by Maynard Sims
Trudy looked startled, but put down her notepad and followed Lucas out.
“Shut the door,” he said.
Trudy did as she was told. “Do you mind me asking why you’ve left the meeting?” she said. “It was your idea after all.”
“I would have thought it obvious. I want them to discuss yesterday’s events freely and openly. They won’t do that while I’m in the room. The atmosphere of resentment and suspicion is almost palpable in there. All I am to them is a Whitehall pen pusher, foisted upon them. I’m going to need their cooperation over the next few days. I’m hoping to achieve that.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Hell, Trudy, I’ve read Crozier’s reports. He’s never had an easy ride with these people, especially with Robert Carter and his acolytes.”
“That’s ridiculous. Rob is hardly a guru figure.”
“Isn’t he? He plays his own game, Trudy. He kicks against the rules, bends them, breaks them sometimes. You’d be surprised how many of the younger, more impressionable psychics are trying to emulate him. I’ve studied Crozier’s reports. Reading between the lines, I’d say the whole Department is going to Hell in a handcart.”
“So why have you been sent here? To stop that happening, or to oil the wheels of the handcart?”
Lucas smiled but said nothing.
After a few moments he said, “Coffee, I think.”
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ve just phoned the hospital,” Lucas said as he re-entered the room. “I’m afraid Simon Crozier has yet to regain consciousness.”
The questions came thick and fast. Lucas ignored them all and raised his hand for silence. “I can only tell you what the hospital told me. At the moment, he’s still unconscious. His condition is being regarded as critical. They won’t give me any kind of prognosis, not even to say whether or not he’ll recover. So it looks like you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.”
He took his seat at the head of the table. “My first thought was that all current investigations should be suspended until further notice.”
He had expected the howls of protest and weathered them, staring down at the notes in front of him and letting the noise wash over him. When the sounds of dissent abated he looked up at the angry expressions on the faces of those seated around the table. “I understand your concerns, but let me reassure you. My reasoning behind that course of action is sound. Finding out why this happened to Simon and discovering who, or what, is behind it, has to be Department 18’s first priority. If, as myself and the Home Secretary suspect, the attack on Simon is part of a bigger picture, then we need to identify it and nullify it.”
Lucas looked around the table again. A few heads were nodding in agreement.
“We need to get Harry Bailey out of jail,” Carter said. “That has to be the top priority. He’s an important member of the Department. His input is much needed and could be vital.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lucas said. “Not only did I call the hospital but I also phoned the court. Bailey appeared at Lambeth Magistrate’s court the same time we began this meeting. He’s been denied bail and is to be remanded in custody until a full hearing can be held. He’s now on remand at Wandsworth Prison, so I’m afraid you’ll have to soldier on without him, at least for the time being.”
“But Harry’s a good man. There must be a way to get him out,” Jane said from the far end of the table. “There’s no way he would have attacked Simon, unless he was possessed in some way. Can’t the Home Secretary intercede?”
“And you think that explanation will play in front of a high court judge, Mrs. Talbot?” Lucas said. “I’m not sure that Francis Bates is ready to jeopardize his credibility just yet.” He spread his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry. He’s looking at ways to solve the problem, as am I. Believe me, I’d like to see Bailey out of prison as quickly as possible.”
That started to satisfy. The air of hostility in the room seemed to be dissipating.
“So what happens next?” McKinley asked.
“Suspending operations was my first thought, but on reflection I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lucas said. “What I’m suggesting is that Department 18’s work carries on as normal. But, Mr. McKinley, I’d like you, Robert Carter and Jane Talbot to investigate the attack on Simon Crozier. You’ll have all the resources of the Department and the full backing of the Home Office. I’m handing it over to you three because you work well together as a team and, between you, you have more experience in paranormal investigations than anyone else in this room. Does anyone have any objections to this plan?”
Heads were shaken and no one spoke.
“Good,” Lucas said. “Then we go with it. Any other business?”
A few minutes later the meeting broke up.
“It suits you,” Carter said to Jane as they walked along the corridor.
“A fresh start, a fresh look,” she said.
“What will David say?”
“He’ll go ballistic. The girls will like it though. They’ve been on at me for ages to glam up a bit. I think I’ve embarrassed them in the past when I’ve gone to the school for open nights and concerts and looked like the dowdy mother. They’ll approve. Yummy Mummy they’ll call it.”
“And you don’t care about David’s reaction?”
She bit her lip pensively. “I meant what I said earlier. David and I are over. No going back.”
“And the Department?”
“I meant that too. Once we’ve dealt with this case I’m gone.”
McKinley drew up beside them. “I have something you might find interesting.”
“Something to do with Crozier?” Carter said.
“It could be. Then again I might be barking up completely the wrong tree. I’d like to talk it through with you two anyway.”
They reached McKinley’s office. He opened the door and ushered them both inside. The tall American folded himself into the chair behind his desk. “Grab a seat,” he said
Once they were seated he said, “What do you know about African charms and spells?”
