by L J Morris
Sinclair reappeared, pushing a wheelchair. ‘If we can get you into this, I’ll push you round to the loo.’
With Sinclair’s help, McGill managed to stand up. The pain wasn’t as bad once he was on his feet, and he could probably have shuffled along the corridor, but he didn’t want to risk ripping out his stitches. He sat in the wheelchair and Sinclair transferred the IV drip to a pole that was attached to the back.
Sinclair pushed McGill along the corridor to the bathroom and helped him stand up again. ‘It’s okay, Ali. I can manage the rest.’
‘I’ll close the door behind me, give you some privacy. Didn’t realise you had a nervous bladder, though.’
‘Get out before I piss myself.’
Sinclair laughed as she closed the door. McGill was fine. He’d be back to his old self in no time.
Vance came up the stairs and along the corridor. ‘Morning, Ali. How’s our wounded soldier?’
‘He seems fine. Thanks for taking care of him, Gabe.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll give him a check-up and we’ll see about getting him outside for some fresh air. How are you?’
‘Bit of a headache and a stiff neck, nothing serious.’
‘I’ll give you something for that, but you need to relax, get some real sleep in a bed.’
‘I promise I will, later. Now, how about I put the kettle on and you check on Frank?’
* * *
The smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen and drifted up the stairs. Porter was busy making a large pan of scrambled eggs while Sinclair made slice after slice of toast and filled up the rack on the table. A small television was on in the background, which Sinclair looked at occasionally. She couldn’t understand what was being said, but would have picked up if they were talking about them or what had happened in Paris.
Vance carried the wheelchair downstairs then helped McGill shuffle down, step by step. He pushed McGill into the kitchen and parked him next to the others.
Sinclair put down four coffees. ‘Dig in, everyone.’
Porter served up the scrambled eggs. ‘My speciality.’
Sinclair was already buttering some toast. ‘Lookin’ forward to this, I’m bloody famished.’
McGill grabbed his coffee. ‘Me too.’
‘Take it easy, Frank. You might not be able to keep much down.’
‘Don’t worry about me: iron-clad stomach. My mum always said so. Any mention of us on the news?’ He pointed to the television with his fork.
Sinclair shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen any pictures that looked familiar. Maybe they’re trying to cover it up.’
Porter looked at the screen. ‘They did mention the flat earlier, but it wasn’t the main story. There was definitely no mention of us or any other suspects.’
Vance walked towards the TV and reached to switch it off. ‘That’s enough of that for now. We’ll check again later.’
‘NO, WAIT.’ Sinclair had jumped up out of her seat and was pointing at the screen. ‘What are they saying? What is that story about?’
Vance turned up the sound. ‘It’s just some shit about a cabinet reshuffle back in London. Usual, boring stuff.’
‘What are they saying, Callum?’
‘Gabe is right, a cabinet reshuffle. Some junior minister at the Home Office has been promoted to the main job. He’s the new Home Secretary. He’s a bit of a rising star, apparently.’
McGill put down his mug and wheeled himself to where Sinclair was standing. ‘What is it, Ali? What’s wrong?’
Sinclair pointed at the smiling face of the politician in the news report. ‘That’s him. That’s Vadim.’
Chapter 19
‘We’ve got to let Simeon know. He and Danny could end up walking into a trap, or worse still, lead us into one.’ Sinclair was pacing up and down in McGill’s room.
McGill was back on the bed. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘I’ll never forget his smug face. If I hadn’t been in prison for so long I might have spotted him earlier. We could’ve avoided some of this shit.’
Vance and Porter were in the kitchen, they knew this was something McGill and Sinclair had to talk about.
‘It’s not your fault, Ali. What we need to do now is get back to London and retrieve Justin’s file from the safe-deposit box. The evidence we need must be in there.’
‘Vadim’s the Home Secretary, for fuck’s sake. He’s got access to resources we can’t match. We’ll have every security and law enforcement agency in Britain looking for us.’
