“He was the man you met outside?”
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“He was here to stop me."
“To prevent the truth coming out?”
“Yes."
“He was willing to allow this young woman to endure an unjust conviction?”
“Yes."
“He ordered you not to give evidence?”
“Yes."
“You defied him?”
“Because I love her."
“Did Bob Shepherd instruct you to throw that brick?”
“It came through him, yes."
“You didn’t question that order?”
“I did. I told him it would blow my cover.”
“But you went ahead?”
“He insisted."
“You’ve done similar things before? Started trouble, so the police had an excuse to move in?”
“Many times."
“That’s why you’re undercover?”
“It’s part of the reason."
“You’re aware, of course, that there was controversy, a few years ago, about spies in environmental protest groups. We were told all this had stopped."
“It’s… been moved."
“Moved? How? Where?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Mark’s eyes pleaded with the magistrate for mercy.
“It’s not direct and relevant to this case. I’ll accept,” said the magistrate.
The defence lawyer nodded his acquiescence to the will of the court.
Emma’s eyes darted everywhere, to the ceiling, the floor, over to her friends, but never would she look at him.
The defence lawyer rustled his papers. “Detective Waterstone, I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done today."
“I did it for Emma. I’ll do anything for her, if she’ll forgive me…”
“That is between the two of you, not for this court. Thank you. My colleague may have questions."
The prosecuting lawyer sat in his seat, jawbone writhing in his cheeks. “No, nothing further.” The man’s flick of the hand made it clear he wanted this witness gone and out of the court as soon as possible.
The clerk told him he could go. He took his chance. “Emma.” He reached towards her. She flinched away as though shot. The magistrate ordered him from the room. The barracking began from Emma’s friends. As he scurried through the door, the magistrate howled at them in rage, ordering the room to be cleared.
Chapter 36
Blackmail
Bob Shepherd strode towards the security guard and flashed his warrant card.
“I’m sorry, sir. Magistrates and court officials only."
“This is court business. Urgent. Very important."
“I can take a message."
Shepherd’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. He opened his briefcase and extracted an envelope, checked the name on the front. “John Jackson?”
The man appeared surprised. Shepherd handed it to him. “Open it."
Jackson gave him as suspicious glare, but he opened the envelope all the same and took out the photographs.
“They’re not high quality, but they do show your face, I think you’ll agree. As well as various other parts of your anatomy. If you’re struggling to remember, these were taken at a brothel in Tower Hamlets and the girl you’re in the process of buggering is only twelve. She’s there against her will. For future reference, they have cameras in all the rooms, for blackmailing their own clientele. How did I get them? Resources. We’ve hacked their camera feed, so we can exert pressure on their clients, when needed. Facial recognition software does the rest. Now, I am about to deliver a similar envelope to the magistrate. He won’t raise a fuss with you for letting me through. If you don’t move out of my way, on the other hand, these go public. Your wife will receive copies, and you will be prosecuted. Understand?”
The man’s eyes smouldered with fear and impotent rage, but he moved aside.
Shepherd paused outside the office used by the professional magistrate. He knocked, once, and opened the door without waiting for a reply. The man sat at his desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up with annoyance. “You have no business here."
Shepherd stepped inside and closed the door. He went into his briefcase once more and produced another envelope. He put it on the desktop. “Find the Capgras girl guilty or we circulate these to the press and relevant police departments. Do as I ask, and you will hear no more about it. Ever."
He didn’t wait for the man to reply, or to open his gift. He shut the door behind him as he left, made his way towards the back exit, and slipped away into London’s anonymity.
Chapter 37
Wiretapped
Capgras held the proof in his hands and it was worse than he had feared in his deepest, most paranoid nightmares. The spies had wiretapped the world and his movements could be tracked anytime, anywhere. They could scan his emails, log his calls, scrape his data, mine his fears… listen to his thoughts and eavesdrop on his dreams.
Read him like a book.
And they did these things routinely, throughout a life, for no reason at all. He held the proof in his hands, his soul dissected and exposed, ready to be revealed to the world.
But why him? Why must he be the one to stare into the void and return screaming, hair frizzled, eyes wild with forbidden wisdom? Why should Tom Capgras play the madman back from the storm on the withered heath? Could they not find another fool — someone without previous for this particular brand of treason?
His life’s story lay bare before him in black and white, picked over by analytical minds who probed for weaknesses and divergent thought. Tom’s life had been one long interlude of divergent thought. Some folks aren’t born to follow blind. Or maybe it’s the upbringing, the events of life, the trials and tribulations that turn them into rebels and trouble-makers and scruffs. People who shout: ‘the emperor wears no clothes.’
As his sister’s court case resumed around him, Capgras read, read and read. Every secret he might want to make quiet and take to his grave had been laid out in black and white, as if an omnipotent, omniscient civil service had been tracking him every day of his life, taking notes.
