Department 18 [04] A Plague of Echoes

by Maynard Sims

  At the thought of Michael O’Brien Schroeder felt a pang of regret. Ordering the elimination of O’Brien had been a difficult decision. He had known and trusted O’Brien for many years, but recently the man’s reliability had been called into question. He had made reckless decisions and carried out equally reckless acts that put Schroeder’s organization in jeopardy, and that could not be allowed to continue.

  Schroeder remembered when he first met the Irishman on the streets of Johannesburg all those years ago. At that time O’Brien was occupying a tall, slender body and calling himself Nils Larsen, adopting the persona of a Norwegian businessman. Even then it had been impossible to assess how old he was. With his lithe body, youthful, suntanned face and shock of unruly white-blond hair, he could easily pass for a man in his early twenties. Until you looked into his eyes and saw a century of experience lurking in those pale blue orbs.

  Their friendship had burgeoned quickly. When Schroeder traveled Larsen was at his side, part companion, part protector. Larsen’s psychic abilities were awe inspiring and not a little frightening, but he was a dependable friend and Schroeder was thankful for the friendship. He wouldn’t have wanted the tall Norwegian as an enemy.

  How many identities, bodies, had there been since Johannesburg? Schroeder had long since lost count. Larsen’s burnout rate was prodigious.

  There was a tap on the door. It opened almost immediately and a young woman came into the room. She was immaculately dressed in a black silk designer suit, makeup applied carefully and subtly, and her blond hair cut with a heavy fringe that enhanced her almond-shaped green eyes.

  “My darling, you look beautiful,” Schroeder said in his wheezing voice. “You make a grandfather very proud.”

  The young woman flushed slightly at the compliment. “How are you feeling today, Papa?”

  Schroeder smiled slightly. She had called him Papa from the moment she learned to talk and, every time she did, it melted his heart. It proved he could be human if he chose to be and would be accepted as such. Normally he wouldn’t have the patience for such sentimentality, but with Poppy it was different. Her love for him reminded him of a time many, many years ago when he didn’t have to pretend, when he was loved and he loved in return.

  He shook the memory away impatiently. “I’m all the better for seeing you, Poppy.” Poppy was his pet name for her. Her parents had named her Gabrielle, but to him she was, and always would be, Poppy.

  Gabrielle embraced him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You seem a lot better than when I last saw you.”

  “I’m an old man, my love. You get to a certain age and the body starts falling apart and shutting down. It happens.”

  She held him at arm’s length. “Rubbish,” she scolded. “I won’t hear you speak in such a way. You need a holiday, that’s all.”

  “Poppy, I’m eighty-nine. It will take more than a few weeks in the South of France to restore my youthful vigor. Anyway, don’t worry about me. Sit with me for a while and tell me what’s been happening in your life.”

  They sat together on the couch for more than an hour as Gabrielle told him of her life in Hollywood; the films she had made, the TV series she had guest starred on, and finally the series that had taken her away from England for more than nine months.

  “When Fox finally canned us we were sliding down the ratings like a penguin on a toboggan. Shame really. I thought it was a good show. Better than average.”

  Schroeder was sitting with his eyes closed and for a moment Gabrielle wondered if she’d bored him to sleep.

  Suddenly the eyes flicked open, alive and penetrating. “So are you back in England for good?”

  She shook her head. “Not for good. My agent’s trying to find me a new series, or a film.” She read the disappointment in his eyes and added quickly, “But I’ll be here for at least three months if I get the part I’m reading for this afternoon.”

  “Well, of course you’ll get it. I have no doubts in your ability. Who are you reading for?”

  “Ashley Cooper. He’s directing a revival of Pygmalion at the Old Vic.”

  “And you’re trying out for Eliza Doolittle?”

  She nodded.

  “Then it will be a shoo-in. It’s the part you were born to play.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence.”

  “Nonsense,” Schroeder said. “Besides I know Cooper’s father. You’ll get the role.”

  “No!” she said. “I couldn’t allow you to influence Ashley Cooper. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “All’s fair in love, war and the theatre,” Schroeder said. “But if you don’t want me to have a word in Cooper senior’s ear, then I won’t.”

  “It’s very sweet of you, but I want to get the part based on my abilities as an actor.”

  “Enough said.” Schroeder picked up a half-empty brandy glass and drained the contents.

  There was another rap on the door. It opened and Lukes, Schroeder’s butler, stepped into the room. “Mr. Sultan here for his two o’clock appointment, sir.”

  “Show him into the library and tell him I’ll be with him presently.” As the butler left the room Schroeder turned to his granddaughter. “I’m sorry, Poppy, but…”

  She raised her hand to stop the apology. “It’s okay. I have to fly anyway. The audition’s at three.”

  “Call me and let me know how you got on. Where are you staying while you’re in London?”

  “I’m at the Dorchester for three nights. After that, if I get Eliza, I’ll be looking for digs.”

