“Seems you got your own girlfriend nicked,” Sally said.
Ruby appeared next to Sally, an arm around her shoulder. “They beat her up, bad and dragged her off and it’s your fault. You started that."
Shit. “I didn’t mean for that. I’ll get her out. Don’t worry."
Sally stared at him with those piercing green eyes. “And how would you do that? Got influence have we?”
“It’s not what you think. Trust me."
“We’re getting our stuff out of your van,” Sally said. “That’s the last we want to see of you. And we’ll warn the other groups."
“And stay away from Emma,” Ruby said.
“That’s between me and her."
“Better listen to the lady,” Big Dan said.
Where did he get his dialogue, Mark wondered, from the movies? Made sense. Most hard men did. Couldn’t think for themselves.
“Our stuff.” Sally held her out palm expectantly.
“Give me another chance. I’ll prove it to you. What I did back there was for the cause. It’ll turn out right, in the end. You’ll see. Better than doing nothing."
“What part of ‘peaceful protest’ don’t you understand?”
He handed over his keys. “This wasn’t just any demo…”
“Yeah, we got that. Cops taking it real serious. Their big chance."
“I’m not…”
“Shut up and frack off.” Sally jangled the keys. “I’ll leave them on the seat."
The group grabbed their bags and trudged off in the direction of a bus stop.
Mark slammed the back door shut, got in, started her up but paused. Where? Emma wouldn’t be at home, not unless they had her out by now. That was it. He put the van into reverse and was about to pull back when a black four-by-four with tinted windows slammed to a stop behind him.
More trouble. He killed the engine, got out. The driver’s window wound down. “In."
He had no choice, though his heart hammered, not out of fear but with dread. What now? What next?
“Get in,” said the man once more. And it didn’t sound like a polite request. Mark Rockford (as he was known in certain parts of town) sighed long and deep and got into the car.
Chapter 17
A Night In The Cells
Emma sat on the bus, thirsty, hungry, drained, dying for a piss but unable to move, for an hour, two, three. She wriggled on the seat, groaned at the discomfort.
“Wait it out,” whispered the woman next to her. “It’ll be worth it, when we walk free."
As darkness was falling a pair of plain-clothes detectives got on and walked down the bus. “Emma Capgras?”
She froze. How did they know her name? Or that she was here?
“Capgras, stand up."
She didn’t move. The second plain-clothes man pushed past the first, a photo in his hand. He stopped beside her seat, took hold of her chin and pulled her face around. “This is her.” He shoved her shoulder and gripped her arm. “Up.” They marched her off onto deserted streets, still closed to traffic. The protesters had gone home. Those held would be released soon. But not Emma. The plain-clothes men led her to an unmarked police car, put her in the back, drove her to a station. The place was calm and half-deserted. The detectives handed her over to the custody sergeant who told her, formally, that she was under arrest and would be held for further questioning. A night in the cells.
It made no sense. No one else was here. They had singled her out, the plain-clothes coppers on the bus had known her name, had her photo. Was it because of Mark? It must be. What had he done? What had she done? Nothing. So why her? If not because of him? Why her?
Chapter 18
Homecoming
Emma held up the key to her front door, poised to push it into the lock. She paused, steadied herself, knowing she would have to tell her tale, over and over. So far she had been tough and defiant, but now it was over she felt ready to break. Tears would come. Once safe inside it would overwhelm her.
But she must stay strong, for Ben’s sake. Don’t frighten the boy. Don’t even tell him.
She pushed the door open and slumped into the hallway. She longed for a shower after a night in the cells, for coffee and breakfast and, more than anything, time alone.
The house heaved with friends and family. The first to reach her was Ben who threw himself into her arms and burst into tears. That set her off, and she tried to reassure him while miming a question for Ruby over Ben’s shoulder. She drew a square in the air. Television. Ben had seen her being beaten by the police.
The boy shook. Was that fear? Or relief? She crouched, held him tight and murmured reassurance.
Her brother Ollie handed her the phone and whispered: “Mum."
She sounded terrified, crying down the line. It had been on the evening news. “Are you all right? Those men. I should be there. Do you need me? Have you been to a doctor? Go to hospital. Was it as bad as it looked?”
Worse. Emma fought her way into the kitchen, still talking to her mother on the phone, holding it in her right hand while Ben clung to her left. She found a seat and flomped onto it and Tom, who always understood better than anyone what she needed, put coffee in front of her. She hugged the cup as she explained to her father how she was fine and they mustn’t worry and it would be okay and she’d come and see them soon. But she needed sleep and recovery time.
After an hour of telling her story to one and all, they began to melt away, back to their own lives, their own Sundays.
Ruby told her of what she had missed on the demo, how they had made it home, how Sally had banished Mark. “It was all his fault. He’s out the group. Everyone agreed. No one wants him around. He’s a liability."
He was worse things than that, Emma thought. Though she held her tongue in front of Ben.
Ruby paused in her tale, listening. Emma heard it too: the familiar tap-tap-tap of Mark’s van pulling up outside. The kitchen fell quiet and the last of the visitors, Ollie, Ruby and Tom gathered up their things.
