O’Neill stayed in the car. Severely baffled and intimidated, Penrose was led inside the opulent clubhouse by two very large fellows in dark suits, who silently escorted him to a conference room. There, seated around a long table, five very serious men were waiting for Penrose.
That had been his first encounter with the senior members of the obscure organisation calling itself the Trimble Group. They were all much older than Penrose, mostly well into their sixties. They had been extremely welcoming and full of praise for his excellent, important book. He’d been offered drinks, which he politely refused as he never touched alcohol. Then, over a long and lavish lunch that Penrose was too nervous to do more than peck at, they’d outlined their proposal to him.
As Penrose now discovered, he had been unanimously picked from a very short list of potential candidates. The group’s brief was simple, and it required someone with particular qualities. Motivation was key; as was intelligence, as was secrecy.
As the meeting went on, Penrose had to pinch himself under the table to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He was bursting with questions, but so excited he could barely voice them. What he was hearing seemed utterly incredible. It seemed even more incredible when they revealed to him the size of the budget allocated to the operation they wanted him — him! — to personally lead and oversee. Penrose had to grip the edge of the table to stop himself from keeling over.
There would be an initial injection of twelve million pounds. The account had in fact already been opened and the funds put on standby, just waiting for his signature on the contract, whereupon the wire transfer would take place instantly, enabling him to access the money however he liked, in cash if desired. The twelve million was, he was assured, just a fraction of what was to come if the operation proved successful.
The deal terms were breathtakingly straightforward. Penrose would have a free hand to run the operation as he saw fit, with Rex O’Neill assigned to him as his assistant, liaising with the Trimble Group and acting as a general aide and campaign manager.
Penrose’s busy academic schedule might be a concern, they warned. Penrose hastily assured them that it wasn’t. He was already mentally drafting his letter of resignation to Durham University. He’d happily relocate to wherever they wanted, he told them. They laughed. ‘You can run your show from wherever you like,’ one of them said, and the others didn’t contradict him. Travel would be no problem. Penrose would have a fleet of cars at his disposal, as well as aircraft, including a Learjet allocated exclusively to him and on permanent standby to fly wherever he pleased.
One other thing, they reminded him gravely. He must never tell a living soul about this meeting or the nature of what had been discussed. To reveal anything of the Trimble Group, he was informed, would cause irreversible complications. This could not be stressed enough. All eyes were on him as the point was pressed home.
Penrose understood and accepted everything. He couldn’t sign on the line fast enough.
When he left the meeting, Penrose’s head was spinning so badly he could barely walk back to the Mercedes.
Yet it was all true: over the next few days everything happened exactly as the Trimble Group had said it would. Inside of a week, Penrose had quit his job, sold his flat, and was moving to his new headquarters. He chose the beautiful island of Capri, off Italy’s Sorrentine Peninsula, once the abode of Roman emperors. With the newfound millions at his disposal he purchased himself the five-acre estate, complete with magnificent clifftop villa and assorted staff quarters, that was to double as his home and operational headquarters.
Nobody tried to stop him. This was really happening. It seemed that he could do whatever he wanted.
Penrose set about his new purpose in life with a ferocious energy that amazed even him. The Trimble Group could not have picked a better man for the job. Penrose Lucas had arrived, and he was damned if he wouldn’t show them what he was made of. Ten years, he thought. Give me ten years and I’ll become the most important man in history.
He’d known exactly where to begin his quest, with a score he’d been itching to settle for quite some time. He issued orders to O’Neill, which were duly passed down the line and carried out with extreme efficiency by his wonderful new friends. Within less than twenty-four hours, the first phone tap was in place and Penrose was ready to start digging up whatever dirt he could find on the Reverend Simeon Arundel.
But when they first began to listen in on the vicar’s secretive conversations with his overseas associates, Penrose realised what he’d accidentally stumbled upon. It was momentous. Earth-shattering. It had to be stopped.
His time had truly come.
Chapter Nineteen
With the sunrise, Ben tried three more times to contact Jude Arundel on his mobile, and three times was put through to the same voicemail service. The first two calls, he left another message asking him to call back, stressing how important it was. The third time, frustrated, he gave up and went back to trying to figure out the pieces of the puzzle.
He put together what he knew so far: Simeon Arundel and Fabrice Lalique had been working together on the sacred sword project, whatever that was. So much was clear, and it explained why they’d been in close contact for a prolonged period of time and appeared to have travelled to Israel together eighteen months ago. It also seemed that a third man had been involved in the project, an American called Wes, who was very probably the ‘expert’ whom Simeon had been to visit in the States. Expert at what?
Three men. Three colleagues. One was running scared after ‘something’ had happened. Another was dead in a suicide that no longer seemed to quite add up. Another had been killed in a car crash involving a mysterious third party and a few too many suspicious circumstances, after which his home had been broken into by heavily armed thieves with a very clear and serious purpose.
Ben thought back to the group photo that had been taken in Israel. If Wes was one of the men in the picture, he was either the burly olive-skinned man on the left or the fit-looking man in his sixties, standing between Simeon and Fabrice Lalique. Ben reckoned on the latter. Then who was the fourth man in the picture? He looked as though he might be Israeli, and was obviously connected to this as well.
