like stones pounded by the waves and dragged up and down the shoreline. Her arms ached and her face had gone numb. She could barely see through her left eye. Emma tried to move but her wrists were tied behind her back, and she recognised the sharp tug of plastic handcuffs. She lurched to get up off the pavement. She was the wrong side of the police lines, near vans where uniformed officers loitered. Could she escape? Or would it make matters worse to even try?

  Two coppers strolled by and glanced at her. They sauntered over, stood so close she felt the heat of their bodies, heard their breath. One of them bent down, took hold of her hair. Every instinct said pull away, don’t let them touch you. Fear clasped her chest so hard her lungs barely moved.

  “She’d look all right, if she had a wash,” said one copper. “If she made an effort. Put on nice clothes."

  “Lingerie you reckon? Or would that be lipstick on a pig?”

  She held her tongue. There must someone here to stop them. She sensed their breath on her cheek. Hands clasped her throat. They ran down her shoulders, over her collarbone and groped her breasts.

  “Leave me alone.” She heard the terror in her own voice. “Get off me.” She threw herself sideways, trying to get away. Should she scream? Yell for help? Who would come? More police. Who would they believe? Never her.

  Both men grabbed her and hauled her around, pulling her in different directions. A hand groped her from behind, forcing itself between her thighs, prodding at her.

  “Rip her clothes off I reckon. Do her here."

  “She’s too dirty. Don’t know what you’d get off her. Dose of the clap at least."

  “Shame. She’d be worth it if she was more girly.”