  “You could do worse than to stay here with me.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “That’s very sweet of you, but I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “It would not be an imposition, believe me. I rattle around this house like a dried pea in an eggcup. Sometimes I think I should sell up and move to somewhere smaller. Your presence here would bring a ray of sunshine into an old man’s overcast life and fill the place up a bit. Think about it.”

  She smiled at him. “I will. Promise. I’ll call you this evening.” She pecked him on the cheek again and then she was gone. As the door closed behind her the memories and the loneliness came crashing in on him like a tsunami.

  He reached across, picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. “Can I speak to Marcus Cooper, please? It’s Pieter Schroeder,” he said to the secretary who answered the phone.

  There was a momentary pause and then a hesitant voice said, “Pieter? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing at all, Marcus. Nothing at all.”

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “Your boy, Ashley. I understand he’s mounting a revival of Pygmalion at the Vic.”

  “That’s right,” Cooper said.

  “My granddaughter’s auditioning for the part of Eliza Doolittle today, in about an hour’s time in fact.”

  “And this concerns me how?”

  “It would be a very great favor to me if she got the role.”

  “I’m sorry, Pieter, but Ashley’s very much his own man. He won’t listen to me when it comes to casting decisions.”

  Schroeder took a breath. “That’s a shame,” he said. “Because it would be in his very best interests if he did. And yours too, if you understand what I mean.”

  Cooper’s voice when it came back on the line was laced with fury and not a little fear. “I’ll do what I can, Pieter,” he said and hung up the phone.

  “Yes, Marcus,” Schroeder said as he cradled the receiver. “I know you will.”

  Leon Sultan was studying the titles of row after row of books on the shelves that lined the walls of Pieter Schroeder’s study. He wasn’t much of a reader himself but appreciated the books; the leather-bound beauty of the covers and the wealth of arcane knowledge preserved between them.

  He turned slowly as Schroeder entered the room. Walking with
the aid of an aluminum frame the man still radiated power. “Pieter,” he said.

  “Hello, Leon,” the old man said as he sat down awkwardly behind the desk. “Take a seat.”

  Sultan pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “You look well,” he said.

  Schroeder smiled. “My granddaughter paid me a visit. I believe she’s coming to live with me…for a while at least.”

  Sultan nodded his head slowly, uncertain as to what response was expected. “She’ll be company for you,” he said neutrally.

  “Ah, she will.” Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry, Leon, she won’t get in the way.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting…”

  “Relax, Leon. It’s good news. I haven’t seen Gabrielle for months. It was a wonderful reunion.”

  “Then I’m very happy for you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” His face became serious. “Anyway, to business. What have you got for me?”

  “The name of the man Bennington took into his confidence. The one he told about us.”

  “And is he important?”

  “Oliver Laroche.”

  “The judge? My, that is serious. How much does he know?”

  “I can’t say for certain but, knowing his reputation, I’d say it’s unlikely we’d bring him on board.”

  Schroeder rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I agree. Laroche is more moral than the Pope, and is very vocal about it. Not one for us, I think.”

  “So do you want me to deal with him?”

  Schroeder thought for a moment. Laroche might know nothing, but then again Bennington’s indiscretion might have piqued the lawyer’s curiosity. There was every chance the man was already making discreet inquiries about Schroeder’s organization, and with the culmination of his plans almost within grasping distance, it wasn’t a chance Schroder was willing to take. “I think he has to be eliminated. But I think I’ll handle it myself.”

  Sultan raised his right eyebrow slightly. “You don’t trust me to do the job?”

  Schroeder lifted his hand placatingly. “I trust you implicitly, Leon. I just think that this one needs handling delicately. Nothing obvious. Nothing that will start a media feeding frenzy, and I think I’m better placed to accomplish that. And I need to get inside his mind, find out if he’s mentioned this to anyone else.”

  “And if he has?”

  “Then you and I are going to have our hands full. No, I’ll deal with Laroche myself. Any other business?”

  “Harry Bailey’s been released from prison.”

  Schroeder frowned. “That news alarms me more than Laroche. Why was he released and on whose orders?”

  “A direct order from Francis Bates,” Sultan said.

  “That’s unusual. A politician getting his hands dirty. I’ll think on that one, Leon, what it means and whether it’s detrimental to our plans. Maybe I’ll have a word with his wife.”

  By our plans, Schroeder meant my plans. Leon Sultan knew no more than twenty percent of Schroeder’s plans and the old man had no intention of revealing more.

  They talked for another twenty-five minutes but the important issues had already been discussed. When Sultan left Schroeder stayed in the library, sitting in his leather desk chair, thinking, his mind wandering back to Gabrielle, his beloved Poppy. He expected her to call him before long to tell him she had got the part of Eliza Doolittle. He knew that neither of them would be disappointed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How did he die?” McKinley asked.