Jane shrugged a negative.
“Not a lot,” Carter said. “Harry’s your man for that kind of thing. Why do you ask?”
“Trudy Banks. I was in very early this morning, around six o’clock. So was she.”
“She’s very conscientious,” Jane said. “That’s why Simon relies on her so much.”
“Yeah,” McKinley said. “I appreciate that. But this morning she was jumpy as a cat on a hotplate, as if I’d caught her snorting coke in the loo. More to the point, she was wearing a Respark around her neck.”
“I don’t recall her wearing anything around her neck,” Jane said, “rarely any jewelry.”
“No.” McKinley said, shaking his head. “When the meeting started she wasn’t wearing it, and that’s odd in itself.”
“What’s a Respark anyway?” Jane said.
“A very powerful African totem,” Carter said. “Worn to ward off evil, if I’m not mistaken. Right, John?”
“That’s right. And not the type of thing you would pick up on a market stall in London. And yet that’s where Trudy said it came from.”
“Why don’t you believe her?” Jane said.
“Because the Respark carries a fragment of the soul of the person who made it. That’s what gives it its power. No one is going to make one to sell to the general public.”
“People make ankhs, pentagrams, crosses even, to sell as jewelry, without worrying about their mystic origins,” Jane said. “Why not a Respark?”
“Because it’s too powerful. They’re custom made to protect a specific individual. If used frivolously, the power invested in it could turn against the person who made it and destroy them.”
“So you’re saying it was made especially to protect Trudy.”
>
McKinley nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“Which means Trudy’s in some kind of trouble,” Jane said.
“She’s the closest person here to Simon—almost joined at the hip. Whoever attacked him could be gunning for Trudy as well.”
“And you think someone’s protecting her.”
“It certainly looks that way,” McKinley said.
“Then we need to find out who that person is. It could be the key to finding out who attacked Crozier,” Carter said.
“I’ll talk to Trudy,” Jane said. “See if I can get her to open up.”
Trudy spun around in her office chair as Jane entered the room.
“Hey,” Jane said.
“I love the hair,” Trudy said. “It takes years off you.”
“Thanks.” Jane pulled up a chair and sat down at Trudy’s desk. “How are you bearing up?” she said.
Trudy grimaced. “I feel I ought to be at the hospital. Someone should be with him.”
“He’s unconscious. If you went to see him, he wouldn’t even know you were there.”
“Even so…”
“You know I’m right, Trudy. You wouldn’t accomplish anything by being there.”
“But it would make me feel better. That’s selfish I know, but I feel bloody useless sitting here.”
Jane smiled sympathetically. “Is everything else all right?” she said after a long pause.
Trudy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “In what way?”
“John seems quite worried about you. He said you seemed a little jumpy.”
“Tell him not to worry. I’m fine.”
“Did you lose your necklace? He said you were wearing one this morning.”
Trudy’s hand went to her throat. “The chain must have broken,” she said. “It was only a cheap thing I bought from the market. The catch must have been faulty. I didn’t even notice it had gone.”
“Aren’t you bothered that you’ve lost it?”
Trudy shrugged. “Not really. I’m not heavily into jewelry, Jane. Rings and earrings leave me cold. Bracelets I find bloody irritating. I only wear a watch because it’s necessary. It comes off as soon as I get home at night. I bought the necklace on a whim. Stupid really.” She turned her attention back to her computer.
“John said it was a Respark, an African charm that wards off evil. Not the kind of thing you’d find on a market stall in London.”
“Interesting,” Trudy said in a bored voice that was intended to show she didn’t find it interesting at all. “Well, I suppose he’d know about such things with his Kenyan heritage. As far as I was concerned I just found it pretty. Now it’s gone. Heigh ho.”
“It might turn up. Someone might find it,” Jane said.
Trudy shrugged. “I won’t lose any sleep over it if it doesn’t. Was there anything else, Jane? I really should get on.”
“You’d tell me if there was anything bothering you, wouldn’t you?”
Trudy dragged her gaze away from the computer screen and looked Jane in the eyes. “I told you, Jane, there’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. Really.”
Jane got to her feet. “If you’re sure.”
Trudy forced a smile. “I’m sure, Jane. Thanks for the concern.”
“Yeah,” Jane said. “No sweat. Catch you later.” At the door she paused. “Just promise me that if anything does start bothering you, you’ll come to me.”
“Promise,” Trudy said and went back to her screen.
“Well?” Carter said when Jane returned to his office.
“Lying through her teeth,” she said. “Something’s wrong, but she’s not letting on what it is.”
The Irishman flicked through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear, which identity he should adopt today. He was tired of O’Brien and needed a change. His fingers hovered over the black suit and dog collar he wore in the persona of Father Patrick Connolly, the friendly Catholic priest who had so successfully inveigled his way into Mae Middleton’s mind and turned her into a killer. The good Father had served his purpose and wouldn’t make a reappearance, not even a curtain call.
