Frost clung to skeletal trees, bringing them to life with a sparkling cloak, windscreens and aerials of cars that had been left out in the streets were twice there normal size, again laden in ice crystals.
He breezed in with his usual savoir faire attitude to life. If there was a mail problem, he had a fix for it. Blue trousers, brown shoes, white shirt, red bow tie. Hair, just so. Trademark and he dared anyone to copy it.
“Morning, sir. Just an overnight folder from Brussels today sir.” Official. No theatre.
“Morning. Nothing for you sir.” Professional.
“Morning Alana just a couple of cards.” Playful.
“Morning, sir. Yes, freezing. Nothing for you.” Warm. Familiar. Perhaps too familiar.
Two members of the Prime Minister’s department eyed the postcards, addressed to the PM, read them twice in fact.
One, the more senior, put down his tea and recited the words, slowly.
“Looking for something?” He then said it again. He placed the card back onto the desk. Lined it up with the edge of the blotter pad.
“Try Cannon Street. It rocks!” This one was read twice too, then lined up next to the first card.
He then reversed the sentences. Made the decision that the first way made more sense – that is what the writer would have intended. If indeed there was any sense to be made.
He looked up, finally. “Good morning Alana. Any idea what this is all about?” He pointed to the postcard – a scene of London’s skyline, franked with a local postmark.
Sharply dressed. Black skirt, cream blouse, black shoes, medium-sized heel. Nice legs. No point in flaunting them. Not here.
“None at all boss. Same handwriting. The ramblings of yet another mad man? Not worth retaining?”
He agreed, then tossed them in the bin along with two-thirds of the other mail items received overnight.
His phone rang. As he listened, he looked down at the much-used waste bin. It contained a coffee cup, an apple core from the day before, brown, no longer pristine. But as rambling and senseless as they appeared, he lifted the cards back out of the bin and put them next to his diary. He had a friend at the Metropolitan Police and he knew he would find help if he asked. ‘If ever you need me…’
Cade’s hotel door resonated from a brisk knock. A police knock if ever he had heard one. He was ready, finishing off the knot on the navy striped tie and rubbing the caps of his shoes against the back of his well-pressed trousers as he peered through the spyhole. Old habits die hard. The face he saw was not its normal beaming morning vision but familiar nonetheless.
“You ready?” Roberts smiled at him, but Cade knew it was a troubled smile. Dressed in grey with a light grey shirt and red tie. Brown belt, brown shoes, brown watch strap. It didn’t work for Cade but Roberts was content with his own expression of style.
“Too brown?”
“Possibly.”
“So, you ready then?”
“Almost.”
Cade nodded backwards over his shoulder towards the bathroom, smiling. The door was open wide enough for Roberts to see Elena, still in the process of dressing; dark blue bra, trimmed, perfect and lacy, hipster knickers. Her breasts were on the smaller side, but to most men, pretty, and perfect. She was tying her hair into a simple ponytail. It was still on the short side. And that suited Cade. As she bent forward to flick her hair backwards her obliques and abdominals were visible. Defined without being too much.
She stepped out into the bedroom, into a navy Milly Kalie dress, pulling it up and over her shoulders. Completely unfazed by the presence of two men.
Roberts tried to look elsewhere, fixing his gaze on the hotel artwork which smiled back in the form of a classically nude woman.
She peeked over her right shoulder, trapping his eyes with hers.
Men. Mars. Women, some other planet, one where they ruled – every day, regardless.
“Will you zip me up…Jason?” Playful as ever. The accent really worked on the darker corners of his very-male mind. His was a table for one, other people were in the room but he didn’t even take a second to allow the other part of his brain to suggest, just for a moment, that his thoughts were understandable, but wrong.
Cade just gave him a discreet smile. ‘You’ve zipped her up mate. I’ve unzipped her, slid those dark blue knickers slowly down those incredible, smooth thighs…’
A thought best kept to himself. ‘After you. Be my guest.’
What would Mrs Roberts say?
‘What goes on tour, chief inspector?’
“Indeed.” Roberts responded outwardly, causing Cade to lock eyes and frown, try to shield a half-smile.
But Roberts couldn’t avoid looking. It was what most honest men did. Many women too, although they were more reluctant to admit it except in a group, a pack of them feasting on the body of a helpless firefighter or construction worker in some female-only club, somewhere, living out their girlish fantasies.
Roberts was back there. Feeling the need to take too long with the zip. Trying to get a discreet look at the tattoo. Perhaps pretending the zip was stuck, pushing it to clear her bra strap. It was pathetic. ‘Stop it Jason. You are old enough to be…’
‘Why not just unclip it, reach around and hold them mate?’ Again, Cade knew when to verbalise and when to smile.
The tattoo was real. Small, between her shoulder blades, a black scorpion. No extra colours, no red poisoned tip or scrolled writing declaring the owner or anyone who viewed the artwork should ‘live the dream’, ‘seize the day’ or the words to a favoured song.
Just a jet black scorpion.
Roberts cleared his throat and the short-lived daydream.
