The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “Yes. But I need to try Merlyn again, and I’ll keep calling all the way to the Channel Tunnel.”

  “Our men should be at her place in about ten minutes. I’ll ring and let you know when they have her, but you should call the locals in Paris, let them come take care of Pendrith. And don’t touch anything, for crying out loud.”

  “I won’t,” said Hugo, slipping Pendrith’s phone into his pocket. “And I’ll call the police just as soon as I find a pay phone.”

  He strode to the Maubert-Mutualité metro station, his head down and his hands deep in his pockets, immune to the swell of the evening traffic starting to choke the Paris streets. Occasional spits of rain made him blink, but the warm glow of the sidewalk cafés went unnoticed as Hugo’s mind worked against the tide of sleep that fogged his brain and drained him of the ability to find any pleasure in his favorite city.

  It took less than ten minutes to reach the metro station, and he immediately looked for a phone, knowing that a public one would allow the cops to record the call but not trace it to him. He took a deep breath and dialed the police, grateful for the shuffle and scrape of busy feet around him that provided the mask of anonymity he needed.

  The call made, he waited for his southbound train, sitting in one of the odd orange seats unique to the station, a whole row of them that looked more like discs than chairs. The train would take him south to Austerlitz station, where he’d change lines and head north to the Gard du Nord and get back on a train to London.

  Trains rumbled around him and he sat lost in thought, then started as his phone buzzed again, surprised at getting reception underground. He recognized the number immediately.

  “Upton, this is Hugo. Do you have her?”

  “Hugo.” He sounds tired. I bet I do, too. “No, I’m sorry, she wasn’t there.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I know. Our uniforms got there and tried to make contact. She didn’t come to the door so, after what you said, we were worried about a hostage situation. I’d sent a TAC team behind the uniforms, and when they went in, she was gone.”

  “Gone how, any idea?”

  “Of her own accord, best we can tell. No signs of a struggle, nothing broken in the apartment.”

  “I wouldn’t expect there to have been a struggle,” Hugo said. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Walton killed Pendrith, he’s not even on English soil,” he said, irritated at having to explain, more irritated at leaving Merlyn unprotected. “He told her to go somewhere, and she did.”

  “She’s still not answering her phone?”

  “No. He probably told her to turn it off, said she was in danger and could be tracked if her phone was on.” Hugo shook his head. “If I wanted someone to disappear off the grid, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Sneaky bastard.”

  “That he is,” said Hugo. “He must have told her to meet him somewhere. We need to figure out where.”

  “Why would he hurt her? What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know what this is about, but he might assume Pendrith told her. Maybe he knows they were both visitors to Braxton Hall, figures they were somehow in cahoots, that she knows something. Whatever happens, we have to find her.” Hugo heard the desperate note in his own voice, and it shocked him a little.

  “Wait, what does Braxton Hall have to do with this?”

  “Little bits of this make sense, but I don’t know exactly . . . and I still don’t know why he’s doing this. If you can get me anything and everything on Walton, from research and from his home, maybe that’ll help. I have Pendrith’s phone, maybe I can find something on it that will connect them.” He felt the desperation creep back into his voice. “In the meantime, find Merlyn. She’s an innocent in this.”

  Upton paused before speaking. “You’re sure about that, Hugo? If we don’t know what’s going on, how can we know about her for sure?”

  “I know it,” Hugo said. But he’d not considered the alternative, it had never even crossed his mind.

  “Well, I don’t. She’s as much in the middle of this as Pendrith and Walton, and remember, you told me that she’s the one who showed up at Braxton Hall.”

  “She did, that’s true. But I got her into this, Clive, I’m sure she’s on our side.” As he said the words, he knew he was partly wrong, he knew that he shouldn’t rule Merlyn out of the mix on the basis of some gut instinct, and yet he was doing just that. “It’s Walton, not Merlyn,” Hugo said. “And we need to find her before he does. If I’m right, he’s coming in from France. Can’t you watch the border, the trains and ferries?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Upton said.

  “He may be using a different name and, if so, there might be evidence of it at his house. Another reason to look, and look now.”

  “Like I said, I’ll do what I can. But remember, borders aren’t what they used to be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hugo was the last to board the train back to London, hurrying on and barely seated when the platform outside his window began to slide away.

  He wanted to rest, to close his eyes and give his mind and body a few moments to catch up and recharge. He’d not slept in two days, and the velvet cloak of darkness that slipped around the train as it left the bright lights of the city seemed to wrap around his exhausted body, too, its softness and the rocking of the train an irresistible lullaby singing his tired limbs and mind to sleep. It took a force of will for him to find his phone and call Merlyn, yet again. Still no answer.

  There was little he could do. Bart and DCI Upton were both mining into Walton’s life, trying to connect him to Pendrith, to find something they had in common, something that put Pendrith into Walton’s sights, find whatever got the MP killed.

  Hugo sat forward, mentally urging energy back into his body and fighting the desire to close his eyes. He pulled Pendrith’s phone from his pocket and brought it to life, bleary eyes taking extra seconds to focus on the screen. He’d start with the man’s e-mails.