After a long deliberation he chose a lightweight, summer suit, a dark blue shirt and grey slip-on shoes. He decided not to shave, leaving two days worth of stubble on his face. His hair was still damp from the shower and was curling more than it did when it was dry. The dark, curly hair, unshaven face and piercing blue eyes gave him the reckless, slightly dangerous look that most women found irresistible. He wondered if Maria Bridge would fall into that category. He wasn’t optimistic. He knew little about her, but the way his luck was running at the moment, the doctor would probably turn out to be lesbian and totally resistant to his charms.
In the underground car park he sat behind the wheel of his dark blue Mercedes 280SL and twisted the key in the ignition.
The explosion blew off the doors and the roof, a fireball filling the interior of the car. The Irishman didn’t even have the chance to scream as the intense heat burnt the carefully chosen clothes from his body and then continued on to turn him into charcoal.
At the far end of the car park, protected from the explosion by a concrete pillar, Leon Sultan tapped a number into his cell phone and waited for the rasping voice to answer. When it did he simply said, “It’s done.”
“Good,” the voice responded. “You’d better come to the house. Now Mr. O’Brien has left us, I’m afraid your workload is going to increase.”
“Yes,” Sultan said phlegmatically. “I thought it might. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good,” the voice said again. “I look forward to seeing you.”
Chapter Fourteen
A blazing sun beat down from a blue silk sky, scorching the skin of his face, cracking his lips and making them bleed. Still he trudged on across the shimmering, silver sand. He desperately wanted to stop but knew he was being followed and couldn’t spare the time for a rest. He wouldn’t give his pursuer the opportunity to make up the distance or, worse, get ahead of him.
Ahead of him now was a stand of large rocks, some of them the size of a man, others larger. They might afford him some shade. He struck out towards them, even though the muscles in his legs were burning and growing so taught he feared they might rip under the demands he was placing upon them.
“Simon, this way.” A figure appeared from behind the rocks, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, beckoning him with the other. The figure, a man, was familiar to him.
“Father,” he called. “Is that you?”
“You’ll be safe here, Simon. Come into the shade.”
Crozier paused, pains shooting in his stomach, folding him over and making him gasp for breath.
“Your mother’s here, Simon. She wants to see you. Look.”
A woman stepped out from behind another large rock. “Simon,” she called. “I need you, Simon.”
“But you’re both dead,” he shouted back, straightening up and glaring at them defiantly. “Dead!”
“Do we look dead, son?”
Crozier glanced behind him. In the distance, many miles away, the sand was starting to billow as someone or something rushed over it—his pursuer, gaining on him, relentlessly, inexorably. He turned back. “If I join you, I’ll be dead too,” he shouted.
“Would you rather the alternative,” his father called back, gesturing to the approaching sand storm.
Simon Crozier stood there, confusion painted on his face as he tried and failed to reach a decision. All the while the sun blazed down on him.
“We have to get his fever down,” Maria Bridge said to the nurse. “Prepare the ice packs, but keep them away from the wound.”
The nurse, a plain twenty-three-year-old, looked uncertainly from Bridge to the ward sister who hovered at the door. The ward sister nodded her head shar
ply and the nurse put down the damp pad she’d been using to swab the perspiration from Crozier’s brow and hurried from the room.
Bridge turned to the sister. “Come on, let’s get him prepared.”
Finally, reaching a decision, Crozier struck out again for the rocks sheltering his parents. This time it was even harder. The soft sand sucked at his feet; he could feel it pouring inside his boots, crunching under the soles of his feet, abrading the skin, making each step agony.
The more steps he took the farther away the rocks seemed. Another backwards glance confirmed to him that the sand cloud was drawing closer still.
In a cramped ten-foot-by-ten-foot cell Harry Bailey sat on a narrow bunk bed, trying to ignore the constant snoring of his cellmate who occupied the upper bunk. When the door opened his cellmate woke and the snoring mercifully ceased.
“Bailey,” the governor of the prison said curtly. “If you would come with me.” The man was tall and slightly stooped, his grey-haired head nearly touching the doorframe. His suit was tweed and had seen better days. Now it was a forlorn reminder that time had finally caught up with, and overtaken, him. He was due to retire in a few months time and buying a new suit now would be an extravagance he could not afford.
Bailey stood and followed the governor out of the cell. Two burly prison warders fell into step behind them as they walked past the row of occupied cells to the steel mesh gate at the end of the landing. Once through the gate it was up a flight of metal steps to another landing and another steel gate. Eventually yet another gate led through to a light-green-painted corridor with a gray steel door set at the end. The governor’s office.
“Take a seat,” the governor said, pointing to a simple wooden chair on the other side of his large oak desk. Bailey sat and glanced around at the sparsely decorated room. The governor, Trevor Wilkins, took a seat opposite him, behind the desk, and opened the slim file in front of him.
Wilkins looked up at him. “You’re being released,” he said without preamble.
Bailey stared at him. He’d been in prison slightly less than four hours.
