Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  Ten minutes later, Sam pushed open the door of a different internet café, this one on Norfolk Place, nestled between a Costa and a launderette. Inside, he shrugged off his coat and bought a coffee as he waited for a terminal to become free. He was going to check his Hotmail account, though he doubted Thorpe would have responded.

  He waited half an hour for a computer to become free. Finally a stick-thin girl with choppy hair vacated a terminal, glaring at Sam as she passed by on her way out.

  Sam logged on. Seconds passed. Then his emails loaded.

  He felt his body tingle.

  Something had chimed. There were two messages, the first an autoreply acknowledging his email.

  The second was from the ‘Office of Adam Thorpe, MP’.

  Sam took a deep breath and, with a trembling hand, clicked the mouse and opened the email.

  As he read it, he felt the world around him – the assorted internet café users, the clatter of the kitchen – disappear. He re-read the message. With a thumping heartbeat, he wrote down the telephone number at the bottom of the email, then exited his account and stepped back into the street.

  Thorpe was prepared to play ball. Hiding behind the polite language was a willingness to talk. Before Sam could think too hard about it and his fears took over, he headed straight for the nearest telephone box. He pushed a handful of coins into the slot and dialled the number he’d written down.

  It was answered after three rings. An automated voice confirmed that he had got through to the Ministry of Security and Immigration at the Home Office, and invited him to enter the extension number of the person he wanted to talk to. Or say their name.

  Sam swallowed hard. ‘Adam Thorpe.’

  There was a short burst of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, then a man’s voice. ‘Can I take your name, sir?’

  ‘Sam Keddie.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  More Vivaldi, then another abrupt cut. ‘Mr Keddie, it’s Adam Thorpe. How can I help?’

  The voice, courteous on the surface, was edged with ice.

  Sam had to assume the call was being recorded by Thorpe. It meant the same civil tone was necessary, as well as utterly neutral content. He couldn’t threaten Thorpe. Depending on which way his plan went, this could hurt him as much as the MP.

  ‘About our correspondence.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Thorpe sounded confident, as if he had the upper hand. ‘So glad a member of the public –’ the last word delivered dripping with disdain ‘– feels so passionate about the subject.’

  ‘I’d like to talk further about it.’

  ‘And me too. Emails are so perfunctory, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps we can meet?’

  ‘Very short notice, but I’m making an announcement tomorrow in Dover. 11am at The Cliff Hotel. Be delighted if you could come along. Perhaps we can have a chat afterwards. I’ll get your name on the door.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sam began to panic. His plan was pointless without Tapper. He racked his brains, the adrenaline flying through his system. A flash of recent press coverage surfaced in Sam’s mind. ‘I thought Sir Harry Tapper’s recent trip to Europe was an admirable attempt to understand the problem, didn’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Though tragic how it ended. You’ll be glad to hear he’s rallying by the day.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘As luck would have it, Sir Harry will be there tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d love to meet him.’

  There was a pause as Thorpe chewed on the irony. ‘Then I’ll ensure the three of us get together for a pow-wow. Until then, Mr Keddie.’

  The line went dead and Sam replaced the receiver in the cradle. His ear pulsed with pain. He’d been pressing the phone hard against it.

  Tomorrow. They were meeting tomorrow.

  He had to get hold of Reni.

  Chapter 74

  Dover, UK

  Out of Sam’s hotel window, beyond a lip of harbour wall, the Channel stretched into the distance, a grey-brown sea that merged imperceptibly into a sky of the same colour. Stiff winds coming across from France churned its surface, whipping up angry waves.

  To the left was the vast ferry terminal. There was room, he guessed, for around six vessels to dock. Two were in port now, their sterns open like gaping mouths. One was disembarking, spewing forth cars and trucks on to the tarmac to be slowly herded past steel containers stacked like building blocks towards customs and immigration buildings. Another ferry was consuming vehicles ready for the journey to Calais.

  A horn rang out and Sam saw a boat out to sea, heading slowly for a gap in the harbour wall, and the calmer waters within.

  It was strange to think of this as the place Zahra had finally reached the UK. He imagined her in the back of that truck, shivering as she hid among the Polish cabbages. Carrying her own cargo of nightmarish memories.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it to reveal Reni.

  The Ispettore had flown into Heathrow late the previous night. Sam met him off the plane and they drove down to Dover in a rented car. They went over their plan on the journey.

  Now the hour was approaching, Sam was thinking of it as less of a plan, and more of a fantasy. That Reni was willing to drop everything and head to the UK at such short notice did not seem like validation. The Ispettore seemed almost reckless the night before, as if the frustration he felt from years of being sidelined were bubbling to the surface. But if this failed, Reni would not just be finished. He’d be destroyed.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ said the Ispettore. He caught a sight of the view and moved to the window, his eye drawn to the dock. ‘I think we should have something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m more effective on a full stomach.’

  They breakfasted in a café, Sam watching as the Sicilian drank two double-shot espressos and consumed as many pastries. Sam nursed a cappuccino.

  ‘Your coffee’s not as bad as I imagined it would be,’ said Reni, grinning.

