Department 18 [04] A Plague of Echoes

by Maynard Sims

  When Sultan appeared in the room and crouched down beside him he could have been lying there a few minutes or a few hours. He simply couldn’t tell. Time had become elastic.

  He felt Sultan lift him up and carry him upstairs. “No doctors,” he managed to croak as he was lowered to the bed.

  He heard Sultan rummaging in the drawer of his nightstand and then a small pinch on his arm as a hypodermic needle slid into his vein.

  Gradually the pain ebbed away but left in its wake an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. It took an effort of will to keep his eyes open but, as the narcotic spread through his system, even that effort was too much and his eyelids fluttered closed. “Stay at my side,” he whispered to Sultan as sleep claimed him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, you old bastard,” Sultan said. “And neither are you. You’re far too valuable.”

  “When I left the Department I was burnt out,” Deayton said between sips of strong Assam tea. “You must know that feeling, Harry.”

  “I once retired for the same reason,” Bailey said. “I came back. I wouldn’t have guessed that was your reason. I heard no stories.”

  “I heard plenty about you. To cope with the daily pressures you swam down to the bottom of a bottle and stayed there. Is that true?”

  “A pretty fair assessment,” Bailey said.

  “It’s a pity I didn’t develop a liking for booze. At least I would have had something to deaden the pain. Instead, I ploughed on, even though the job cost me my marriage, my relationship with my daughter, and more friendships than I can count.

  “When I started in the Department I was working for Alvar Liscombe and things were very different. The man was a firebrand who walked his own path and wouldn’t take shit from anyone. His public profile was so high that no one wanted to take him on, even when they knew he was wrong about something, which was more often than you might think, given his reputation. The politicians at the time were afraid of him, or at least, they were afraid of his influence on public opinion. In the late fifties, early sixties the man was hardly ever off the television. I remember reading one poll…in the Mirror or the Daily Sketch…I can’t remember which newspaper it was now…anyway the poll had him tied at first place with the broadcaster, Richard Dimbleby as the most trusted person in Great Britain. Quite a feat for a man who was essentially a charlatan.”

  “Charlatan? I thought he had a genuine psychic talent.”

  “He did, but it was a minor one, the odd flash of clairvoyance every now and again, but not a lot else. But he was a very gifted psychologist and he used that gift to manipulate the public and media alike. He also had great charisma, and the TV audiences loved him.

  “Anyway, Department 18 was very different then; under the spotlight more than it is today. Sometimes it was very difficult to get a job done without attracting a full-blown media circus. Once Liscombe performed his disappearing act things quietened down, the public lost interest in us, as they do with every nine-day wonder, and things slowly got back to normal. For a while at least.”

  Bailey let him ramble on for another few minutes before bringing him up short. “So, who are you hiding from?”

  Deayton dry-washed his face with his hands and finished his tea. “Have you heard of the Schroeder Corporation?”

  Bailey searched his memory for a moment. He was convinced he’d heard the name Schroeder before but couldn’t remember when, or in what context. He shook his head.

  “It’s owned by Pieter Schroeder, a South African. He came and settled over here in the early nineties. He was already worth millions, now his empire is valued conservatively at one hundred and twenty billion. He made his money in gold and diamonds, since he left South Africa he’s branched out into shipping and so many other areas it’s hard to keep track.”

  “How does this Schroeder affect you?” Bailey said.

  “Because if he knew I possessed certain knowledge, he’d have me killed, or maybe even kill me himself.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “No,” Deayton said. “Very few people have. He’s very private, very secretive. All the communication with the media and other businesses is handled through surrogates, front men blessed with charm and media savvy. Schroeder stays in the background, like a puppeteer, pulling the strings.”

  “So what is it you know that puts your life in danger?”

  “I’m not prepared to tell you that,” Deayton said. “If I told you, your life would become as perilous as mine. It’s best you don’t know.”

  Bailey considered this for a moment. “Fair enough,” he said at length.“Let’s change the subject. What do you remember about an investigation concerning the Bridge family?”

  “Colin Bridge, his wife Edwina. Two children, Maria and…I forget the son’s name. Colin was a surgeon, top of his field. His wife ran the house like a Swiss watch. Maria seemed very sharp, very bright. The son was away at university.”

  “You remember the nature of the disturbance?”

  “Oh, very well. At first I thought it was classic poltergeist phenomena. A young girl in the house, approaching puberty, hormone activity on the increase, the usual signs.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  Deayton shook his head. “It was a plain, old-fashioned haunting, albeit a distressing one.” He rubbed his eyes. “The Bridges sent their daughter down to Rye, to stay with relatives. It was just as well, because she was the target of the haunting. The family who owned the house before them had a son, and had systematically subjected him to the most awful sexual and physical abuse. It was so bad that, at the age of thirteen, he cut his own throat. In an effort to escape justice the parents buried his body in the back garden, told family and friends that he’d gone away to live with his grandparents and no one suspected a thing. Indeed, why should they? The father was manager of his local bank and the mother a local magistrate, fairly wealthy and socially connected.”

