One Life Remaining (Portal Book 2)

by Mark J Maxwell

  Jenkins sighed in relief and nodded a greeting to Louisa. She sat and logged the interview start time on the room’s terminal. ‘Mr Baker, I’m Detective Inspector Bennett. I wish to inform you that the formal interview process has now resumed. Do you still wish to waive the right to legal representation?’

  Baker spread his arms wide. ‘My words are my own. I require no such counsel.’

  ‘Very well. What were you doing at Tilbury Power Station?’

  ‘The same as you, I’d imagine. We are mere threads in the grand tapestry of existence. But important ones, I think.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Louisa tried her best not to smile at the man’s oddness. ‘We established a sense grid within the power station as part of our operation. The grid was disrupted prior to your arrest, in the same part of the building you were in. Do you know the cause of the disruption?’

  ‘Every manmade instrument exists at the discretion of the Paradigm. We can choose to follow its plan, or deviate and abuse these gifts, exposing the selfishness of our material covetousness. Inevitably there comes a point where we, as a species, cannot be trusted. If the Paradigm removed these gifts from existence, would they be missed?’ Baker shook his head. ‘I say we’d rejoice.’

  ‘You believe this Paradigm caused the disruption to the sense grid?’

  Baker wagged his finger. ‘The Paradigm never intercedes directly, however the chosen can interpret its plan.’

  ‘And the Paradigm talks to you? Tells you what to do?’

  He snorted. ‘Nothing so crass. The Paradigm’s whispers brush the edges of comprehension. And only then as a consequence of the Prophet’s influence.’

  ‘Wait, whispers, did you say?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Have you been so blessed?’

  Louisa shook her head, even as she remembered the strange muddle of voices she’d heard in the control room.

  Baker’s smile was beatific. ‘I think you have. It isn’t surprising, so close to the Prophet as you were. He is their conduit to us, after all.’

  ‘Who is this Prophet?’

  ‘You already know, Inspector.’ He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Trust your instincts.’

  ‘You mean…Spencer Harrow?’

  ‘Bravo!’ Baker clapped his hands. ‘I knew your insight would exceed those of your fellow officers. I expected no less, in fact.’

  Louisa frowned at the man, still unsure if his eccentricity was an act. She connected to Fletcher’s case file on the terminal and accessed sense strip footage of the depot. ‘Do you know what these are?’ She turned the terminal to face Baker. She’d paused it at the point when Dukurs started shooting and the cubes emerged from the crate.

  Baker watched, entranced, as the cubes merged and attacked Dukurs. ‘They’re…beautiful.’ He looked up at Louisa. ‘What are they?’

  Louisa studied Baker for a moment. He appeared to believe what he was saying. So far none of those she had in custody gave any inkling they knew what the cubes where. Someone sure as hell has to know.

  She took back the terminal. ‘You arrived with Spencer Harrow in a white Ford Transit. When we arrested Arthur Fletcher’s men they were loading it with illegally imported arms. What did you and Harrow plan to do with the weapons?’

  Baker relaxed back into his chair. ‘I could talk to you for hours, but unfortunately our discourse must now come to an end.’ He made a shooing motion with his hands. ‘Go, Inspector, your destiny awaits.’

  *

  ‘Order a psych exam,’ Louisa said to Bolton when she rejoined him and the DCI.

  ‘You think he’s crazy?’

  ‘No, but if isn’t faking we’ll need a responsible adult down here quick-sharp. Once he clears the exam keep at him. He likes the sound of his own voice. Eventually he’ll run out of dogma to spout and give us something we can use.’

  An icon flickered in Louisa’s vision. A call request from Sloan. She apologised to the DCI and Bolton, and turned away.

  ‘The committee has made a ruling, ma’am,’ Sloan said. ‘We have authorisation for twenty-four hour graphs on both Baker and Harrow.’

  Twenty-four hours! A single day’s worth of Portal interactions was unlikely to produce anything useful. Louisa had been hoping for months at least.

  Sloan must have sensed her mood. ‘Will I lodge an appeal for more time?’

  ‘No,’ Louisa mouthed. ‘Let’s take the chance and run them.’

