Chapter 43
Superiors
The woman from Human Resources frowned into her desk. “We don’t have anything for you. You’ve been out of uniform too long. You can apply for a transfer. Here’s the form. But you’re wasting your time. They’re planning for redundancies…”
Mark leant over her with the balls of his hands resting on the table. “I’m a serving police officer. Ten years in the force. You can’t tell me there’s no position available."
“You’ve missed too many assessments and training updates. We can’t put you in cars, not without another course. You might be able to go back into uniform but you’ll require a refresher.” She looked him up and down. “I doubt it even then. There’s nothing else. I’m sorry."
“They can’t kick me out."
“It’s up to your superior officer. Speak to him. Or go to the Federation. I can’t do anything.” She waived her hands in the air as a gesture of powerlessness personified.
“There must be someone I can talk to."
“Your superior officer."
“That’s not going to work."
“You’ll have to see him, anyway. He’s your superior officer. Get him to sign this form."
She shoved a piece of paper across the desk.
He picked it up and screwed it into a tight ball which he flung into a waste bin as he left the room. He stomped down the stairs. Two uniformed officers passed him, coming the other way, looking him over as if he were an escaped convict on the loose. He was used to that: as one of the ‘hairies,’ as the undercover teams were known, he’d had more run-ins with coppers than he cared to remember.
As they headed upstairs, he heard one of them use his name. “Waterstone,” the man said, his voice bitter with contempt. The story had got around fast. Well, it would. Police were supposed to stick by their own, never tell tales or speak against a fellow officer. Not anytime, not anywhere, least of all in a court of law.
He hadn’t meant to give Bob Shepherd’s name, but they’d pressed him, and taken him by surprise by even asking. Mark kept walking, heading down flight after flight of stairs. There was only one man who could keep him in the force: the man he had betrayed.
When he reached the depths of the basement, he wound through the cramped corridors until he arrived at the thick metal door of Shepherd’s monastic cell. It was open a crack. He rapped on it. Silence. But Shepherd was in there. He swung it open. His boss was in situ all right, talking with one of the top brass. Mark stepped back, instinctively, in awe of rank and power. Both men glared at him.
“I’ll leave you to deal with this.” The assistant chief constable didn’t so much as glance at Mark as he passed. He was being shunned by his own kind, by his own tribe.
“You’d better come in,” Shepherd said.
Mark shut the door behind him. Shepherd appeared frail. He was getting old and had stopped working out. That was a mistake. “I never intended to name you."
Shepherd held up a hand to silence him: he wanted to go first.
Mark ignored it and ploughed on: “It was your own fault. We were seen talking. The brother spotted us, recognised you, put two and two together. The defence lawyer had me tied up…”
Shepherd slammed a fist on his desk. “You should never have been in that witness stand. If you’d kept your mouth shut and followed orders…”
“What about Emma? I don’t want her going to jail."
“Tough. Get used to it. It’s gonna happen. All arranged, in advance."
“Why? What’s this about?”
“Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? Why are you here?”
“I need a job. Woman in HR says I’ve got to talk to you first. Wasn’t my idea I promise you that."
“You already have a job."
“I’m done undercover. Finished with it. I want to be a proper policeman. A normal copper, dealing with crime and helping people."
“Try the boy scouts."
“I’m done with DarkReach as well. Tell them yourself. I resign."
“Too late. You lost that position the moment you took the stand. Private sector, no messing, remember? As for the Met, what do you think? They’re laying off good coppers across the board. Who the hell would want you?”
“I’ve given five years of my life…”
“Oh the saintliness. You were screwing around, drinking, smoking, shagging everything that moved."
“I got valuable information. A lot it. There was Gleneagles…”
“Don’t gloat of past glories. We’re adults here."
Mark felt his fingers twitch. Don’t thump the man. Not yet. “I told you Whitehall was a bad idea. Should have kettled them as normal. Kicking off a riot left me exposed."
“It’s part of the job. Deal with it."
“I want a transfer. If you don’t…”
“What? You’ll what?”
Mark leant forward over the desk. “If you don’t okay it, then I can’t transfer and I’m stuck working for you. And neither of us wants that."
Shepherd glared up at him. “You’re not finished until I say so. Put things right first."
“No point trying, they’ll never trust me."
“Not with the protesters. With the boy. I didn’t mean for him to find out this way. It’s all your fault."
“Capgras saw you at the courtroom. That’s none of my doing. You were a fool to turn up."
Shepherd’s face twisted as though suppressing anger. “When the time comes, I need you to bring me the boy. Do the introductions. Soften things. Make him understand. It’ll be easier that way, with a transition.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve been there, as a surrogate father. You’re ideally placed to perform a handover to his real dad."
Mark stared at Shepherd. The man could not be serious. But his face said otherwise. “Emma won’t let you near the boy."
“She’ll be inside."
“They won’t give her a custodial sentence."
“They will. It’s arranged."
“Arranged?”
