“Jessica, it’s Joseph, help’s coming. Hang in there. We’ll get you to a hospital.”
Her mouth gaped open and croaked an unintelligible sound. Her fingers stretched out trying to touch a hardback book on the floor. Was she trying to tell him something? No doubt of it, and the message was clear. It was an Arthur Middleton novel, one his strong middle period. Jessica croaked once more, gargling blood. “Save your strength,” he whispered. “I understand. I know who did this, don’t worry. He’ll pay for this.”
The doors swung open and two security guards from reception strolled into the room. Joseph yelled at them, calling for an ambulance and first-aiders and anyone who could help. Stop anyone leaving. Look for Middleton. Cry murder. Here, in the heart of his publishing empire.
In a strange twisted way, Joseph Haslam was almost glad his brother had not lived to see this day, when one of their own writers would strike at them as if they were nothing better than makeweight victims in a cartoon crime drama.
“Hold on Jessica.” He took her hand, whispered to her how he would save her life, the paramedics were coming. First aiders would be found somehow, somewhere. She would live, if it was in his power, he promised he would leave no page unturned.
But it was not in his power, and as he sat with her, waiting desperately for help to come, she breathed her last with a heart-breaking, guttural grunt of air, as if her soul had had to smash its way free.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Stab in the Dark
Ruby Loughran lived a frugal life. She worked part-time in the wholefood co-operative for a meagre income at minimum wage; and full-time for Tom Capgras without pay. Home was a squat, where she ate bulk-buy staples from the wholefood store, at wholesale prices for staff. She didn’t drink or take drugs. A car was out of the question so she travelled everywhere by bicycle. She rarely bought clothes and needed no television, fast food or holidays in the sun. Jewellery, make-up or perfume were unnecessary fripperies. She borrowed books from friends and listened to music only when it was live, outdoors, and preferably free.
Her extravagance, her weakness was technology.
Ruby had built her first computer aged twelve with components scavenged from friends, relatives and the local recycling centre. These days she saved her income for investments in processors, graphics cards and smartphones. Most of the software she needed was open source, and she could write her own simple programs when necessary.
She knew her way around a database, the dark web and the outer reaches of the galaxy, explored in a virtual spaceship in the game Eve Online.
At six in the morning she was already at her computer, checking news and forums, exchanging messages with contacts and running an update on her Linux operating system.
Sitting at a desk in her small, bare, undecorated room in a converted east London warehouse, she typed frantically, leaving instructions on a bulletin board explaining to a newbie how to rescue their hacked WordPress blog.
Her iPhone, left beside her bed to charge, dinged at her from across the room. A message, at this time in the morning? She checked it. Tom Capgras. Her heart beat a little faster. He had shared his location with her. Why? He was on an industrial estate, out near Heathrow. What was he doing there? A text arrived from him. “Tell Tom I’m here. Ask him not to leave me hanging around.”
It made no sense. Was it Tom or not? She replied: “Tom? What’s going on?” She got no reply. Intrigued, perplexed, she stared at the screen. The location didn’t change. Tom wasn’t moving around. If it was Tom. A thought occurred to her: what if someone else had hold of his old phone, the one that went missing.
She knew Tom’s sign-in details: she acted as his IT department and needed access to every device to keep them in sync. She checked on the status of the missing handset. It was live again, after weeks of silence. It had finally been turned back on. The location checked out. West London, near Heathrow.
At this hour, Tom would be asleep. Alone? At home? Or with that girl?
A doubt loomed in her mind: should she tell him at all? What would he do? He’d go looking – knowing it was a trap, he would walk straight into it, searching for truth, or information, or quotes to use in an article. He’d go alone because he wouldn’t want to put anyone else in danger. And he wouldn’t trust the police.
He wouldn’t even call them.
She could do it herself, but it felt like betrayal and she knew he would see it that way. He had waited so long for a breakthrough and needed to find Middleton, to be the one who brought the man down. Could she deny him that final revenge? To save his life, she could.
Would he forgive her? No. Not fully. She’d lose his trust. A part of it at least. He would drift from her.
Even further.
She cradled her phone in her hand, debating with herself who to call. The police? Or Tom?
She dialled his new number. It went to voicemail. She hung up and dialled again. This time he answered, but sounded heavy with sleep. “Ruby, what’s up?”
“You at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
“Sure, why? What?”
“Get dressed. I’m coming round.”
“What’s happening?”
“Can’t tell you on the phone. I’ll be right there.”
She slung her day-bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Foolish Honesty
“Promise me.” Ruby stood in the doorway, staring at him defiantly.
It was an odd way to start a conversation at a quarter to seven in the morning. Tom was still in his dressing gown, putting together his first cup of coffee. He hadn’t had enough sleep, and he longed for his bed. The kettle clicked off. He put a hand on it but waited for it to ease off the boil.
“If I tell you, promise me you won’t go alone.”
“Where? What are you talking about?” He poured the water onto the coffee grounds and breathed in the familiar aroma.
“It’s a trap.”
“What is?”