  John Cussell, the police doctor, crouched over the body on the boiler room floor. He glanced up at McKinley and Carter. “The head’s been very badly burnt but, from what I can see, there’s nothing to indicate he was struck, and check the palms of his hands. They’re badly blistered. It looks like he grabbed the sides of the firebox, or maybe even the handle, and forced his head into the flames.”

  “Suicide?” Carter said.

  “A particularly gruesome and excruciatingly painful one if it is.” Cussell turned back to the body. “I think it’s unlikely. Of course, you do get the occasional self-immolation. The types who go down that road are usually politically motivated. They have a point to make and want to martyr themselves. Alec Rutherford here didn’t even leave a note, let alone a manifesto. But it’s not really my job to explain the why, just the how and I’ll know more after the post-mortem.”

  McKinley stared down at the charred and blackened features of Rutherford, the boiler man, and suppressed a shudder. As he got to his feet he saw something glint in the glowing embers of the open firebox. There were no flames as the boilers hadn’t been fed for a few hours. Water that should have been piping hot but was now running cold was the flag that had alerted people to the fact that things were not right in the basement of the building. The young secretary who’d been dispatched to check things out had returned to the first floor of the building crying and shaking.

  And it was McKinley and Carter who first noticed the girl’s distress and responded, grabbing the elevator to the basement and traveling down together.

  McKinley peered into the embers. A silver chain lay across them, catching the reflection of the occasional flicker of flame that burst from the glowing coals. He took a pen from his pocket, threaded it through a loop in the chain and lifted it clear of the embers. The Respark was still attached and hung there defiantly, undamaged. McKinley blew a fine layer of ash from the piece and studied it. It looked brand new. It wasn’t even hot. He slid it from the pen and into the palm of his hand. If anything the silver was cool to the touch as he wrapped his fingers around it.

  “Anything interesting?” Carter said quietly.

  “Trudy’s Respark,” McKinley said, his voice no more than a whisper. “It means she was down here.”

  “Not necessarily. Someone might have found the pendant in a corridor or somewhere else in the building.”

  John Cussell glanced up at them. “I’m finished here.”

  As the two men spoke Carter noticed a sheet of paper, trapped in the thin gap between the two boilers. It didn’t shout evidence at him, and he was going to ignore it, but something about the A4 sheet made him look again and he crouched down to retrieve it.

  It took some maneuvering but finally his finger caught an edge and he slid the paper out of the gap.

  “What’s that?” McKinley asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Carter said.

  “Just stay where you are please. I don’t want any evidence destroyed.”

  The three men turned to see Detective Inspector Tyler standing in the doorway of the boiler room flanked by two plain-clothed detectives.

  As Tyler walked across to view the body Carter surreptitiously folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Carter said.

  “Whitehall’s outside my beat,” she said, “but when I saw the call came from Department 18 headquarters I couldn’t resist. You’re aware that your friend Bailey’s been released from prison?”

  “Released?” McKinley said.

  “An order from the Home Secretary apparently,” Tyler said, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.

  “You don’t sound very happy about it,” Carter said.

  Tyler shrugged. “It’s my job to catch the buggers. What the judges and politicians choose to do with them is their business. I learnt a long time ago that they’re a law unto themselves. I’d rather not get involved. But you’re right—I’m not happy about it.”

  “When was this?” Carter asked.

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it. He certainly hasn’t shown up here.”

  Tyler shrugged. “Perhaps you should call him. As I understood it, he was being released to help your investigation.”

  “Yes,” Carter
said. “I will.” He pulled out his cell phone but there was no signal. “When I get upstairs” he said.

  “I have a forensic team on the way,” Tyler said. “I’ll be up to speak with you both later. You will be available?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Carter said.

  “Nasty business,” McKinley said in the lift up to the first floor.

  Carter pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket and scanned it quickly. There was a half inch wide red strip at the top of the paper; an internal code that meant the sheet he was reading was designated high security. It was the red strip that had piqued his curiosity.

  “What do you have?” McKinley asked.

  “It’s an internal memo dating back almost fifty years concerning the disappearance of Alvar Liscombe.”

  “Long before my time,” McKinley said.

  “And mine. If you remember Liscombe was Department Chief during the fifties and early sixties. He was under a lot of public scrutiny, most of it at his own instigation—he wasn’t exactly a shrinking violet—and he made himself very unpopular with a number of factions, the government of the time for one. He quit the Department and started building himself a higher profile—speaking tours, TV interviews, that kind of thing. From what I’ve read of him he seemed to be trying to turn himself into a kind of guru figure. He was certainly the darling of the Fleet Street Sundays, always ready with a sound bite or a controversial opinion. He opened up the world of parapsychology and invited the general public in to watch. He wasn’t popular with the church either, especially the Catholics who considered him a heretic. And then in 1965 he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Dropped off the planet and was never heard of again.”

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened. They stepped out, Carter folded the paper again and slipped it back into his pocket.