  ‘Coates is executing them now.’ There was a pause. ‘Huh, that’s odd. Coates has been locked out of the case file.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘No reason was given. Wait, it’s not just Coates, it’s all SCD7 too. Access has been restricted to the National Crime Agency. Did Officer Carter transfer ownership to himself?’

  ‘No, I don’t think…’ Louisa trailed off, a horrible certainty dawning on her. ‘The NCA hasn’t cut us off. It’s the graphs we just ran on Baker and Harrow. One of them is Red Flagged.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘How did it go?’

  DCI Lenihan shook his head and strode past Louisa. Back in the conference room, the HMI continued talking to Drew and another man she assumed to be an NCA colleague.

  The His Majesty’s Inspector of Constabulary (HMIC) review had been convened in haste. With SCD7 locked out of Fletcher’s case file, none of the suspects could be charged. HMIC had the power to investigate any aspect of policing in the UK, with public interest being their driving motivation. Apart from routine regular inspections instigated as part of their mandate, they also handled allegations of police impropriety where the complaint originated within the police force. A history graph request on a Red Flagged profile fell under their remit.

  Drew’s gaze locked with hers for a long moment before he turned away. His manner showed no sign of triumph; no sign he got what he wanted. So why did DCI Lenihan look like he bit into a lemon?

  She hurried to catch up with him. When they exited the HMIC office onto Eccleston Square he didn’t slow his pace, but he did finally speak. ‘You were right. It was Spencer Harrow.’

  ‘Not Baker as well?’ she asked. The DCI shook his head. ‘Did they say why Harrow was Red Flagged?’

  ‘They aren’t required to supply us with an explanation, Inspector. You know how it works.’

  DCI Lenihan’s calmness under pressure was a characteristic she’d long admired in the man. This time it left her irritated. It wasn’t unheard of for a Red Flagged case file to remain under MET control. She couldn’t believe he’d rolled over so easily. While she’d waited outside the meeting Louisa became more and more convinced they’d been set up. The NCA had been waiting for her to execute a history graph on Harrow so they could swoop in and take over. She struggled to dampen her rising anger. ‘Drew knew about the Red Flag, didn’t he?’

  ‘Officer Carter neither confirmed nor denied prior knowledge of Harrow’s involvement with Worrell.’

  ‘Bullshit. For all we know Harrow is an informant for the NCA.’

  ‘It makes little difference now.’

  Louisa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Little difference? Fletcher could have slaughtered my team. Did Drew know the weapons were in Worrell’s shipment?’

  ‘I raised that very question, Inspector. The NCA denied any knowledge of the container’s contents. We’ll have to take their word for it. They’ve assumed control of the investigation. Officer Carter is on his way to take custody of the suspects and all evidence gathered from the crime scene. I want you to head back to Prince’s Row to supervise the transfer.’

  Louisa grabbed the DCI’s arm and pulled him to a stop. ‘That’s it? After the work we put in? We give up without a fight?’

  The DCI looked Louisa square in the eyes and, for a moment, his composure slipped, revealing the full force of the anger he’d been keeping in check. Louisa barely managed to stop herself from taking a step back. ‘This isn’t a battle we can win. The NCA had us the second we ran the history graph against Harrow. We...’ The DCI took a deep br
eath. With visible effort he brought himself back under control. ‘Louisa, the NCA representative at the case file review was Christopher Mellor.’

  Christopher Mellor. The NCA’s Director of Intelligence. The NCA was spit into two divisions, Operations and Intelligence. Intelligence considered themselves on a par with MI5 when it came to domestic intelligence gathering. ‘Why did they have someone so senior at the review?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The DCI paused. ‘Perhaps it was an attempt at intimidation. If that was their intention, I’m ashamed to say, they were successful. I don’t know what the NCA has in play here, Louisa, but it’s big. Big enough to sink both our careers if we aren’t careful.’

  She realised the DCI wasn’t angry with her or Drew, he was angry with himself for not fighting their corner. Her own shame stabbed at her. Shame at doubting her boss, and at forcing an explanation from him. He certainly hadn’t owed her one.

  The DCI took her silence for acquiescence. ‘After the handover dismiss your officers. Then go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long night.’