  “How did you find all this out?”

  “I talked to the boy himself,” Deayton said. “It was hard, after the initial contact with him, to gain his trust, but after a week or so he started manifesting in front of me. He wouldn’t appear if any of the team was around, but for some reason he seemed to trust me. He finally admitted that seeing little Maria with her family made him very angry, although he wouldn’t say why. I had my own suspicions but, in those days, such things weren’t spoken about openly.

  “In the end he showed me his grave. We exhumed the body, and after several weeks more of forensic tests the body was given a proper burial. After that the problem was solved. Maria returned from Rye and the family was reunited but I believe they moved house a year later. The place was clear—there were no more disturbances—but they couldn’t live with the memory of the boy in their home.”

  “Did the police find the boy’s parents?”

  “I’ve no idea. I moved on to another case, another set of problems, another set of terrible revelations. A few years later I had my breakdown and I left the Department. Too much trawling through the dark side of human nature takes its toll, I suppose. But then I don’t have to tell you that. You’ve been there yourself.”

  Bailey nodded glumly and got to his feet. “I must go,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Was it a help?” Deayton asked. “I hope so. I rarely get a chance to be much help to anyone these. It’s as much as I can do to help myself.”

  Bailey stuck out his hand. “Stay safe, old friend.”

  “I’ll certainly try, Harry. I’ll certainly try.”

  Chapter Twenty

  McKinley let the Respark slide from his palm and form a silver puddle on the desk in front of Trudy. Without looking up at it, she covered it with her hand. “You found it then?” she said.

  “In the boiler room,” he said. “Inside one of the boilers. Look at me, Trudy.”

  Gradually she raised her eyes
to meet his, but she couldn’t hold his gaze and quickly looked away again.

  “I think you’d better tell me what’s been going on,” McKinley said.

  “I can’t,” Trudy mumbled, still avoiding his eyes.

  “Can’t or won’t.”

  “I can’t,” Trudy said again, this time distress evident in her voice.

  “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Trudy, you need to tell me. We can help you. Whatever you need.” He pulled an office chair over to the desk and sat, resting his elbows on her desk.

  “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?” she said bleakly.

  “Not a chance. If I don’t get to the bottom of what’s happening here, then I’ll leave it to Rob. And I’m sure you don’t want him excavating your most private thoughts. So you might as well tell me.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “And you know bloody well he would. He wouldn’t think twice about it. You know what he’s like. Now, tell me where you got the Respark.”

  Trudy sat back in her chair, tilted her chin up pugnaciously and finally looked McKinley in the eye. “Would you believe me if I told you the milkman gave it to me?”

  “Is it the truth?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I believe you. But why?”

  “There was a note with it. It said the charm would protect me.”

  “And do you need protecting?”

  She nodded again and McKinley noticed tears beading in the corners of her eyes.

  “I think you’d better start at the beginning, don’t you?”

  “My niece, Angela, is the one in danger, not me.”

  “Has this got something to do with the attack on Simon?”

  “It must have. It would be too much of a coincidence. Both him and me targeted on the same day. I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?”

  McKinley smiled. “Sometimes, yes I do, but not today. Don’t worry about your niece. We can protect her, psychically as well as physically.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “You have my word.”

  Trudy was silent for a moment and then she let out a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

  After thirty minutes of pacing while he listened, McKinley sat back down in his chair and tried to digest what Trudy had told him. “The Irishman,” he said at last. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “Never.”

  “If I get a sketch artist down here, would you be able to come up with a good enough description for her to get an accurate sketch of him.”

  “The image of him is burned onto the insides of my eyelids. I can’t close my eyes without seeing his smirking face.”

  “Good. And the milkman?”

  “Trickier. I only saw him for a moment. He was black, African rather than West Indian. He was a big man, nearly your size, and he had tribal scars on his cheeks.”

  “African? You’re sure?”

  She shook her head. “Not certain, but that would be my best guess. Is it important?”

  “Well, the Respark is an African charm. It would make sense for an African to give it to you, but how does that tie in with the Irishman who threatened you, and ultimately how does is it tie in with Alvar Liscombe and Department 18?”

  “Did you ever meet this Liscombe?”

  “Way before my time. I heard stories about him though. Quite a character. Are you sure all our files on him were destroyed.”

  “All the paper ones certainly… I’m sorry, John. You see why I had to burn them?”

  “You should have come to see me or Rob before you did anything,” McKinley said. “But, in your position, I would have probably done the same thing. What about the computer files.”

  “The Irishman said he’d wiped them. I checked briefly when I got in this morning. I couldn’t find anything about Liscombe on the mainframe.”

  “I’ll get Martin Impey to check. Sometimes deleted files are still lurking on the hard drive somewhere. We could get lucky.”

  “I’ve completely messed things up, haven’t I?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’re going to put our heads together with Rob and Jane. Let’s see if we can come up with something.”