“This.” Ruby held up her phone. The screen showed a map. Someone had shared their location. It was him.
“I’m not there.”
“Your phone is.”
“It’s here.”
“Your old phone. It’s been turned back on. It’s alive. Someone has it.”
Middleton.
“He sent this message.”
Tom read it. A taunt. A provocation. A trap, she was right.
“Not alone. Call the police. Let them deal with it.” She snatched at the phone. He hadn’t seen the details. West London was all he knew. An industrial estate. “Let me see.”
“Promise.”
This was his chance: to confront Middleton, to get the man to admit to what he had done. To demand answers. To get quotes. Photos. The exclusive. But why this, why now? Why him? Middleton had used him all along for publicity and this must be part of the plan. He must have an escape planned, in case the coppers turned up mob handed. He’d not make the mistake of being caught like a rat in hole.
Tom would have to go alone. He knew, and Ruby knew it.
She grabbed the lapel of his dressing gown. For a moment he thought she might rip it off him and leave him standing there, naked to the world. “Take police, or someone. Take a weapon. Take me.”
The police would take charge, he knew that. He’d never get to speak to Middleton, to ask the hard questions. To look the man in the eye. Or to savour revenge. “All right, have it your way. I’ll call for help. On one condition.”
“What?”
“Don’t follow me.”
She hesitated. “You’ll call the police?”
“I’ll get back-up, don’t worry, I can’t do this alone, I know that.”
“All right.” Ruby let go of his dressing gown, straightened it out. “I promise if you do.”
“I promise. All right? I promise.”
“Call them now.”
“No, the timing.
I have to be there, to be close. I’ll do it from the road.”
She glared at him. “Don’t lie to me.”
An occupational hazard: he was a newspaper man, committed to the truth. But sometimes, the only way of getting to it was to tell a few white lies.
“I won’t go alone. Honest. I have to get dressed.”
“Yeah. I have to go.”
“The address?”
She thrust her phone into his hand. “Take it with you.”
As he slugged his coffee, he heard her outside, getting on her bike and cycling away.
That was too easy. She was up to something. No time to worry about that. He threw on some clothes in a frenzy, paused in the doorway to his shipping container. And as he had promised, he made that call.
Chapter Forty
If Words Could Kill
Capgras didn’t tell an outright lie. His promise to go with back-up was built on an element of truth. He would take no policemen with him though. No hired muscle or bodyguards. No gun. No weapon of any kind. Only his words. And the traditional support: a snapper, to get today’s photo of the man of the moment.
He rode his motorbike through the October drizzle, not noticing the battered rust-red VW polo on his tail. He was too busy thinking over the risks, the opportunities, and his plan of attack. It came down to his usual approach: he’d walk straight in there, bluff his way through, and if that failed, pretend reinforcements were imminent. He’d called the picture desk at his old newspaper to see if they could spare anyone, no delay. They were sending a rookie, someone young and eager, keen to get involved in the investigative skulduggery at which Tom excelled.
Capgras stopped the bike outside a truck-stop café near Heathrow. He walked up to the metallic red VW Golf and knocked on the window with the knuckle of his index finger.
As the window wound down, he realised the lad was barely out of his teens. Too green for stalking serial killers. What would the lad’s mother have to say if anything went wrong?
“I’m Capgras.”
“I recognise you.”
Tom grunted.
The snapper introduced himself: Alex Monroe, a freelance who’d got a gig doing a few days a week on the paper, on a trial basis.
Tom leaned in through the window. “I’ll be on the bike, follow me. But when I stop and go in, don’t follow. Stay outside with the engine running. You understand?”
“How do I get a photo?”
“If he comes out, snap him from the car. Don’t let him see you. If it’s safe, I’ll fetch you.”
“What if you don’t come out?”
“Then call the police.”
“It’ll be safer with two of us. I’m not scared.”
“Then you’re a fool. You have a phone?”
“Sure.”
Tom sent him a string of contact numbers. “These are all CID. They might respond promptly if you tell them what it’s about. I’ll go in, give me half and hour, and if you don’t hear from me, call for help. On no account, under any circumstances, are you to follow me in. You even get out of the vehicle and I’ll never work with you again. Anyone approaches your car, or gives you a funny look, drive away fast and keep going. Don’t stop until you reach a police station. You got all that?”
“If that’s how you want it.”
“You’re my back-up. Remember that. It's just you, no one else.”
“Then who’s in the Polo? Followed you into the car park. Still behind the wheel.”
Capgras cursed under his breath. “That’s a contact of mine. She’s not to get involved either. I’ll amend what I just said. If you see her try to follow me in, you stop her. Call the police first, then stop her.”
“How?”
“If I knew that, she wouldn’t be here.” Tom strode off before the young photographer could protest. He walked over to Ruby’s car and waited for her to wind down the window. “I didn’t know you could drive.”
“Taught myself.”
“Got a licence?”
“You the police now?”
“Whose is it?”
“Someone from the squat.”
“Take it back to them. I’m not alone, as you can see. Go home.”
“All right,” she said.
“Easy as that?”