‘It’s not that easy for him. MI5 and GCHQ aren’t his private army. The police won’t come after us without reason. All he can do is push them to look for you as an escaped convict. He can’t just launch a mission to take us out.’
‘But look what he’s managed to do so far. He must be using some of the organisations.’
‘Okay, he’s got influence, and he can use that to put people under pressure and get what he wants, but only up to a point. Getting the security services to kill us will take more than influence.’
‘We need to see what’s on that USB stick and get a message to Simeon without being tracked.’
There was a knock at the door and Vance peered into the room. ‘Okay to come in?’
McGill waved him in. ‘Of course, Gabe.’
Vance opened the door fully and stepped in. He was carrying a laptop, which he plugged into a socket by the bed. ‘I’ve had this for a few months now. Keep meaning to write my memoirs but never got around to it. Anyway, it’s not brand new but it works, and it’s not connected to the Internet.’ He placed it on the bed and powered it up. ‘There’s no password. Nothing worth stealing.’
‘Thanks, Gabe. This will really help. Ali, have you got the USB stick?’
Sinclair passed the stick to Vance. He plugged it into the laptop and stepped away. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You can tell me later, if you want to, that is.’ He left the room and closed the door behind him.
Sinclair dragged the chair to the bed and sat down. ‘Right, let’s see what’s on this thing. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers.’ She clicked on the folder icon, which revealed a single video file. ‘You think we should look at this without Callum?’
‘There might be something on there that he won’t want to see. We can let him watch it once we’ve checked it out.’
‘Okay. Here goes.’ Sinclair clicked the video file and sat back.
When the video started, it showed Wyatt, facing the camera. ‘Hi, Callum. I wish I could be with you, but if you’re watching this it means something bad has happened. If you’re watching this then I’m probably dead. I just hope you’re okay, and I want you to know that I love you and I always will.’
Sinclair and McGill looked at each other, feeling guilty at their intrusion on such a private moment.
Wyatt paused for a few seconds, clearly struck by the implications of what he had said. ‘I want you to be safe, so I’m hiding all of this evidence,’ he held up a stuffed, brown cardboard folder, ‘in a place you know well. Think back to where we first met and you’ll know what I mean. I’ve got one last piece of the jigsaw to find. This organisation is planning something big but I don’t know what it is. I’ve got a lead on where I can find out, so I’m heading back to Geneva. It’s risky, so, if anything happens, I need you to do something for me: get to the folder, you’re the only one who’ll find it. You need to get it to the authorities. Don’t worry about my notebook, I put that together to help you get this far, it’s the folder you need to bring down the conspiracy. I hope you have someone with you and you aren’t alone.’ He paused again and looked down, away from the camera, tears dripping from his chin. ‘Stay safe and have a good life. I love you, Callum. Goodbye.’ He reached out towards the camera and the video ended.
Sinclair closed the laptop. ‘That’s gonna be hard for Callum to watch.’
McGill nodded. ‘I feel for him, but we need to know where Wyatt has put the folder.’
‘I’ll go and get h
im, we can watch it together.’
* * *
Watching the video had been uncomfortable for Sinclair and McGill but they couldn’t imagine what Porter had gone through. When it was over, they left him alone and he sat in his room for the rest of the morning. When he walked into the kitchen, his eyes were red and bloodshot, he looked terrible. ‘I smelled the coffee.’
Sinclair sat next to Porter and held his hand. ‘Are you sure you’re up to talking about this, Callum?’
Porter wiped his eyes. ‘Yes. It’s what Justin would have wanted.’
‘It won’t take long, we just need to know what Justin meant when he spoke about where you met and where you think he’s left the folder.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking, and I can’t believe it’s this easy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I first met Justin, I was working in a private bank in London.’ He pulled out the remaining key that hung round his neck. ‘This is the type of key they used for their deposit boxes. It can’t be that simple, can it?’