“Anyway, it’s been a long night for all of us I’m sure.” He looked awkwardly at the unmade, king-sized bed. “And a lot has been happening. We can talk on the way. It seems that every man, his dog and his dog has been called in. Ready?”
Cade held the door for Elena who reeked of her favourite perfume and a smile that said ‘I know what you did last night Mr Cade.’
“Ready.”
Along the corridor, John Daniel was also ready. He stepped out into the hallway, buttoning up his navy Aquascutum Bogart trench coat. He was carrying his trademark leather folder, a legacy of a conference, somewhere. Creased from many years of command-level battles, it contained his favoured pen and a few things he needed to get through the day.
“Morning Team. Time for a coffee and some breakfast?” Big smile. Earning well. Not many cares in the world.
“Morning JD. No sorry, we will be fed at the Home Office. My car is outside on double yellows. There have been some developments.”
“Fair enough. Coffee with the government it is.”
They all made their way to the car and five minutes later Roberts edged out into the traffic, lit the blue lights and forged his way through the snaking commuter chaos, in turn causing just a little more.
Very little was said for none of them had an idea of where things were heading.
“Did you sleep?”
“Yes. You?”
“Of course. A large bed with fine Egyptian cotton beats a squalid camp bed in a freezing piss-soaked concrete shelter any day. Or night.”
Constantin smiled the vacant smile he was known for, allowing the steaming coffee to penetrate to the roots of his crumpled teeth, making them bleed just enough that blood overtook coffee in the taste challenge.
“I have always admired the feel of such bedding. When I become richer, it will feature in all my homes. I may even invite Horse & Hound to come an do an interview with me!”
They laughed. Although the older man had never heard of the magazine.
“So how long before they step up their patrols, their intelligence gathering?”
“More importantly Constantin how long before their little parcel arrives?”
“The men told me it would be there this morning. I paid extra for an urgent delivery.”
Alex laughed, genuinely. He would
give almost anything to see the reaction. It had been worth the ten thousand he gave to the traveller in exchange for the newer car and the services of one of their own people, disguised as a motorcycle courier, moving with speed, among his apparent peers, in a city awash with such people. People to see, places to go.
“OK. Have we got everything? This meeting needs to be secure and go well. No hitches. No outstanding issues or questions. I want everyone to be fully briefed, completely aware of the rules of engagement. Any last minute ‘stuff’? We can walk and talk.” Sassy Lane looked intently at her PA – a male, in his fifties who knew more about politicians than almost anyone he knew.
“Nothing major, ma’am. A few mail items.” He turned. A junior was hurrying with two courier parcels, sealed and bearing the familiar yellow logos of a very familiar delivery company.
“These just came, sir. I know you are going into a meeting, but they need signing for.”
He looked at the labels. The first was addressed to Sassy Lane. The second the Prime Minister.
“You’ve done the usual with this?”
She tried not to reply with a ‘do I look stupid’ glance.
“Yes, of course. No trace, clear on the ION scanner, all good to go.”
He looked at the declaration. ‘Sporting goods.’
He showed it Lane. “X-ray image looks like a golf ball. The other is small, indistinct, but not large enough to cause concern. Nothing sinister. Any idea, boss? Shall we open them?”
“No. It’s fine. Golf? I have no idea. None at all. Haven’t played in years. Someone obviously has my name on a mailing list. Come on, let’s go, we can open it later. If you have put them both through the system, then Jim can do what he likes with his. I don’t feel like opening presents.”
She walked towards the major incident room and was met en route by one of her colleagues.
“Ah Minister, glad I caught you.”
“You haven’t, I’m busy.”
“Appreciate that Minister, but I have intercepted these. They made no sense until I put in a call to a police colleague.”
He showed Lane the postcards. “Turns out the clue was Cannon Street. There was a crime committed there overnight.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Karen Millen has closed down?”
“Hardly ma’am. Actually, it would appear that your stone has been stolen.”
Chapter Forty-One
Her jaw lowered, her eyes closed. Knuckles whitened. There were days in politics. This was going to be one of them.
“Jesus…no. Cade was right. They have made their statement. Find out how the bloody hell our people allowed this to happen? Ask questions, Charlie and ask them now. It’s been there a thousand years!” She punched the wall, not hurting herself in the slightest but leaving a fist-sized impression in the plasterwork.
She turned and walked at a pace to the incident room. People moved out of her way. They knew the signs.
“I might not play golf anymore, Charlie. But so help me, I will swing for these bastards.” They moved through the corridor at a pace now. Minutes later they would be at the most secure briefing room in the building.
As a house name Riverview was a misnomer – you had to be sat on the roof to actually see the Thames, but her dear old dad had a sense of humour. And as was often the way at this time of the year the detached property looked almost desolate, shrouded in a fine veil of mist that sat a few feet off the surrounding arable land and only ever immediately around her home.
The local kids said the place was haunted and stayed away. And that suited the owner.
As the crow, or Jackdaw flew, about half an hour away from central London, the remote house had a remote garden and a faded black front door, black peeling paintwork and pebbled-dashed walls.