  *

  ‘What kind of game are you playing, Inspector?’

  ‘No game, Mr Backus.’ Louisa sighed wearily. ‘Your clients are being moved to another station where their questioning will continue.’ She could have done without Backus trying to throw his weight around. He’d rounded on her the moment he found out the NCA was taking over Vanags’ case.

  ‘If my client isn’t going to be charged with an offence, I demand he be released.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re making demands to the wrong person. Your client is no longer in SCD7’s custody. Officer Carter is the MET’s NCA Liaison. I suggest you direct your questions toward him.’

  Backus shifted his gaze to Drew, who was with the custody officer, handling the prisoner sign-over. Vanags had already left, on his way to a police station near the NCA headquarters. He lowered his voice. ‘Is it Worrell? Has he changed his statement?’

  Louisa allowed herself a small smile. Backus’ confidence must really have been shaken if he was pumping her for information. ‘Officer Carter is now the Senior Investigating Officer. Your client’s case is no longer my concern.’

  Backus scowled. He turned on his heel and stalked off. As much as she disliked the man, she had to respect his drive. If she were a suspect, given the choice between Ian Backus and Geoffrey Hamilton, she would have chosen Backus hands-down. Whereas Backus showed concern over the transfer of custody, Hamilton had barely contained his excitement. His already high profile client had jumped into the big leagues. He’d made a show of introducing himself to Drew and the rest of the NCA officers. Handshakes and smiles all round. The effect on his client proved less than positive. Worrell’s panicked look had returned with a vengeance.

  ‘Your ID please, sir.’ The duty officer twisted his console around on the desk to face Drew.

  Drew glanced at the screen and it chirped in response. He hadn’t wasted any time after the review. Only Baker remained in the custody suite. Louisa hadn’t spoken to him since he arrived. The DCI’s warning was still ringing in her ears and she didn’t trust herself not to blow up in Drew’s face. She’d opened up her investigation to him, and he’d betrayed her.

  Not much longer now. Then you can go home and write the last two days off. Forget they ever happened.

  DS Bolton appeared from the cellblock, holding Baker by an arm. Baker shuffled forward. He looked to be miles away, his exuberance from the interview gone. Drew nodded to one of his team, a flat-nosed bruiser who looked like he wouldn’t be out of place in a rugby scrum. He approached Baker, a set of cuffs at the ready. ‘Raise your wrists please, sir.’

  Baker raised his hands. As the officer moved forward Baker stumbled and fell against him. The man grunted in surprise. He grabbed Baker by the arms and hauled him upright.

  Baker’s lassitude evaporated. He twisted his upper body and broke free of the NCA officer’s grasp. The officer swore and took a step toward Baker, then froze. It was then Louisa saw the officer’s sidearm in Baker’s hand. He raised the gun, sweeping it in a wide arc around the room.

  Louisa reacted first. ‘Don’t be stupid, Mr Baker. Put down the gun. These men just want to ask you some questions.’ She flinched as Baker aimed the gun at her.

  ‘I’m well aware of what they want.’ Baker’s voice was shrill. He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. ‘They want what’s in here. Well they’re not getting it!’

  Drew had been shifting around Baker’s left-hand side while he spoke. ‘Don’t take another step.’ Baker swung the gun. Drew stopped and raised his hands.

  Baker was breathing fast and deep. He blinked, then appeared to reach a decision. He tilted his head back and placed the gun barrel under his chin.

  ‘No!’ Louisa held up her hands. ‘Mr Baker, please. Whatever’s wrong, we can talk it out.’

  ‘To achieve anything truly great requires sacrifice,’ Baker said.

  ‘Killing yourself won’t achieve anything.’

  ‘You’re wrong. He knew this moment would come. It was foretold.’

  ‘Tell us what you want,’ Drew said. ‘We can make it happen.’

  Baker licked his lips. ‘I have a message to deliver.’

  ‘Great. Tell me what it is and who it’s for. I’ll deliver it for you.’

  ‘Not you. Her.’

  All eyes turned to Louisa. She nodded. ‘I’ll do it. You have my word.’