Sinclair shrugged. ‘It only seems easy because you know the answer. That’s why Justin left you the clue.’
‘It must be that then. I need to get to the bank and see what’s in that box. I’ll need the passport from the other box to get access to it.’
Sinclair looked at Vance. ‘We need to get to London. As soon as possible.’
Vance pointed at McGill. ‘You won’t be going anywhere until Frank recovers. It’s going to take a little while before he’s fit to travel, never mind any action you find yourselves in.’
McGill tried to stand. ‘I’m okay, let’s go.’
Sinclair grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the wheelchair. ‘Sit back down, Frank. Gabe’s right, you aren’t going anywhere just yet.’
McGill winced. The effort of standing had sent a sharp pain up his thigh and across his back. ‘Shit.’
Sinclair patted his arm. ‘Okay, Gabe, we’ll stay for a short while, but how do we get to London when we’re ready? We can’t just jump on a plane or a ferry.’
‘I’ll start to make some arrangements, it shouldn’t be a problem getting you into the country.’
‘What’s your plan?’
Vance walked across the kitchen; he leaned with both hands against the edge of the sink and looked out of the window. ‘I haven’t always stayed strictly to the letter of the law.’ After a pause, he looked at Sinclair and McGill. ‘Before I came to live here, I did some work for a guy in London who didn’t want any police involvement when his employees got themselves shot or stabbed.’
Sinclair looked at McGill then back at Vance. ‘You can’t be serious? You want us to trust some gangster to organise our travel?’
Vance smiled. ‘Let’s face it, none of the three of us are squeaky clean, we’ve all broken the law at some point.’
Sinclair shook her head. ‘Breaking the law because you have to is a long way from making a living out of it. What’s this guy into, anyway? Drugs, prostitution?’
‘Not that I’m aware, Ali. He’s what some people might refer to as an old-fashioned gangster: protection, gambling, smuggling.’
Sinclair let out a short laugh. ‘Oh, great, he sounds lovely.’
‘Look, Ali, sooner or later you have to trust someone, and Harry Nash isn’t going to turn you in. He can help.’
Sinclair fidgeted with her mug, staring at the table. After a pause, she looked up at McGill. ‘What do you think, Frank?’
McGill knew Sinclair well and knew she had strong principles. Breaking the law wasn’t easy for her, she was the archetypal law-abiding citizen. It was only the events of the last few years that had conspired against her and led to their current situation.
McGill, on the other hand, was a different kind of animal. His childhood had been rough. An alcoholic mother and abusive father were nothing unusual in his peer group. For a lot of them, crime was the only career they could get into. As a teenager, he’d been sent to borstal for attacking a teacher, that was where the Royal Marines had recruited him, that was his way out. For him, the marines gave him the structure and discipline he’d needed, while also giving him an outlet for some of his more violent tendencies. Some of his friends weren’t as lucky and ended up exactly like Nash.
When McGill’s wife became collateral damage in a war between drug dealers, he’d stepped back into that world; it fitted him like an old suit, he was comfortable. Sinclair was the only reason he wasn’t still in it.
McGill had no qualms about using gangsters to get what he and Sinclair needed. If Nash double-crossed them, McGill would deal with it. He was as bad as anyone Nash had working for him.
McGill leaned over and put his hand on Sinclair’s. ‘You know I’ve had dealings with these people in the past. If anyone has a reason not to trust these fuckers, it’s me, but we need to get back to London and we need someone who isn’t connected to the authorities.’
Vance nodded. ‘You don’t have many other options. Besides, Harry Nash may not be a nice man, but he owes me, and he’ll honour that.’ He gestured around the room. ‘It was his money that paid for this place.’
Sinclair shook her head and pursed her lips. She still wasn’t happy but could see the logic behind using Nash. ‘I won’t pretend I’m happy about this, but, I suppose you’re right, we can’t just rock up to the ferry like tourists. First, we contact Simeon. If he can find a better way to get us back in, we use it. Agreed?’