“Sure, now I know you have help.”
She was lying. “Just stay outside, all right. Keep the engine running.” He checked the location map on her phone one last time then handed it back to her.
Muttering darkly to himself he crossed the car park, threw his leg over the bike, kicked her into life and pulled out into the road. He took it slow at first so the others could catch up.
Ten minutes later he slowed to a halt outside a disused warehouse. It had an acre of tarmac out front but there wasn’t a car, truck or any other vehicle in sight. The building was breeze-block and concrete with a corrugated metal roof, dating from the fifties, maybe earlier. It was small, dilapidated, ramshackle and insecure. It also appeared utterly deserted.
He waved at the others to keep back, then rode a circuit around the building. It was even worse at the rear, with broken windows, smashed guttering and a door that looked half rotten. It would be a way in if all else failed. He headed to the front and sat on his bike, assessing the building. There was no one here, he was sure of that, unless it was a trap. Was this the moment when Middleton would strike? How would he do it? Lead pipe in the ballroom? Or candlestick in the conservatory? A gun perhaps? No, something more imaginative. Not explosions again, or poison. He’d done those.
Capgras put a hand into his pocket and checked for his trusty notebook. He set his phone to record. He started his hidden recording device, a simple memory stick with a microphone, sewn into the collar of his Belstaff jacket. It would give him an hour at least of interview. Or gunshots. Or screams.
He glanced towards Ruby, sitting obediently in her car. How long would that last? He turned and faced the door into the warehouse. Was this it? Would he face his death in there? It made no sense as traps go. If Middleton wanted to strike he could have done so a thousand times by now. Why taunt him? Why tempt him like this? For poetic justice, dangling the lure of an exclusive story, knowing Capgras could never resist?
He left his helmet on the seat of his bike. He considered wearing it as protection, but figured Middleton wouldn’t come at him armed with a metal bar. Or a spanner. Or a wrench. He’d use poison dart or a deadly snake or some such elaborate scheme from a fanciful detective tale.
Capgras tried the front door. It was stiff but not locked. He leaned into it with his shoulder and it opened with a groan that echoed through the building. The place sounded empty, like a Saturday night in hell when the demons are out on the town. He took a blue metallic Maglite out of a pocket and headed inside. A switch beside the door looked prehistoric, but he tried it anyway and the lights flickered into life. He stood in a hallway, with offices to the left and right. Straight ahead was a set of double wooden doors. He leant into them, pushed them open.
In the centre of the warehouse hung a body, attached by the neck to a twenty foot rope, secured to a metal girder. Even at this distance, in the dim light, even with a cloth bag over the man’s head, Capgras knew who he would find. He could tell by the build, the portly belly, and the man’s deeply unfashionable though undoubtedly expensive tweed jacket
Capgras prowled forward, listening intently, glancing from side to side. This looked like an ambush but there was no one here to spring it. The trap was mental, philosophical. A snare to taunt him and keep his thoughts running in treadmills.
He took hold of the man’s wrist and found no sign of life. A chair lay on its side on the floor. Capgras turned it upright and stood on it to pull the canvas bag off the man’s head, then stared into the dead, despairing eyes of his prime and only suspect, mid-list crime novelist and serial killer on the run Arthur James Middleton, deceased.
Chapter Forty-One
The Rack Of This Rough World
Capgr
as slipped his hand into the pocket of Middleton’s jacket and felt the familiar shape and smooth metal of an iPhone. He held it up to examine the scratches: sure enough, there was a deep cut across the back-plate almost two inches long, created when he dropped it while cleaning the bike’s carburettor. Battery? It turned on. He tapped in the code. Still working: he hadn’t thought to cancel the sim card, assuming it had been destroyed in the explosion.
How did it come to be here? Did he lose it that night, at the cottage? Or had Middleton gone to the hotel room before setting off the bomb? A nightmare thought: did Middleton hurt Kiera? Did she suffer? Did she fight back?
He climbed down from the chair, still cradling his phone. He should leave it in the man’s pocket. It counted as evidence. Then again, the police would take it, keep it, analyse it. Rip the data off it. Where would it end up? At GCHQ? With special branch or MI5? He couldn’t take the risk.
He stared at Middleton’s corpse dangling from a beam, the noose tied with fastidious precision. The man was dead, no doubt about that. No need for an ambulance. So – police first? Or the newsroom? It was almost as though someone knew his weakness, and where to prod a finger. Was this Middleton’s final revenge? Here was the story, the exclusive angle, swinging like a gift-wrapped carrot.
Newsroom. The story mattered more than justice. He held the phone, still not calling, as he walked towards the door. He waved to the photographer, gesturing him inside. The young snapper sprinted eagerly across the car park, but stopped and gagged when he saw the body.
Capgras called the newsroom. Fitzgerald was in early. Or had he stayed all night? Sometimes Tom suspected that his old news editor slept in that chair.
“You’re there already? That’s quick,” Fitzgerald said. “Just seen it on Twitter,”
“What do you mean, on Twitter?”
Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1) Page 19