  “You did what?” Carter said, his face turning an ugly shade of crimson.

  “Burnt them,” Trudy said.

  “You stupid…”

  “Take it easy, Rob,” Jane said. “Trudy was faced with an impossible choice.”

  “No, Jane,” Trudy said. “Rob’s right. Bitch, Rob. I believe that’s the epithet you’re looking for. A stupid bitch, who’s worked here long enough to know better. But when he started threatening Angela I just went to pieces. I’m sorry.”

  Carter took a breath. “No, I’m sorry, Trudy. You should have never been put in that position. Tell me again about Rutherford.”

  “Who?”

  “Alec Rutherford, the boiler man. Was he alive when you left the boiler room?”

  “He’s dead?” The color drained from Trudy’s face. “The Irishman said he wouldn’t hurt him, that he was just using his body. He gave me his word.”

  “Rutherford stuck his head into the flames and barbequed himself,” Carter said. “I think we can safely assume that the Irishman’s word is worth bugger all.”

  A single tear leaked from Trudy’s eye and trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her blouse.

  “I think we need to speak with your milkman. He obviously knows something about what we’re up against. Why else give you the Respark. Agreed, John?”

  “Oh, I agree. I just think it’s going to be difficult tracking him down.”

  “Sounds like you could do with another pair of hands,” Bailey said as he strolled into the room.

  “Harry!” Jane said and ran to embrace him.

  “My God!” Bailey said. “How long was I away? Everything’s changed.” He ruffled her cropped hair.

  “Just the haircut, Harry. Everything else is much as you left it.”

  “Except we have another body,” Carter said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  Between them they told Bailey what had happened since he’d been arrested and locked up.

  When they’d finished he went across to the coffee machine in the corner and poured himself a cup. “What you’re saying is that we don’t have anything at all on file about Alvar Liscombe.”

  “We won’t know for sure about the digital data until Martin has scoured the mainframe,” Carter said.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Trudy said.

  He waved away her apology. “These things happen, Trudy. You mustn’t blame yourself.” He turned to the others. “So what about Rutherford? How does he fit in?”

  “Apart from a temporary home for the Irishman, he doesn’t figure at all,” McKinley said. “Have you met Lucas yet, the Home Secretary’s man.”

  Bailey nodded. “When I first got here.”

  “Did he give you your job back?” Jane asked. “Are you in charge now?”

  “He offered me Crozier’s office…and all the crap that goes with it. I turned it down. I figured I’d be better off with you guys, rather than sitting behind a desk assessing how many paperclips the Department needs. Is that okay with you?”

  “Happy to have you aboard, Harry,” McKinley said.

  “But it still means we’re still lumbered with Lucas,” Carter said.

  “He doesn’t seem so bad. He’s more or less given us carte blanche. You can’t argue with that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Rob could if he really tried,” Jane said.

  Carter caught the smile in her voice and cracked one himself. “Let’s get on,” he said.

  Schroeder’s eyes snapped open and a surge of panic swept through him. He struggled to s
it upright in the bed but Sultan pressed his hand against the old man’s chest, restraining him. “Not yet, Pieter,” Sultan said. “You need to rest.”

  “I can rest when I’m dead,” Schroeder snapped, swatted Sultan’s hand away and, at the same time, sat up, swinging his legs to the floor.

  “You should take it easy,” Sultan said, knowing he was wasting his breath.

  “I solved the Laroche problem. I didn’t do that by taking it easy.”

  “Your granddaughter phoned to tell you that she got the part,” Sultan said, changing the subject.

  “Of course she did. There was never any doubt—only in her mind. I’m afraid she’s her mother’s daughter. Melanie lacked confidence and she passed that trait on to Gabrielle. When Gabrielle comes to live here I’ll have plenty of time to build on her self-belief—help her realize her full potential. You didn’t tell her I was ill, did you?”

  “No, I told her you were in a meeting and couldn’t come to the phone. I said you’d call her later. When do you think she’ll be coming to stay?”

  “She doesn’t know she is yet…but she will, sooner rather than later.”

  Sultan shifted uncomfortably. “Will she be living here before the event or after it?”

  Schroeder’s eyes narrowed slightly and a smile played on his lips. “Is that what you’re calling it, Leon, the event?”

  Sultan’s cheeks flushed. “What would you have me call it?”

  “What indeed?” Schroeder said. “No, the event is fine. It’s just that I can imagine you selling tickets for it.”

  “That’s not fa…” Sultan nearly rose to the bait but pulled back from the brink. “Yes,” he said, reining in his temper. “They’d sell like hot cakes.” He smiled easily. “Do you need me for anything else? I have an appointment in the city.”

  “Then don’t let me keep you. How much is she charging these days?”

  “No more than I can afford.”

  “Good. Well, there’s nothing more for you to do here, so you might as well run along.”

  Sultan turned sharply and headed towards the door.