McGill put his coffee mug down. ‘Okay, Ali, but if we can’t get hold of Simeon, then I trust Gabe. If he says this gangster will get us in, that’s got to be our best option.’
Vance drummed his fingers. ‘Okay, we’re agreed. First things first, you have to recover, Frank.’
McGill sat forward and leaned on the edge of the table. ‘I’ll be fit before you know it.’ As he spoke, a muscle spasm snatched his breath from his lungs and he collapsed back into the wheelchair, wincing as pain shot up his back.
Vance checked the stitches in McGill’s back. ‘See. I told you, you’re not ready. Give it a couple of weeks. There’s no big rush. If you write down the message you want delivered to London, I’ll sort it out. You lot need to rest.’
Sinclair patted McGill’s knee. ‘He’s right, Frank. You just get better so we can get on with it.’
McGill gave Sinclair a fake salute. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.’
Chapter 20
The blue moped’s engine whined and spluttered as it accelerated through London’s rush-hour traffic. Car horns blared as it swerved in and out of the queueing cars, the pillion passenger holding on and leaning in to the turns. As the traffic lights switched to red, the moped mounted the kerb and sped along the footpath, scattering pedestrians as they jumped out of its path.
Simeon Carter was standing at the edge of the pavement, waiting to cross the road, as the moped approached. He considered diving out of the way but he was too old for that shit. He stood a better chance if he held his ground. The moped swerved around a young mother with a pram and headed straight for Carter; at the last second it braked and pulled up next to the crossing. As the pillion passenger shoved his hand inside his jacket, Carter tensed up. This was it, this was how he would meet his end. Before he could react, the passenger removed his hand from his jacket and held out an envelope. Carter hesitated before taking it. The passenger nodded to Carter, and the moped’s rider sped off, leaving pedestrians coughing in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes as it accelerated and dropped back onto the road. It turned down a side street and was gone, followed by blaring car horns and a stream of obscenities from onlookers.
Carter watched the moped disappear then looked down at the envelope he had been given. It didn’t look suspicious, just a normal white envelope. It was crumpled from where the passenger had been clinging on to it, but it wasn’t bulky and it had no writing on it. He turned it over and opened the flap. Inside was a single sheet of folded paper, printed out from a computer, plain and anonymous.
He fished about in his jacket and found his reading glasses. He’d been meaning to get bifocals for years but never got around to it. He held up the note and read the message. ‘This can’t be …’ He put the note back in the envelope and set off for Kinsella’s flat.
* * *
Danny Kinsella was, as usual, sitting in front of his bank of computer screens, his glasses reflecting the glow that lit up the room. He was watching news reports and running various bits of data through scripts, looking for patterns and connections between events. When Carter walked through the door, Kinsella jumped up, almost knocking over his coffee, and switched on the lights. ‘Simeon, I’ve found something. Something I think is really big.’
Carter held up the note he had received. ‘Looks like you’re not the only one, Danny. I’ve just been handed some info that raises the stakes massively. Tell me what you’ve got first.’
Kinsella pointed at one of his screens. ‘I’ve been running all the data from the notebook through a script, and it doesn’t really give us more information until you cross-reference it with other events, police reports and travel data.’
‘What does that show us?’
Kinsella sat back down and tapped at his keyboard. Names and dates flashed up on the screens. ‘At the time of each of the killings in the book, I can see the same group of people travelling alone to each location. Time after time: they arrive in a country, one of the names in the book dies, and then they leave. They are using multiple fake identities but it’s the same group of names, over and over again.’
Carter sat down in front of the screens. ‘If they’re not connected, that would be one hell of a coincidence.’
‘Exactly. What are these people up to if they aren’t involved? Why the fake IDs? The whole thing stinks.’
‘You’re sure about all of this? I mean, can we link these identities to the killings?’