The owner was walking down the hallway, back to the kitchen, when she heard the bread pop out of the time-served toaster which sat to the left of the well-polished Aga that provided both cooking and warmth.
Wholemeal. None of that bleached rubbish they sold to people who didn’t know better. She scooped it out with a fork, and contrary to what people told her, she had yet to be electrocuted.
She needed another mug of tea, because in her words it was ‘bloody well cold enough to freeze the nipples off a nun’. It was actually a saying of her dad’s and one she never quite understood.
She lived alone so spoke to herself, a lot. To be completely accurate, she lived with her canine pal, a Golden Retriever called Nick.
“Looks cold enough out there, Nick...” She pulled the curtains back, rubbed the condensation away, drew a smiley face and continued to create a breakfast of sorts; a hard-boiled egg, toast and marmalade, an over-ripe banana and a mug of what she referred to as ‘builder’s’ tea; dark, strong and hot – like she would choose her ideal man, if she ever met him.
“I wonder what today will bring?”
She finished the meal, put the mug into the sink and called for Nick.
“Walkies!” He was alongside her in seconds, unnecessary lead in his soft mouth, running for the back door where once opened he would almost bowl her over, spin around in circles, his paws crushing the frost-covered grass, head down, bottom up and then back to Marlene Bradley, his equally dutiful owner. It was the highlight of his day.
She didn’t bother to lock up, slipped her hands into grey woollen gloves, pulled the collar up to meet the scarf and set off on what would be the first of four walks across the fields towards the river.
She glanced up into the blue but bitterly cold sky which was its usual criss-cross of contrails, vapour marks of where aircraft had been. She often stood and admired them, trying to guess where they were heading. A blue and white plane was cruising from her right, lower all the time, no doubt heading towards Heathrow. She waved. She always did. It made her smile.
Nick pranced across the paddocks towards the old fireworks factory, his head visible now and then as he leapt up to look for his mistress. Make sure she was still there. That made her smile too.
It had been minutes since he had done it. He’d come back, he always did. But she could hear him, making a noise. It wasn’t a growl – or playful, inquisitive bark. In fact, she had never heard it before. She walked towards where she had last seen him, through the cold, frosty grass, among the mist and weeds and taller native grasses that had grown during the autumn. She could hear her own footsteps, and her cold breaths, that and the call of a rising Skylark. Well, that and the airliner and the distant traffic. And the low-level moaning of a human voice.
“Help…me…”
The Boeing 777 was turning south before the Thames Estuary, leaving yet another white trail in a crisp winter sky. Wherever the pilot looked there were planes, short haul, long haul and small, private commuter aircraft. The Thomson Holidays jet had flown north over London Heathrow and was now lining up on finals, picking its slot in the jigsaw that was the London sky.
Below, in the English Channel, somewhere near Thanet a battalion of white windmills rotated with the wind, generating electricity for the people of the city, their tall, solid towers in a constant battle with the sea and the elements.
The chartered flight was full, and its semi-bronze passengers were preparing themselves for the sharp drop in temperature, having spent the previous ten days in Florida. It looked cold, down there on the streets of Kent.
One passenger, thirteen-year-old Abigail Gripton, was doing what she did every time she was lucky enough to fly, staring out of the window, intently watching, looking at the cars and minute people, imagining who they were and where they were going. Her imagination ran riot.
There, to her right, was the River Thames. It looked cold. She decided that she didn’t want to go for a swim today and instead counted the small boats that were littering the river. Her eyesight was as exceptional as that of any other thirteen-year-old, but Abigail had already developed a sixth sense for the unusual.
And then she saw it. Sat up, lifting herself against the pressure of the sea
t belt, trying to gain a better view. She had seconds.
“Daddy, there is a person swimming – down there, in the river.”
“I doubt it love. It’s far too cold.” Her father Steve, a retired police officer, smiled, tapped his daughter on the head. “Not long now.”
“No, Daddy, look. A person, floating.”
Gripton was a former tactical observer with the north Midlands Helicopter Support Unit. He had spent years looking down on the world below and was proud of his success rate – they said he could spot a stolen car without the high-powered lens – had a nose for trouble.
He lifted himself up in the middle seat. Straining to see. Surely not? Two seconds. He focused as best as he could. Trying to see through pockets of mist.
“Where?”
“There! The lady doesn’t have any clothes on. Look!”
One second.
“Jesus.” He pressed the call button on his seat back. Pressed it again. Stood up.
The crew member could see that something was happening. Told him to sit down. Gripton shouted down to the rear galley area.
“Get the pilot to mark the area. Do it. Now!”
He knew it was probably futile. The crew member just shrugged, mimed ‘I can’t hear you.’
“There is a body in the river, north side, somewhere near the bridge!”
She heard that.
Marlene Bradley stood for a second, lowered herself down through the covering of mist, trying to process the sight before her. A man, at least she thought it was, lying on his back, a fresh and vivid and bloody diagonal cross over his face and make-up. Yes, he was wearing make-up. It was then she realised that the blood-soaked cloth that was protruding from his face was where his eye used to be. Dark red blood. White cloth. And make-up.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 40