  Two minutes later, Hugo had been through all the correspondence, what little there was. A few messages to staffers, but nothing personal. It seemed clear that Pendrith wasn’t big on e-mailing—no surprise for someone of his generation.

  So why have a smartphone instead of a regular one? Hugo wondered. He turned to the other applications, opening the web browser to try and see where, if anywhere, Pendrith had been surfing the Internet. But Hugo’s poor knowledge of technical things was a barrier, and he soon became frustrated, resigning himself to the fact that one of his tech guys would have to search it for any data.

  He glanced through the other applications and one looked like a notebook, so he opened it and started reading. The very first words stung him, jolted adrenalin into his blood, and made his head swim.

  I need to start by saying that people were not meant to die. Not those people, anyway, and certainly not in the way they did. There was a greater purpose behind these events that I’m afraid will be overshadowed by the death of innocents; or relative innocents. That original purpose, perhaps ironically, is still alive, which is why I must remain vague.

  Is a half-apology worth anything? Who knows. Perhaps I shall delete this all and try to deal with the consequences, one way or another, the best way I can. But please know that I worked for the greater good, always, even in this horror that has unfolded. And should the full facts, every twist and turn in the story, become known, then you should know that I have seen, understood, and mourned for the deep irony at play.

  It was a confession. At least, a kind of confession, though Hugo had no clue what Pendrith had meant to do with it. Send it to the media? His colleagues in Parliament? The police? Worse, it didn’t answer any of the substantive questions rattling around in Hugo’s head, although it did, possibly, change one of his conclusions. After all, a confession written by a man found with a gun by his side was usually called a suicide note. As he read and reread the w
ords, Hugo wondered whether he’d been wrong, wondered whether Pendrith had taken his own life, after all.

  But then he remembered where he’d found the phone and the wave of relief surprised him. The phone had been pushed down the side of the chair, hidden. Hidden from whomever killed him.

  Hugo looked at the message again and tried to distance himself from the situation, to pretend he’d found the note at another crime scene, one where he didn’t know the victims personally. What did the words tell him? Parse it, he thought, parse the message piece by piece.

  Before he could start, his phone rang. Bart.

  “Hey Bart, I’m on my way home.”

  “Everything OK?”

  “Not really. Merlyn is missing, Pendrith is dead, and Walton is on the loose. It’s only a matter of time before we get him, but in the meantime I think he’s set his sights on Merlyn.”

  “Jesus, really? I only spoke to you a couple of hours ago, what the hell happened?”

  “Yeah, this is moving fast. Too fast. I saw Pendrith an hour before he was killed. He told me he was planning to disappear, but I went to his apartment and found him dead.” Hugo described the scene and could hear the scratch of Bart’s pen as he took notes.

  “You sure it wasn’t suicide?” Bart asked.

  Another thought struck Hugo, reinforcing his opinion that it wasn’t. “He had his passport on him. Now I think of it, I didn’t check to see the name but it’s probably a fake. It means, though, that when he told me he was planning to disappear, he meant it. Why would he carry a passport then shoot himself?

  “Good point. But why would someone shoot him, make it look like a suicide, but not check his pockets?”

  “Several reasons. Because the shooter’s not a pro, or because he was too busy looking for something else.”

  “Such as?”

  “Pendrith’s phone. Which I found, with something on it. I want your opinion.” He read the note to Bart, slowly so he could copy it down word for word.

  “Reads like a suicide note,” Bart said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it’s definitely a . . .” He went quiet, searching for the right word.

  “Confession?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that. Pendrith was working toward a goal, and he wasn’t working alone.”

  “Walton?”

  “Right. Has to be. It’s confusing because Pendrith suggests that the wrong people died. Do you read it that way?”

  A moment’s silence. “I do. But what does he mean by ‘the purpose is still alive’?”

  “I think that’s a direct reference to Walton, to whatever he’s doing. And I think that’s why the note is so vague, because he doesn’t want to tip his hand, give away their grand scheme and have us stop it.”

  “It’s like he’s apologizing for Walton but still wants him to succeed.”

  “Exactly,” said Hugo. “Smart guy, that’s why I hired you.”

  “Thanks, but the ambassador hired me.”

  “Shut up, Bart, and help me figure out the last line, the key to this little mess: whatever the greater good is, that’s what Walton is doing. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find him and Merlyn.”

  “Agreed, but you’re the brains of this operation, so just tell me what to do.”

  “I already put DCI Upton on this, but I want to know everything possible about Pendrith and Walton. Maybe work with him so you don’t duplicate, and call me when you know anything that I don’t. I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs, so if I get twenty calls with tiny pieces of info, I don’t mind at all. Tell Upton that, too.”

  “Yes, sir. Talk to you soon, I hope.”

  Hugo sat back and exhaled. Good people were working hard on finding Merlyn, finding Walton, and figuring out what he and Pendrith were up to. For now, there was nothing more Hugo could do. He looked out the window as the French countryside passed by, its towns and villages invisible behind the veil of night that surrounded the train, its darkness pressing in again on Hugo and the occasional, piercing flashes of light from streetlamps and cars encouraged him to close his eyes, light and dark working together to pull him down into a welcoming sleep.