“Emma goes to prison and will be moved to a facility run by DarkReach, where we’ll make up a few indiscretions. Caught trying to escape, that kind of thing. She’ll be out of your hair, and the boy will need a father. It’s time he came to live with me."
Mark felt a knot of anger unravelling in his guts, getting ready to spit venom. “In eleven years, you’ve never once been to see him, or acknowledge him as your son. You’ve not asked after him. And now you intend to take him from his mother? From his friends and family? This is madness, it’s inhuman. Why do you want him?”
“I’m his father. He’s my only son. I mean to raise him from now on. I’ll adopt him officially, in good time, but first, we need to get him away from those hippies. Bad influence. That’s your job. Ease the introductions. If you do this properly, there can still be a place for you here. Otherwise, you’re out. No transfers. Redundancy for you. What’s it to be?” Shepherd sat back in his chair, hands pressed together as though in prayer.
Mark turned from his boss, a man he once admired, even counted as a friend. Bob Shepherd was revered among the undercover teams. He had set up many of the programmes, and saved them when the press and the bleeding hearts came calling, bleating about human rights. He had moved them out of the oversight of the Met, though still connected to the force, and argued hard for more money and resources. Mark had been proud to serve under him then. Now, he was tempted to kill him. But that could never help Emma. If the wheels were in motion, only Shepherd could stop them. Mark alone wouldn’t know where to turn. If he stormed out of here, took the story to Emma, to her lawyer, to the newspapers…
He wouldn’t be believed. They’d discredit him. And to accuse a magistrate of corruption he’d need a lot more evidence. If he fought them head on he would lose. There was no choice: fight from the inside. “All right, I’ll help you with the boy. But Emma’s not to be in prison any longer than necessary. Get
adoption papers, fast. Then let her out. If you don’t, I’ll go public with all of this."
“No one would believe you."
“Some would. Ben would. I’d make certain of it."
Shepherd put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “All right. We’ll do it your way. As soon as she’s sentenced, bring the boy to me."
“Where?”
“My home. Get the lad and don’t let his family take him anywhere."
“His grandparents are good people…”
“Those are my orders."
“Anything else?”
“Keep a low profile. Stay away from the press. No interviews. And go see Ben, tell him about me. Nice things."
“Lies, you mean?”
“Just do it. And get out."
Mark slammed the door as he left.
Chapter 44
That Girl
Tom waved at the woman on reception as he left the building. He pushed open the door, his freelance shift on the newspaper finally over, and emerged into the noise and bustle of London’s streets. The girl was half hidden behind a pillar, but his peripheral vision picked her out. She had the kind of beauty that kicks a man where it hurts, demanding his attention, all of it, right now. He tried to look away, but she was staring straight at him and there was something familiar about that face. He’d not met her before: he would have remembered. Maybe it was in a dream?
She emerged from behind the pillar, wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt, with long blond hair halfway down her back. She had a body to makes a man’s soul do somersaults. That and the smile, shy but ravishing, put Tom’s imagination into overdrive. Within seconds, he’d gone through a whirlwind romance, and wedding, children, a lifetime of picnics by the river and walks in autumn woods, family dinners and endless love making. He built a life together with this woman, before he’d spoken to her, before he even learnt her name.
She approached. She wanted to speak to him. “Mr Capgras?”
Be cool, be calm. He recognised that face. Who was she? “How can I help? We’ve met?”
She shook her head. It made her breasts move under that t-shirt. Eyes up. Concentrate.
“This is for you.” She held out an envelope.
Damn. She was too beautiful to be a messenger. It was astonishing anyone would let her out of the house. If she were Tom’s, he wouldn’t allow her out of his sight. Not for anything. How old was she? Too young for him. Nineteen or so?
He took the package. It had his name on it. “You should have brought it inside.”
“In there?” She glanced at the newspaper offices, like a startled rabbit invited to a fox’s den. “I don’t trust the press."
Not a good start. But all wasn’t lost: he’d find a new line of work. “I’ve definitely seen you…”
“I’m Izzy Huxley.”
Albright’s girl. The one he’d been seeing, the one that had been living in his flat. The one he’d sacrificed his career for, and marriage, and maybe even his life. Now, at last, Tom understood. They were small prices to pay for such beauty. “Who is this from?”
“Who do you think?”
“From James Albright? From beyond the grave?”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I found it among his things.”
“With my name on it? Did you open it?”
“I must go, I can’t be seen here. It’s dangerous."
She had a point. There were too many photographers and reporters in this neck of the woods. “Walk with me.” He steered her away from the entrance. They crossed the road. “I need your help. James wanted to see me. There were things he intended to tell me. Not about you, about something important.” That sounded wrong. What mattered more than a girl like this?
“I can’t tell you anything. We didn’t talk shop."
That made sense. No one in their right mind would discuss politics, not when you could gaze into those eyes and mumble adoration. “Did he ever mention something called Apostle?”