  Sam attempted a smile in response. He felt sick, his stomach twisting at the prospect of their next move, terrified at the thought of being alone in a room with two killers.

  But as Reni had repeated the night before, Thorpe and Tapper would not attempt anything at the hotel. Certainly nothing that might affect their precious careers. And as for any other form of action? Well, Thorpe had nothing on Sam. His correspondence had been entirely innocuous. And the fact was, the MP had made himself available far too quickly and amenably – actions that, under scrutiny, might seem slightly suspicious.

  As for Tapper, there was the possibility that he could claim Sam was stalking him. Possibly bring up the incident on the quayside in Siracusa. But again Reni didn’t think that would happen. It was extremely unlikely that Tapper would want to revisit that episode given that it did not fit with the tale he had spun to Reni’s superiors – and subsequently sold to the media.

  At 10.15am, they took a cab to the Cliff Hotel. As it climbed from the seafront and edged through the town, and the houses and shops began to thin out, Sam willed the driver to stall – to put off, indefinitely, the ordeal he was about to face. His stomach rose and fell, constantly threatening to fill his mouth with bile.

  But the hotel, just off a roundabout outside town, finally came into view. A long, two-storey building, a bland slab of brick and glass. The cab dropped them at the entrance and Sam paid the driver, counting out the cash slowly. Finally the taxi drove off and they stood, Sam’s feet rooted to the tarmac.

  ‘Andiamo,’ said Reni, a hand gently pressing into Sam’s lower back.

  The reception area was already heaving. Sam saw a BBC correspondent – a familiar face from the news – flicking through a notepad. There was a scattering of casually dressed cameramen and photographers, as well as about twenty suited men and smartly dressed women talking loudly. There was something distinctly metropolitan about them, a smug air that suggested they were Thorpe’s team. Across the room, looking rather starstruck,
the local mayor, a huge chain of office strung round his neck, and a coterie of supporters murmuring quietly to each other.

  It was just as Reni and Sam had expected. This was a speech from the future Home Secretary. People wanted to know what Adam Thorpe had to say.

  A notice pinned to an easel directed visitors towards a conference suite to the right of reception. They spilt, Reni remaining at reception until Sam made contact.

  At the entrance to the Channel Suite, there were two uniformed police officers and an airport-style X-ray scanning machine. Sam’s breath stalled but then he relaxed and exhaled. The police presence was expected. The future Home Secretary needed protecting.

  Sam reached the front of a small queue. He gave his name to a woman clutching a clipboard. She scanned her list then looked up.

  ‘Your name’s not here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘There has to be a mistake,’ said Sam.

  The woman flicked through the pages on her clipboard again. ‘No mistake.’

  ‘I’m meeting Mr Thorpe afterwards.’

  The woman’s head lifted. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re the one. Wait here.’

  He stood to one side as more people filtered into the room, their names checked, belongings scanned, bodies frisked. He tensed. Did this conspiracy go higher? Had he just walked into a trap?

  The answer had to be ‘no’. There was nothing stopping him walking out the door, the only security a pair of police officers who were already busy checking arriving visitors.

  In the room, rows of seats were arranged facing an elevated stage – those at the front taken up by the press. To the side, cameramen were preparing their equipment.

  Ten minutes later, the room was full. The woman approached Sam. ‘If you’d like to come with me.’

  They exited the room and turned right, pushing through a door. It was another conference room, chairs stacked in one corner, in the other, a large television showing the stage from next door. Wires trailed across the floor from the TV to a table where two men sat in front of a monitor which showed a series of views of the stage and audience.

  ‘This gentleman is going to watch the speech in here, if that’s OK,’ said the woman, already turning on her heel.

  One man turned and shrugged. The other was staring vacantly at the monitor, a finger circling the inside of his nose. Sam’s shoulders dropped. These guys were hardly jumping out of their chairs to pin him to the floor. He guessed they were techies, managing the recording of the speech for an outside broadcaster.

  The private conversation might have been on, but until then, Thorpe was taking no chances. The last thing the future Home Secretary needed was someone shouting out claims of murder during a key speech, or indeed launching himself on either of them as Sam had on the quayside in Sicily with Tapper. This way, the loose cannon was contained.

  Sam lifted a chair from the stacked pile and sat. On the television, a woman had arrived on stage. She tapped the microphone, making a dull drum sound, before introducing the mayor. On stage, the man Sam had spotted in the hotel reception seemed smaller, as if the event had somehow shrunk him. He spoke briefly of Dover’s proud place in history as a town that had welcomed and, when necessary, repelled, before moving on to what he described as ‘the unique challenges we face today.’

  ‘And here to talk about those challenges,’ he said, ‘is a man we can now call the future Home Secretary. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Adam Thorpe MP.’

  The clapping was frenzied and everyone rose to their feet. Sam watched as the mayor was joined by Thorpe.

  If the future Home Secretary was worried about being exposed as a murderer, he certainly didn’t look it. He shook the mayor’s hand, before tilting the man round so that they faced the audience and photographers. Thorpe grinned broadly, as if there was nowhere on the planet he would have preferred to be but a grey and drizzly Dover at the tail end of a bitterly cold British winter.