  He woke to a metallic voice announcing their imminent arrival at Saint Pancras, the words echoing in his mind and not settling clearly, instead provoking a flash of panic and disorientation that the darkness outside and the stillness inside the train did nothing to dissolve.

  He pulled himself upright in his seat, and the memories of the day came at him like arrows, each one a shot of alarm. He scrabbled for his phone on the little table in front of him but found only a piece of paper, folded in half. Dread rose in his throat like bile as he opened it.

  I could have killed you but that’s not what this is about. This no longer concerns you, and once I have made my point, I will end it. But you need to stop now.

  It was unsigned, but there was no doubt that Harry Walton was on this train. Walton had stood right here beside him, maybe even ready to kill if Hugo had been awake.

  Hugo pushed himself out of his seat, his legs stiff like boards, and he willed calmness into his body as he searched his pockets one more time for his phone, then for Pendrith’s phone. He stooped and rummaged through his overnight bag, knowing he wouldn’t find either there.

  Not only was Walton on the train, but he’d taken away Hugo’s ability to let anyone know.

  Hugo looked up and down the aisles, deciding which way to go. But before he could move, a sleeve of light slipped over the train and the windows filled with the columns and ironwork of Saint Pancras station. In seconds the train was still, and Hugo abandoned any thought of searching its compartments for Walton. He hurried to the door and waited, stepping out as soon as they opened, scouring the walkway for any sign of the man. The platform slowly filled with stretching and gossiping travelers, and Hugo realized that he couldn’t possibly see every compartment as it emptied, couldn’t possibly catch Walton unless . . . He cursed. Walton would have gone to the front of the train to be nearest the exit. Hugo turned and ran that way. Heads turned as he flashed by, and Hugo found his way suddenly blocked by a team of rugby players who had fanned out across the platform, burly shoulders and tree-trunk legs making passage impossible for a few precious seconds. By the time he’d bundled through them, and earned himself a few choice words in the process, Hugo realized he had another problem.

  Once he got to the exit, either he had to wait there for the platform to empty, in case Walton was lingering at the back of the line of passengers, or he could keep going, keep looking for Walton, and maybe find a pay phone to call in some backup. The second option seemed far preferable. Waiting wasn’t Hugo’s idea of taking control.

  He ran into the main concourse, eyes on every face, drifting past people he’d already vetted without seeing them again, brushing shoulders and bags, apologizing under his breath as anger and desperation grew.

  After five minutes he abandoned the hunt, like a fisherman finally letting go of the bucking fish, too slippery to grasp. He needed a net. He found a public phone and, with some patience, managed to have the operator connect him to the US Embassy, where he was put through to Bart.

  “Hugo, where are you? I’ve been calling for an hour.”

  “I know, that bastard took my phone from under my nose while I slept.”

  “Jesus, he was on the same train?”

  “Yes, he was. And I let him get away.”

  “We’ll find him,” Bart said. “You’re at the station right now?”

  “Saint Pancras, yes, and so is he.”

  “You want the cavalry? We can shut the place down, but it’ll take a while, I’ll have to ask the ambassador before we call the English police. I guess I could call Upton, go straight to him.”

  Hugo looked around him as the lone travelers and groups of people swirled and eddied through the station. “Forget it, Bart. He’s gone by now, he has the subway, buses, other trains, taxis. All he needed was a
minute’s lead, and I gave him five times that.” He ran a hand across his brow. “I’ll find a cab and come in. I assume you’ve not located Merlyn?”

  “No, we haven’t. I tried calling to let you know that Upton’s having trouble finding a friendly face to sign the search warrant. I was also calling to let you know that if you head out of the station and find the taxi rank, there’s a police car waiting for you.” His voice turned apologetic. “Sorry Hugo, no rest for you just yet. Maybe you can sleep in the car.”

  “To where?”

  “Upton thought you’d want to be present when they finally get the warrant for Walton’s house. He said they’d wait as long as they could.”

  “Where does the bastard live?”

  “Some place called Walkern, just north of London.”

  “Never heard of it. I’ll call you from the—dammit, my phone. Bart, track my phone. Maybe he forgot to turn it off. He has Pendrith’s phone, too, so track them both.”

  “Will do. And I’ll scrounge up a new one for you, in case you don’t get yours back.”

  Hugo hung up and walked outside, glad for the cold night air that nipped away his tiredness, for a few seconds at least. He spotted a burgundy Vauxhall that sat alongside the line of taxis, like a sheepdog minding its herd, the nervous eyes of the cabbies looking back and forth between it and the station exit as they waited for fares.

  Hugo smiled when the rear door of the car opened and DCI Upton stepped out. They shook hands.

  “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Hugo said.

  Upton smiled. “I always thought you Yanks were more into that jurisdictional crap than we are. At least that’s how the movies make it look.”

  “And God knows they show nothing but the truth.”

  Upton stood to one side and ushered Hugo into the comfort of the Vauxhall’s leather seats. This was a police car for ferrying the brass, he saw, not criminals headed for lockup. “Nice wheels. Mind if I take a nap?”