“You want us to stay?” Tom asked. “Moral support?”
“We could beat him up,” Ollie said. Though they all knew there was no truth in that. She’d seen Mark’s anger often enough. His violence on the demo had come as no surprise, though his temper had never been directed at her, only at life’s small inconveniences. “Did he get arrested?”
“He always gets away with it,” Ruby said. “Sally thinks…” She stopped, looked at the floor. “We should go. Unless... ”
“No. Leave. Better I do this, alone."
She sent Ben upstairs. Where was Mark? He was taking an age. Finally, she heard his key in the door. Had he been waiting in his van, watching, biding his time?
She sat at the kitchen table, her hands shaking as she rolled herself a single skinned joint. He appeared in the doorway. She didn’t look up. He didn’t speak, but moved across the room and scraped a chair out from the under table. He sat down. She felt his eyes boring into her.
“You all right?”
Did she even want him here? Should she order him to go? Her fingers jittered and half the dope fell onto the table.
“Look, I’m sorry."
She dropped the bedraggled, half-rolled single-skinner into her stash tin. “What the fuck? Why did you do that? That was your fault."
“It wasn’t only me. There were others."
“It gives them an excuse. You know the rules. No violence. No provocation."
“Did they hurt you?”
She threw her tobacco tin at him. He fended it away. She brushed her hair back off her face so he could see the bruises. There were more, many more to show but she wasn’t in the mood for stripping off.
Should she throw him out? Or forgive him? Did she love him? Not really. And that means no. But it was good to have someone around who wasn’t hopeless and adrift in life. “They let everyone else walk away. But they charged me."
“What with?”
“There’s a long list."
; “Let me see."
“You a lawyer now?”
“I can help."
“How?”
“I’ll deal with it. Trust me."
“I’m scared. You know how they are, with demos and riots, when they’re on the TV, in the news. In London. They make examples of people. They’ll make one out of me."
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“They came for me on the bus. Detectives. They knew my name though I hadn’t given it. They knew I was there. Why? What’s this about?”
He looked away from her, hiding his face. Was it anger? Or guilt?
“Mark, what’s going on? Why did you…?”
“It was… stupid, I got carried away."
“You know what people are saying? What they’re thinking?”
“I’ll get you off, make sure the charges are dropped."
“How can you do that?”
He stood up, paced the room. “I’d better go."
“You only just got here."
“I came to check you were all right."
“Well I’m not. I hurt, everywhere, I’m scared and I don’t want to go to jail, especially when I’ve done nothing. What will happen to Ben? He’s terrified. He saw it on TV.”
“Shit. That’s bad. I’ll make things good though. Honest."
“How? What do you mean?”
“Just… wait. Keep calm."
Calm? She looked down at the remains of the unrolled joint, pulled another paper out of the Rizla packet. She’d smoke one and head to bed. Should she go alone? Invite him? Or tell him to get out?
He decided for her. “I’ll be gone for a while. See you later in the week."
“What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer. She heard the door click shut followed by the deep rumble of the diesel engine receding into the distance.
Chapter 19
A Second Opinion
Tom slowed the Norton as he approached the bridge. He pulled into a lay-by, killed the engine and locked the bike with the chain and padlock, then headed into the woods, taking the footpath beside the river. He hadn’t been here for a decade or more, not since his university days when a gang of them would tour Dartmoor on the weekends, looking for places to walk, to hang out, to light fires as darkness fell, to drink and smoke through the evening, sneaking off into the undergrowth to make love. Or have a crap. Waking in the morning with thick heads and aching backs. Good times. What happened? How did they fade so fast?
He found a bench where he could sit and listen to the river and watch the wild daffodils sway in the breeze. Dog walkers passed by, some with gruff good mornings, others with cheery discussions of the weather. He waited patiently, knowing his friend would come, with news or with nothing, either way, he would be here.
Sure enough, Ethan Hall appeared across the clearing, a red setter at his side, a Tilley hat pulled low over his forehead, and a pair of green wellies on his feet.
Tom didn’t wave. He made no gesture. He even turned away as though the man was of no interest to him. Ethan ambled past without a word or a glance. Three minutes later he was back and this time he sat on the bench next to Tom. "Long time. You're looking well."
"You too. Thanks for coming."
"My pleasure, always good to see an old friend. I heard about that business. How long were you…?”
"Five months, near as damn it." Eighteen weeks in a white collar prison. Not worth making a scene, or dwelling on the self pity. But not something he wanted to repeat.
"You're not exactly a reformed criminal, are you?" Ethan flashed the sly grin that Tom remembered well from their university days. "You haven't exactly learnt how to stay out of trouble." Ethan glanced at the backpack he had placed on the bench between them. "Everything you gave me is there. I don't want to see it again. You should destroy it. It'll have fingerprints and DNA all over it."
"I'll be careful."
"I'm married, three kids," Ethan said, changing the subject abruptly. But Tom recognised the connection. He was laying down the law: he had a lot to lose, people to protect.