They had the data to destroy, humiliate and mock him, turn him to a laughing-stock, have him reviled and despised or locked in a mental asylum for the rest of his days even though he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing ‘wrong’. Nothing that was a crime or hurt others. But when a man talks to himself alone in his own home, he assumes it’s private, and no one is listening.
When a man gets drunk and argues with himself, he doesn’t expect to see a transcript, or be threatened with a covert recording. When a youth becomes obsessed with a girl and tells her things he hopes she wants to hear, he doesn’t suppose, years later, that the gushy nonsense will be thrown back in his face. If he writes bad poetry and keeps it to himself, no one is harmed. It’s a victimless crime. But take that sorrowful verse and parade it before the world, and one who makes his living as a hard-headed hack will be exposed to slyness, smiles and mocking grins.
There are worse fates. But this was his entire life, held up before him like a mirror, saying: ‘was this all you did, with the time that was given you? Did you do nothing more? Do you amount to so little? Were you so insignificant? So meaningless and trivial?’ Yet your buzzing was annoying to your betters. They would squash you as a fly, if necessary. If a crisis loomed, or the world ended.
The numbers had been fine-tuned. If one percent must die, Capgras might be spared. (There were worse people than him, apparently, and the hairs on their heads had been counted too.) But if three or four per cent were to be cut away from the body politic, excised like a bursting appendix, then he would be swept into the net.
He turned the page to see Apostle exposed like a naked model on a centrefold. The PowerPoint presentation had been designed to justify the expenditure, and tweaked to report on progress, updated to prove the money was well spent all along. The print-out
became unreadable in places, inexplicable in others. Convoluted diagrams obfuscated and obscured any meaning. Yet despite the natural encryption of the corporate classes, the truth remained discernible: Apostle was live. It was not an exercise, a possibility, or a contingency plan. It was up and running.
The clerk of the court finished her diatribe to the assembled masses at the back of the room. Behave, she ordered, or else. The lawyers were invited to sum up their cases. This wouldn’t take long, Tom thought, not for the benefit of a professional magistrate who would have already made up his mind. No one would hand down a guilty verdict, not after that testimony from Mark.
Capgras shuffled the papers, looking through what he’d read, assessing how far this would take him. There was evidence here, but not much of it. And it led one way: back to him. He must reveal all of it, make it public, bring the tale to life by bringing it down to one life, one person. And he held in his hands the only file he needed, the only file he had any right to hold up for inspection. He must become his own story.
Tom looked up from his reading. The lawyers had finished, and the magistrate shuffled papers, appeared thoughtful for a moment. He had to acquit, there was no other option. Mark’s evidence was damning to the police. It exonerated Emma. It blew the prosecution’s claims out of the water. Emma was told to stand. The magistrate stared at her. He would acquit. He must. He would.
But he glared at the courtroom, gazed mournfully at his bench, then back at Emma: “I find the defendant guilty."
Chapter 38
Verdicts
Emma’s first thought was how to tell Ben. How would she save him from pain and panic? Sentencing was adjourned while reports were prepared. Reports into what? Her life? Her work, mental health, family? Ben. What about Ben?
“I must warn you to expect a custodial sentence,” the magistrate said. Then he was on his feet and gone while the courtroom erupted. Her friends shouted protests. Her lawyer rushed to her side, told her they would appeal. She mustn’t worry. It was an aberration, a shocking decision. Unforgivable. They would fight it at every turn, he insisted.
In a daze, her eyes scanned the room and came to rest on her brother. Tom sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped, as though he alone were responsible for this, and all other calamities in the world.
“Can I leave?” she asked her lawyer.
“Yes, yes."
“But I’ll go to jail?”
“Not for long. A few months, nothing more. Not at all if we can have this overturned. Don’t worry. The appeal will be successful."
“What if it isn’t?”
He told her platitudes. She stopped listening. She gathered up her things and looked for Ruby, for Ollie. Someone to take control and lead her out of there.
Ruby arrived first and hugged her, long and hard. Emma stared over her friend’s shoulder at Tom, who hadn’t moved. Finally he seemed to come out of whatever dark dream had taken hold of him and their eyes met. His fear was plain. And he knew what it was like in prison. He understood what she faced.
Emma didn’t notice she was crying, not until Ruby wiped away a tear. They walked together hand-in-hand out of the courtroom, pushing through the throng of friends, all of them wanting to help and reassure her, though their words slipped past the way rain slides down a window while a storm rages and the wind blows wild. Ollie appeared at her side. “There’s a taxi. Let’s get out of here."
“Take me home,” she said. “To Ben.” All she could think of was how and what to tell him: about Mark, prison, his father. All of it. She felt numb at the thought, yet terrified. Her life had been unknown to her until today – a long set of lies from one lover to the next. None of them who they claimed to be, all of them using her, spying on her friends, taking advantage. She would embrace rage, soon enough, but right now all she cared about was Ben.