She gave the slightest shake of her head. It made her hair flick across her face. “Don’t tell anyone I gave you this. Or that I was here. Keep me out of any stories. I’ve had enough of all that."
She sounded fragile and frightened. She needed protection. Tom ached to put his arm around her, to shield her from every pain, and grief and disappointment that life might bring. “Where can I contact you?”
“Leave me alone, please. Promise me that."
Leave her alone? He longed to sweep her into his arms and declare all his hopes and dreams.
“I can’t be seen with you.” She turned away from him, gliding along the pavement.
He set off after her: “One moment. I promise not to mention you in any stories. I’ll tell no one where I got this. But please… James wanted to tell me something important. For his sake, give me anything you can."
There were tears in her eyes. “Nothing. Sorry. I can’t.... I don’t..."
“Can I see you again?” His mouth blurted the words before his brain had chance to intervene.
“What? Why?”
“I might have questions. If I had a phone number… in case..."
“I don’t think so…”
“Here, take my card. If you need anything, someone to talk to. Protection from the press. I’d like to help."
She took it and smiled at him. And he knew, for certain, she would never call. He’d not see her again, and his life would be be spent in shallows.
“I’m going away,” she said.
“Where?”
“India."
“For long?”
“Forever. This country…”
“The press is a monster, it’s true. It’ll eat you alive.”
“Good luck,” she said, and for one terrifying, glorious, eternal second he thought she might kiss him on the cheek. But either he dreamt it, or she changed her mind, because she fled into the crowd of people and was lost from sight. He turned away, the air in his lungs setting like concrete.
Across the road from the offices of his newspaper, intense eyes watched at a window. Someone had observed that meeting. Seen them together. He recognised that face, all too well. Angie Gossage had been spying on him. He glared at her. She drew back, away from the glass. Had she identified the girl, or was she merely a jealous woman, keeping an eye on her man? That was an easy question to answer: Angie was no fool. She had every famous face committed to memory. But he had made a promise to Izzy Huxley and would keep it. Which meant dealing, one way or another, with that Gossage woman.
Chapter 45
The Lair
Sir Leo reclined in the arms of a voluptuous armchair, his feet warmed by a fire that would have seemed out of place, in the middle of May, in most homes, bars or restaurants. But this particular gentleman’s club knew the value its clientele placed upon comfort and custom. It was dark outside, there was the faintest of chills in the air, so the fires were lit. Besides, the flickering of the flames provided the perfect backdrop for fine brandy.
They also served to warm the extremities of the older members, a ritual that proved necessary to stir them into life at the end of a protracted evening of eating and drinking. Once ensconced in the armchairs of the club, they could be tricky to move, especially as the blood cooled in the late evenings and their metabolisms settled in for a long sleep amid dreams of jewels and gold.
The big beasts of the British establishment (monsters, to a man) came here to be among their own kind, undisturbed. Sir Leo lurked in his armchair, brandy in hand, eyes glittering in the firelight, like a panther waiting for its prey to pass by. He swirled his cognac and sniffed deeply of its musky aroma.
A flunky approached, wearing the starched uniform of the club. The man bent over in a submissive gesture and whispered: “He is here.”
“Ask him to come and see me, if he has the time.” Sir Leo relaxed into the fulsome armchair. Five minutes passed, ten, before Sir Joshua Rose-Pearson slid into the chair across the fire, with a hint of a nod of recognition. Sir L
eo rarely had to wait so long for any man. Yet this was a billionaire, a newspaper baron and a person of considerable influence and prestige.
“Shocking performance,” said Sir Joshua. “They’re not up to it. No backbone. Did you see it? All out for a hundred and thirty-seven, if you will. After being sixty-four for one. In my day, they’d have all been sent home with a smack across the head and no supper."
“You were at Lords?”
“For a couple of hours, took the prime minister. Chose the wrong day. You can’t rely on these people."
“Sport is notoriously fickle,” said Sir Leo. “I prefer games I can control from the comfort of my own club."
“I assume that’s why you wanted to see me."
“To ask for a favour, yes. Or to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, whichever way you care to look at it."
Sir Joshua grunted, suspiciously. He took a glass of brandy handed to him by a flunky.
“Something inconsequential, I assure you. I’m sorry to bother you with it, it will seem frivolous. But your influence would prove invaluable with an intractable problem we’re having. It concerns... a journalist."
Sir Joshua snorted with contempt, like a bull pawing at the ground, ready to charge. “I try to avoid them, at all costs."
“You run a media empire."
“I own a media empire. I have people to run it."
“But the editors consult you, daily."
“I keep them in line, yes."
Sir Leo swirled his brandy once more. His adversary was notoriously stubborn, short-tempered and disparaging of life’s trivialities. He would need to approach this with directness and without wasting the man’s time, yet also with a certain circumspection. “One of your newspapers had to part company with a reporter, though she was among its shining lights. A minor human resources matter. Something concerning the Albright affair. You may know the woman – Angie Gossage."
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 16