"I’m aware of the dangers."
"You sure?"
"I've done the time. I'll not be reckless, or go sticking my neck out."
"Sounds like you know what this is already."
“Someone gave me the lowdown. I came to you for a second opinion.”
"Well, here it is: burn it. Forget you ever saw it. Show it to no one. ”
“That bad? Have you seen anything like it?"
"Similar, but as sophisticated? As ambitious? No."
Tom stared through the trees towards the river. A family with two labradors headed towards them. He changed the conversation, talked about the weather until they were out of earshot. "Any ideas on specifics?"
Ethan fell quiet, staring at the ground in front of his feet. He rubbed his hands together, stretched out his legs. “Did you ever wonder, how they did it in the old days?"
"Did what?"
"Make decisions, like this. Back in the time of nuclear bunkers and the cold war, who would they have saved?"
"The royals I guess, politicians."
"Civil servants and cronies. The old-school-tie brigade. The establishment."
"Important people, rich and powerful."
"Old and useless," Ethan said. "Maybe this is better."
"You haven't told me what 'this' is yet."
“It's a way to make an assessment, prioritise resources. Know who can be saved. It's not such a bad thing. Do it scientifically, save the doctors, engineers, scientists, people who can rebuild the world. Better than a bunch of politicians. No one needs them at the best of times."
"But would it be scientific, and fair?"
"You can always put in a bias."
"Is there one here?”
“There’s potential for it. You can weight so many factors. Education, for example. So yes, it could be skewed. But it's still better than a civil servant with a sheet of paper and a lifetime of prejudices and scores to settle. Leave this alone, let it be."
Tom wrinkled his mouth into a frown. “I was planning to."
“Yet here we are…”
“I needed to be sure.”
“Well, now you are. Big story, will make a splash that’s guaranteed. Drop it, for your own sake."
Tom scraped his scalp with his fingernails. He looked up at Ethan, wondering how far he could push the old pals act. “If I needed proof…”
“You wouldn’t get it from me. I don’t want to be involved. Besides, I can’t prove anything. It’s only an opinion."
“An informed one."
“So? They could deny it. Or defend it. There is a good case for doing this. Who knows what will happen with the world…”
“But it could be abused. It might have been already."
“You’ve no proof of that. Nothing to indicate…” Ethan paused, staring hard into Tom’s eyes. “Or have you?”
Capgras looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The light was going, the sun sinking behind the hills of Dartmoor. He zipped up his leather jacket and took out a metal flask of whisky. One shot wouldn’t hurt. He needed the courage.
He offered the flask to Ethan.
“Not for me. It won’t help you any, either."
Tom took one short, sharp slug and felt the fire in his throat, rolled the Ardbeg around his mouth savouring the peaty aroma and the hints of chocolate and seaweed. He screwed the top back on.
“Why do this to yourself?”
Tom shrugged. “Didn’t ask for it. It found me."
“People found you."
“Comes to the same."
“Might be a set up."
“That’s possible. But I need to know, for sure."
“For that you’ll require proof, from an insider. This thing is as powerful as anything I’ve seen. It takes six different data interrogation techniques and melds them together. Has to be GCHQ or NSA. And that means trouble. Sorry, but it’s not my fight."
“This might be everyone’s fight.” Tom touched the pocket of his jacket where the flask of whisky nestled against his heart.
“One you can’t win,” Ethan said.
“Yeah, about that... If anything happens to me…”
“Keep your head down, destroy this and nothing will happen."
“But if it did. No one knows. Not what you know."
“What about your other guy?”
“He won’t talk."
“I won’t either."
“But you’ll help."
“No."
“If I disappear…”
“No."
He had no right to ask. “It could be anonymous. But my news editor. I trust him."
“No."
“This mustn’t die with me."
“Then don’t die. For god’s sake Tom, what are you involved in? This is an algorithm. No one’s going to get murdered, even if it is a state secret. You’ve been reading too many spy books.”
He could mention Albright. Tell Ethan the connection. Drag him into this. But he had no right. He’d asked too much already. Let it go. He would carry this alone or not at all. “You’re right. Getting melodramatic in my old age. You have my word, I’ll drop it all and destroy this. Don’t worry about me. Thanks, it was good to see you again."
“Come round for dinner next time."
“Say hello to Doug for me, if you bump into him."
“Not if Harriette’s there. She’ll kill me if I mention your name."
Capgras set off through the woods, heading for the lay-by and his trusty motorbike, the dodgy dossier clutched to his chest. He’d get rid of it.
Soon.
Any day now.
But not yet.
Chapter 20
In His Element
Bob Shepherd sprawled in his chair, hands behind his head, staring out of the window onto the countryside of Hertfordshire and the spires of a sleepy market town. This office, which came with his ‘other’ job, was better than that dingy, windowless room in a central London police station. The premises of DarkReach plc were light and bright, modern and tastefully furnished, with potted plants and slinky female employees dotted around the place to make it attractive.
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