  ‘He must surrender to the inevitable. He must face judgement.’

  Louisa waited until she was sure he had finished. ‘Okay. Who’s the message for?’

  Baker’s rictus grin made her skin prickle. ‘White Hat.’

  He pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Louisa woke to the warm resonant tones of piano notes drifting from below and reverberating throughout the bedroom. Still half asleep as her mind fumbled for awareness, she was taken back to similar childhood awakenings.

  Her very first memory was of her father sitting at the piano. He’d been a gifted musician and practiced without fail every day, before and after work. In the morning he chose sedate and tranquil pieces that pervaded her dreams, chasing the shadows away. She was never afraid to start the day, even if the dreaded school awaited. His favourite composer was Debussy. She could have listened to him play Clair de Lune forever. The piece was so very sad, yet it filled her heart to bursting. Those were the best mornings, when she awoke to its delicate chords. She’d sneak downstairs in her pyjamas and open the door a crack, hoping to remain undetected, but no matter how carefully she tiptoed, or how slowly she opened the door, her father somehow always knew she was there. The beautiful classical composition would transpose into a TV show’s theme tune, or a pop song from the charts. Then he’d turn and wink at her and she’d collapse in a fit of giggles. His evening recitals were more lively affairs, the pieces chosen for their energy and vibrancy. While her mum cooked dinner Louisa sat at the kitchen table, rushing to complete her homework so she could devote her entire attention to the music. It whisked her far from their red brick terrace to exotic costume balls and grand soaring operas. When she was old enough for her feet to reach the pedals her father announced she would learn to play.

  Every generation in my family had at least one pianist. You’re all we’ve got, so it will have to be you!

  She’d been playing for less than a month when he first complained of feeling unwell.

  It’s just the flu. Nothing to worry about, sweetie. We’ll get back to the lessons in no time.

  She’d thought it strange. He normally had to be dragged to the doctor by Mum. This time he went with no protests. As it turned out the lessons never resumed. The pancreatic cancer struck hard and fast, confining him to bed in a matter of weeks. Then just as quickly, he was gone. Louisa didn’t feel like taking lessons afterwards. The piano sat in the kitchen, untouched. Later, when her mother passed and she married John, they sold the house, and the piano along with it.
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br />   The first thing Louisa did when she bought the new house was buy a piano. The old battered upright no doubt had many previous owners, but it helped make the kitchen feel more homey. She knew better than to force lessons onto her kids. At their age it was a sure fire way of ensuring they’d never want to learn. So she was delighted when Jess expressed an interest in playing the instrument.

  Louisa finally recognised the piece her daughter was practising. Liszt’s Liebestraum. The playing was halting in places, although it still conveyed a sense of the elegant melody. She wiped away a tear. She was so proud of Jess. At least her daughter would carry on the family tradition.

  She subvocalised time and a digital clock appeared before her. Half seven in the evening. She’d slept for nearly four hours. She checked her messages. The anti-inflammatories she swallowed before crawling into bed had done their job. The pain behind her eyes had faded to a dull ache. Drew’s request for her statement on Killian Baker’s suicide sat unread in her inbox. Her face burned. Drew’s colleague should never have carried a weapon into the custody suite. She’d told Drew as much afterwards. Then he reminded her the investigation was no longer any of her concern. Needless to say, it had rubbed her up the wrong way.

  She blinked the interface away. Drew was right. The investigation wasn’t her responsibility any more. The statement could wait. She’d ordered her team to take some time off. The DCI suggested she did likewise. Louisa wasn’t sure time alone with her own thoughts was such a good idea. Baker’s final words had shaken her.

  White Hat.

  She didn’t think anyone noticed her reaction. If they did, they surely put it down to Baker’s gruesome death. Drew had asked if Baker had mentioned White Hat during his questioning. She said no, of course. He persisted, demanding to know why Baker wanted her to deliver the message. DCI Lenihan interjected then, telling Drew to back off.

  He must surrender to the inevitable. He must face judgement.

  It was a miracle she’d fallen asleep at all. Three years had passed since Benoit’s arrest. She’d heard nothing from Adam Walsh. It wasn’t like she could call him up for a chat.