And now a fifth player had apparently just entered the game: Martha. Wes had said he was going to her place to make sure the sword was safe, so she was obviously helping them to hide it. There was no woman in the photo, so maybe she wasn’t part of the core group. Or maybe Martha had been the one who took the picture.
Ben paced up and down the length of the living room for a long time, churning over the clues and all too aware that they so far amounted to very little. But he had more things to worry about. The news of Simeon and Michaela’s deaths would spread fast. The rest of the family would have been informed by now, and soon the whole grim aftermath would roll into action.
If only he could find Jude.
Ben knew the number by heart now. He tried one more time — still no reply. But now another option occurred to him. He flipped through the Arundels’ address book to the letter N, scanned down the list of names and found the number he was looking for.
After four rings, a woman’s voice replied, ‘Petra Norrington.’
Ben had only wanted to know that she was at home. He hung up the phone. Looking her up in the local telephone directory, he found her address listed. She lived close by in Greater Denton.
‘We’re going for a drive, Scruff,’ he said, and led the dog out to the Land Rover. Scruffy urinated on the rear wheel and jumped in.
As Ben headed under the leaden sky towards Greater Denton, the local radio news came on.
‘Church parishes across west Oxfordshire are in mourning today following the tragic deaths of the Reverend Simeon Arundel and his wife Michaela in a road accident. The Reverend Arundel was a popular figure within the church community. The fatal incident took place on the B4429 outside the village of Little Denton. Official cause of death is to be verified pending the Coroner’s rep
ort. A church spokesman…’
Ben turned it off.
Petra Norrington lived in a large and expensive-looking thatched cottage at the edge of the village. A Siamese cat hissed at Ben from the front step and slunk away into the frosty bushes. Answering the door, Petra looked Ben disdainfully up and down for a moment before recognition showed on her face. She was wearing the same string of pearls she’d had on the night before, and her hair was hairsprayed into a peroxide blond helmet that looked as if it could withstand a tornado. ‘Oh — we met last night at the restaurant, didn’t we? You’re Mr, er…’
‘Hope. Please call me Ben. May I come in?’
‘I can’t believe he’s dead,’ Petra said as she led Ben inside the spacious cottage and into a chintzy sitting room. ‘It’s so awful. I’ve just got off the phone with the ladies’ badminton club secretary. Everyone’s just devastated.’ She sighed and shook her head sadly — though not too sadly. Her Siamese being run over might have upset her more.
‘They both are, Mrs Norrington,’ Ben said.
Petra nodded hesitantly, and Ben got the impression that she was considerably less concerned about Michaela’s death than about Simeon’s.
‘How can I help you, Mr Hope? Ben?’
‘I came to ask you if you knew how I could find Jude,’ Ben said. ‘You seemed to know about the place in Cornwall where he hangs out with his friend Robbie.’
Petra nodded, a flicker of disapproval showing. ‘That Robbie. His parents’ holiday place, apparently. It’s out in the middle of the moors. Somewhere not far from Bodmin, I think. I don’t know exactly where.’
‘I see,’ Ben said, feeling his heart sink.
‘But Sophie would be able to tell you.’
‘Sophie?’
‘My daughter.’ Petra arched a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘She and Jude went out together — only for a short time, mind you. He took her to the farm once, for a weekend. From what she told me, it’s a dreadful place. A whole gang of them hang out there, drinking themselves stupid and God knows what else. I can’t imagine what that boy-’
‘Is Sophie here?’ Ben cut in.
‘She’s spending Christmas with her father. He lives in Spain.’
‘Could I have his number?’
Petra shook her head emphatically. ‘Dominic and I haven’t spoken for over five years.’
‘What about Sophie’s mobile number?’
She frowned.
‘It’s very important,’ he said. ‘Jude needs to be contacted.’
Petra nodded and went over to a little writing desk in the corner, where her phone lay next to a glasses case, a pile of mail and the small camera Ben remembered she’d been waving around in the restaurant the night before. Petra took her time putting on her glasses, then picked up the phone and pressed a speed-dial key. After a moment she said in a sugary tone: ‘Sophie, darling, it’s Mummy. Could you call me when you’ve got a moment? Byeee.’
Ben looked at her. ‘That didn’t exactly convey a sense of urgency.’
Petra returned his look icily. ‘As if he’ll be concerned about his parents, anyway,’ she muttered. ‘That young man is only interested in himself.’
Ben was about to reply, then thought better of it and changed the subject. ‘There’s something else I need from you,’ he said. ‘The registration number of the BMW you backed into last night in the Old Windmill car park.’
Petra blinked. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I haven’t got time to explain. I’d appreciate your help.’
‘Er… are you from the police, Mr Hope? Because if not, I frankly don’t see-’
She was interrupted by the doorbell. A UPS delivery van had pulled up in the street outside.
‘My Harrods Christmas hamper! At last!’ Petra gasped, and rushed out of the room to answer the door. She made a big fuss of signing for the parcel. The delivery man had to lug it inside the hallway for her, amid her cries of ‘Oh, be careful! You’ll scratch the parquet!’