  Still gripping on to the mayor, Thorpe waved at the audience with his free hand. To Sam, they seemed to be responding like infatuated teenagers. The camera zoomed in on a woman whose eyes were glassed with tears.

  The Minister was scanning the room, as if drinking in each and every member of his audience. He then locked on to a camera. Sam shifted in his seat, as if Thorpe’s gaze were boring into him like hot pokers.

  Chapter 75

  Dover, UK

  ‘How lovely to be here,’ boomed Thorpe, still grinning. The clapping resumed. Thorpe could have belched at this point and they’d have gone wild.

  ‘And how appropriate.’ Now the dazzling smile was slowly dimmed. The clapping halted in response. It was time to talk business.

  ‘As the mayor has already said, Dover has always been a defender. I’d go further. I’d say this proud town, beneath its iconic cliffs, is a frontline against invaders.

  ‘Now the potential invasions we’ve faced over the years have been very different. In the 16th Century it was the threat of the Spanish Armada; in the 18th it was the French under Napoleon. Less than eighty years ago, it was the forces of Nazi Germany. Throughout that period, Dover has stood resolute, keeping watch, protecting.’

  He smiled calmly, as if he knew what everyone was thinking. ‘These days Britain is, thankfully, not at war. But we are, nonetheless, still facing a threat. A threat that I believe represents a major challenge to a way of life we all cherish. A threat I believe we no longer have the resources to defend against.’

  Sam knew what was coming and felt himself screaming inside. But the audience was lapping it up, as if Thorpe were a comedian delivering an oft-repeated, but much-loved, joke.

  ‘On any given day, there are hundreds, sometimes thousands, of immigrants gathering just across the water attempting to smuggle themselves aboard trucks to reach these shores. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand what drives many of them to do this. What desperate circumstances force them to flee their home countries in search of a better life. But the fact is, we cannot take them all. Nor can we afford to let in those twisted individuals who are bent on destroying our way of life in the most violent way possible.’

  There was another outbreak of applause. A smartphone was raised in the air to take a photo.

  ‘Our Border Force do a marvellous job. But the truth is, they are overwhelmed. They simply cannot cope with the numbers passing through the port, or provide the necessary scrutiny. Not if they are to keep vehicles flowing, ensure that the Port of Dover remains commercially viable.

  ‘Just across the water, the authorities in Calais are grappling with a similar issue. There, the French border forces are trying desperately to ensure that traffic into the port flows smoothly – that bottlenecks and standstills which allow desperate refugees to smuggle themselves aboard a vehicle are prevented.

  ‘The issue is complex, but today I am delighted to announce two developments that will, I am certain, go a long way to addressing the problem.’

  There was a pause, as the consummate performer teased his audience.

  ‘The first, which I cannot claim credit for, is a dramatic expansion of the parking facilities at Calais, which will ensure more trucks and lorries can park within the port’s boundary, rather than idle outside. This will be surrounded by a four-metre high security fence. To complement this, the authorities at Calais and Dover, through a joint Anglo-French agreement, are investing in an additional border patrol force. A substantial body entrusted with the critical job of protecting traffic flowing into the port, keeping it moving smoothly, as well as inspecting many more vehicles within the port’s boundaries. This contract went out to tender and I am delighted to announce today that it has been awarded to a trusted provider – and a British firm to boot – Tapper Security.’

  Thorpe’s voice had risen to a crescendo and the audience responded to the end of his sentence with another outbreak of enthusiastic applause. More phones rose in the air.

  Sam seriously doubted that the tendering process Thorpe had mentioned had really scrutinised
any other firms that closely. This was a done deal, one concocted by two friends, two lovers. A wave of nausea swept through Sam’s stomach.

  The Minister bathed in the adulation. Sam reminded himself that a good chunk of those assembled were acolytes Thorpe had brought from London, while another group – the locals – seemed simply grateful that a warm metropolitan light was shining on them in the midst of winter.

  He thought of the rest of the country – how easily some people were whipped up by stories of leaky borders and immigrants crossing Europe in their thousands – and imagined that many would receive this news just as favourably. Thorpe’s initiative – effectively the equivalent of a huge, impregnable border – suggested both containment, which made people feel safer, as well as a full stop.

  And if, on the other hand, you were not moved by scare stories and felt that immigrants deserved sympathy, not to be treated like an invading army or members of ISIS, Sam suspected that Thorpe – the smooth operator – would eventually find some other way to win you over. Some announcement about multi-culturalism, maybe – something to show that he was Mr Inclusive. Or perhaps an enhanced airport security initiative. Something that made you feel safer – and who would disagree with that?

  Sam’s skin broke out in goosebumps at the thought of what lay under Thorpe’s smarmy exterior. And how soon he would come face to face with the Minister.

  Lost in his thoughts, Sam had missed a development on stage. Tapper had joined the MP. Sam saw, with a degree of pleasure, that Tapper had changed dramatically since he’d last seen him, when he was grabbing the homeless man by his lapels. His skin sagged, his eyes were ringed with grey. It was exactly what Sam had hoped for.