Chapter 39
Pavements
Tom stumbled from the gloom of the courtroom into the late afternoon sunshine, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the light. He clutched the files under his arm. Get rid of them was his only thought. They were incriminating, and would be classed as state secrets. Find somewhere safe. Do it soon.
Across the road, Ollie bundled Emma and Ruby into a taxi. Tom waived, but didn’t join them. He wanted to be there, offering words of reassurance, but he had business to attend to first. He had to write up this story, conflict of interest be damned. It had to be told and his paper would have the best of it. It would go hard on Emma, to be plastered across the press looking like a fool but the facts would come out anyway, there had been plenty of other reporters in court, and besides, the controversy would help her. The public would howl for justice by the time he was finished with this tale.
Emma’s cab sped away into the London traffic. Her friends and supporters surged out of the courthouse onto the narrow pavement. One of them yelled: “There he is."
Mark Waterstone had rounded a corner, heading back to the courtroom. He froze like a rabbit in the headlights as the crowd of people flowed towards him. They swirled around him, surrounding him, not allowing him to leave. Capgras clutched his files, desperate not to lose one shred of paper, as he barged and elbowed his way through. Emma’s friends shouted abuse at Mark, calling him scum, a liar and a cheat and plenty of worse things, though words were unlikely to put a dent in the man, not insults at least. Well-aimed words, printed in the newspaper, they might leave a mark.
Tom broke through the crowd and confronted him. “You owe my sister an apology and a lot more besides."
“I did what I could. How could they convict her?”
“Ask the magistrate. You have your own questions to answer."
Protesters pushed and jostled Mark. Capgras kept firing his questions. “Tell me about DarkReach. What do you know?”
“Never heard of them."
That was a lie, Tom saw it in his eyes. “What about Apostle?” He yelled the words at Waterstone, struggling to be heard over the shouts of Emma’s friends. One of them shoved Mark. Waterstone pushed back, trying to break free.
Police sirens howled in the distance. This was turning into a riot and Tom didn’t dare get caught in it.
Waterstone grabbed Tom’s shoulder, steadying himself. “We need to talk. I’ll call you."
“Make it soon.” Capgras ducked unto the flailing arms and slipped out of the ring of protesters just in time. Three police cars stopped outside the court, followed by a transit van. Uniformed officers with truncheons drawn poured towards the crowd of people.
Capgras melted into the throng of passers-by and fled the scene, heading for the sanctuary of the newsroom, knowing if he got arrested with state secrets in his possession, he’d be a long time in prison.
Chapter 40
Hard Questions
Tom Capgras sat back from his computer, looking over the two thousand words he’d already written, knowing full well what was missing: the one thing no one else would get. The exclusive angle. The interview with the woman at the centre of it all. How did she feel? What did she think of the revelations? Does she still love the man who betrayed her? How will she tell the news to her boy?
Across the newsroom Jon Fitzgerald prowled among the desks, asking for updates, checking on progress.
Tom turned on his phone and called her. He couldn’t file this copy without at least a line from Emma Capgras. She sounded terrified, shocked and numb all at the same time. He remembered to ask how she was doing and how Ben had taken the news. He kept her talking for five minutes before he got around to hitting her with the hard questions.
“I need an interview. Some quotes. If you don’t want to talk, I can make them up. Phone you back, get you to check they’re okay."
“I don’t mind.” Her voice oozed resignation. “I’ll go upstairs, do it there."
“Is that because Ben’s with you? Have you told him about his father?”
“Not yet."
“It’ll be in the papers. All of them. It’s not an angle they
’ll miss."
“This will be hell for him at school."
“It can’t be stopped. I’m sorry."
“Not your fault."
True, he couldn’t stop the press doing the things they do. But he remained a part of the problem, and the reality of that came home to him now, harder than ever before.
They made small talk as she trudged up the stairs. He could hear each step she took, their mother’s voice in the background, Ben shouting as he ran around the house.
“Has Mark been in touch?” Tom asked.
“He wouldn’t dare."
“He might try to see you."
“There are people here that’ll stop him."
“Maybe not today. But soon."
“He can’t hurt me any more."
“That’s the way to look at it.” Tom began by reading to her: he had written the feature piece for the inside pages, complete with his byline, and an acknowledgement of the family connection. The newspaper’s lawyers would pore over it with a fine-tooth comb, to make sure nothing broke reporting privilege: anything libellous said in a courtroom could be printed, provided it was fair and accurate. Tom’s relationship to the defendant posed a potential risk. He had to reign in his feelings, stick to the facts, while bringing the story to life, by showing the world the real Emma Capgras.
As he finished his article, he started with the questions. She took pity on him, made it easy by talking openly, giving him all he needed. “You never suspected?”
“There were things that weren’t right. He had two passports. And he’d disappear for days, weeks at a time. He had more money than the rest of us, though no job, and he flashed the cash around, buying drinks. All a way of making friends and getting in with people, I see that now."
“When you became lovers, everything seemed… right?”
She paused. “He was a good actor I guess."
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 14