Meanwhile, Ben was looking up Sophie Norrington’s number from the phone and scribbling it on the back of his hand with a biro from the writing desk. Sifting quickly through the pile of mail on top of the desk, he found a sealed, unstamped envelope addressed to a motor insurance company and slipped it into his pocket.
Petra had almost finished harrying the delivery driver in the hallway. Ben looked at the little camera lying on the desk. His mind raced back to replay the scene from the restaurant. When Petra Norrington had jumped up from the noisy ladies’ badminton club party table to photograph them all, snapping away left and right, she’d had her back more or less to Ben, which meant she’d been facing roughly in the direction of the archway leading through to the bar area.
The same bar area where the owner of the BMW had been sitting quietly, unnoticed until the incident with the headlight. Was it possible that he might have been captured by chance in one of her shots?
The guy might not be connected to the crash at all. Maybe he was just some surly bastard who’d been miles away when the Lotus had gone over the bridge. Maybe this was a blind alley. Maybe not.
Ben didn’t have long to decide. Petra had shut the front door and was heading back towards the sitting room. He flipped open the side port of the camera, slid out its memory card and pocketed that too.
‘Anyway, Mr Hope,’ she announced archly as she walked back into the room. ‘I’m afraid my private affairs are none of your business.’
Ben gave her his warmest smile. ‘You’re quite right, Mrs Norrington. I’ll be on my way. Thanks for your help, and Merry Christmas to you.’
Chapter Twenty
The meeting had been set in late November, after several weeks of furtive phone calls to a hard-found and extremely cagey contact in London who went by the name of Mick. Palms had been greased, generously and diplomatically, in return for which Penrose Lucas had eventually been given a non-negotiable time and place, as well as a serious warning that he should come alone and prepared. Prepared meant ‘bring money’.
Penrose had flown to London in the Lear and hurriedly made his way to his appointment, carrying a briefcase. The location had been a crowded pub in the East End. The man he’d come to see had been sitting at a window alcove table in the corner, nursing a pint of lager and a frown. He was a Londoner, in his mid-to-late thirties, tall and lean, and under his tight-fitting jumper was the hardened physique of a man who worked out seriously and ran ten miles a day. His receding hairline was razored to a stubble and his piercing grey eyes didn’t once flinch away from Penrose from the moment he sat down. His voice was soft, yet managed to be infinitely menacing at the same time. The man’s name was Steve Cutter, and he was the head of a firm called Cutter Security.
Penrose hadn’t come all this way to talk about fitting alarm systems and fancy locks to his new villa in Capri. Cutter was a private military contractor.
The fact was that Penrose could have approached any one of a hundred suit-and-tie corporate PMC outfits in expensive offices throughout London, but he’d chosen to wade through murkier waters in order to secure the services of someone better suited to his purposes. As far as reputations went, Cutter’s outfit was somewhere near the lower end of the spectrum, though not because they weren’t proficient at what they did. The elusive Mick had told Penrose enough about Cutter’s recent involvements to know that he was exactly the kind of hard-bitten professional mercenary he wanted to engage.
Penrose had been terrified of Cutter at first, and even more terrified of the two scowling and deeply intimidating associates who’d appeared from nowhere, each carrying a pint of beer, and sat down either side of him at the table. It was clear that he was no longer dealing with the likes of the deadbeats from Hardstaff amp; Baldwin in Darlington.
‘This gentleman here is Mr Grinnall,’ Cutter said, motioning to his murderous-looking colleague on Penrose’s right, the one in the tan leather coat. ‘And this is Mr Mills’ — pointing at the other, who was tattooed all the way up to his jawline,
all the way down to his wrists and probably everywhere else as well. ‘Now I gather you have some business to discuss, so let’s get started.’
Speaking low so that nobody else could hear him over the noise of the jukebox and the chatter that filled the crowded pub, Penrose had outlined his requirements. They were twofold. First, he wanted personal protection. A suitably armed team on guard, twenty-four hours a day, at his villa in Capri. Second, and most importantly, he needed men of certain skills and experience to help carry out a set of tasks. The job would involve international travel, Penrose explained. All expenses paid, naturally. It would also involve a degree of criminal activity and violence, and the execution of a complex plan which had to be carried out exactly to order.
If any of that worried Cutter, he didn’t show it. He studied the photographs and list of names Penrose had slid between the beer mats and pint glasses on the table. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked tersely. Grinnall and Mills had yet to utter a word. Their faces were blank. Their thick arms lay crossed over their chests, as though waiting to reach out and snap Penrose’s neck like a celery stick at the slightest signal from their boss.
‘They’re people who have something I want,’ Penrose said.
‘These two are fucking priests.’
‘Strictly speaking, only that one is,’ Penrose had said, pointing at the picture of Fabrice Lalique. ‘The other is a Church of England vicar.’ You had to know your enemy.
‘And what about this old fart here?’
‘He’s an American. A very rich American.’
‘Rich as in bodyguards with fucking Uzis?’
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