Department 18 [04] A Plague of Echoes

by Maynard Sims

  “Oh, and, Leon, thank you for getting here so promptly. My life was never really in danger. But it’s nice to know that if that situation ever presents itself, you’ll be there at my side.”

  “Always, Pieter,” Sultan said and left the house.

  Schroeder crossed to the window and watched as Sultan climbed in behind the wheel of his black BMW. “The event,” he said to himself and chuckled. “Oh, Leon, it will certainly be that. An event.”

  Whether or not Leon Sultan would be around to witness it remained to be seen. At the moment Sultan had his uses, but soon…

  Schroeder picked up the phone and rang his granddaughter. She answered on the second ring. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “A starring role at the Old Vic! There’s talk of a transfer to the West End. I’ve already had three reporters on the phone asking for interviews.”

  “That’s brilliant news,” Schroeder said. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion that you come and live here?”

  “I couldn’t impose, really.”

  “It wouldn’t be an imposition. You could have the east wing to yourself. It’s self-contained. You would come and go as you please; invite anybody you like to stay over…hell, even stay for weeks if you have a mind. I wouldn’t interfere with your life. You wouldn’t even see me unless you really wanted to.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line and Schroeder could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring.

  “Self-contained?”

  “Totally. You’d have your own rooms, plus kitchen and bathroom.”

  “You would have to let me pay rent. It’s important to me.”

  “Pride. I understand that. Your mother was the same. A very proud woman. You can pay me what you think is fair. Is that okay with you?”

  “It’s very kind of you,” Gabrielle said. “I accept.”

  “Wonderful,” Schroeder said. “I’ll get the place ready for you. When do you think you will be here?”

  “I have another night booked at the Dorchester and then I’m all yours.”

  “Then I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. You’ve made me a very happy man, Poppy.”

  “That’s good, Granddad. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”

  After a few more pleasantries Schroeder hung up the phone and smiled to himself. If his daughter knew what he’d just arranged with his granddaughter, she’d be spinning like a dervish in her grave.

  “You’re a monster!” Melanie Schroeder shrieked at her father, wiping the tears away from her eyes.

  “Mark was no good for you, Melanie. I did what any father would do to help his daughter,” Schroeder said.

  “You killed him!”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Melanie. I did nothing of the kind. He killed himself.” He held his hands out to her. “Here, let me take Poppy while you go and clean yourself up. Wipe your eyes and blow your nose. And do something with your hair. You shouldn’t let Poppy see you like this.”

  Melanie hugged the sleeping child in her arms. “Go to hell! You keep your hands off my daughter…and her name’s Gabrielle!”

  In the large, modern chalet overlooking a lake, the tension crackled like an electrical storm. The funeral had been at eleven in the morning, and now it was late afternoon and the mourners had departed.

  “My God, I saw you speaking to Mark’s parents. Offering them your support while all the time you knew you took their only son from them. You bloody hypocrite!”

  “Melanie, stop this! Stop this now! Mark took his own life. It’s a matter of public record.”

  “Yes, he took his own life, but you drove him to it with your incessant mind games and manipulations.”

  “He was a weak man, Melanie. I was aware of that from the first time I met him. He made some disastrous life choices, mixed with the wrong kind of people, and the gambling… I lost count of the number of times I had to bail him out when his debtors came calling. And he was cheating on you. How many women did he fuck while you were at home looking after Poppy?”

  “But I loved him!” she wailed as she sank down into a leather armchair and started to cry, gathering the sleeping baby closer to her, holding her tight as if, in some way, she were still holding on to the essence of her dead husband.

  “I’m sorry to be harsh, Melanie, but you are going to have to move on. Mark’s dead but you still have Pop…Gabrielle. She needs you and she has to be your priority now.”

  Heartfelt words that surprised him. He had only been inhabiting Pieter Schroeder’s body for eight years but, in that time, many of Schroeder’s passions had become his own and they extended to Melanie, and now, his granddaughter. He was probably a better father than Schroeder himself had ever been, so involved as he was with his business interests. It was interesting to him that over the years, with the many bodies he had inhabited, he felt he had made them all better, more successful people than they deserved to be.

  He went across and wrapped his arms around Melanie. “We’ll get through this together, my love. You have to believe that.”

  He held her while she sobbed into his shoulder.

  And to a certain extent he was right. She never got over the death of her husband, but Melanie survived another eighteen years before killing herself with an overdose of prescription drugs the day after Gabrielle’s nineteenth birthday.

  He couldn’t mourn her. It wasn’t as if she were his own flesh and blood. But it was an inconvenience having to play the grieving father for the few months following her death. He did so for Gabrielle’s benefit, and the child repaid him with her unconditional love for him. That was something he would take with him when he finally left Schroeder’s body.

  Soon, he thought. Very soon.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bailey’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the caller ID. “I have to get this,” he said to the others, and walked out of earshot.

  “Maria,” he said. “You have news?”

  “I thought I’d better call. Crozier’s infection seems to have miraculously cleared up. It certainly wasn’t MRSA, in fact we’ve no idea what it was, but it’s gone, so we’ve moved him out of isolation. The way his body has bounced back from his injuries and the infection is astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s regained consciousness and is asking to see you.”

  “He wants to see me?”

  “It was the first thing he said, apart from asking for a glass of water.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He rang off and went back to the others.

  “Simon’s back with us,” he announced. “And he’s asking to see me.”

  “You’re not contemplating going on your own are you, Harry?” McKinley said.

  Bailey shook his head. “After what happened the last time, no. I’d appreciate one of you coming with me.”

  “I’ll come,” McKinley said. “If that’s all right with you two.”

  “No, you should go, John,” Jane said. “Is one of us enough, Harry?”

  “That should be fine,” Bailey said. “I’ll be on my guard this time. John can watch my back and act as reinforcement if I run into problems.”

  “Let’s go then,” McKinley said.

  “Anything I should know about?” Lucas appeared in the doorway, blocking their path.

  Bailey stopped mid-stride. “Are you the one responsible for springing me from prison?”

  Lucas smiled slightly. “I’d like to take the credit, but it was the Home Secretary’s decision. He decided the Department would function better with you here rather than languishing at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

  “Then thank him for me.”

  “Simon’s regained consciousness,” Jane said to Lucas. “Harry and John are on their way
to see him.”

  “That’s good news,” Lucas said. To Bailey and McKinley he said, “Report to me as soon as you’ve spoken to him and I’ll appraise the Home Secretary.” He turned and left the room.

  “What’s the matter?” Jane said to Carter.

  “Why should anything be the matter?”

  “Because the hostility you were directing at Lucas was almost palpable. Don’t you trust him?”

  “I find it hard to trust anyone who keeps their thoughts so closely guarded,” Carter said.

  “You were reading him?”

  “Trying to,” Carter said. “I have been since he first arrived here, but he’s guarded. All I get is trivia.”

  “You can’t really blame him, Rob. There’re at least eight people in this building who could climb inside his head,” McKinley said.

  “Yeah, I get that. My defenses are always up when I’m here. The question I have is, where did Lucas learn to protect himself so well?”

  “Well, I can do without any more mysteries at the moment,” Bailey said. “There are more pressing matters. Are you coming, John?”

  “So why the makeover?” Carter said when he and Jane were alone.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “I think you look more beautiful than ever. I just wonder why you took the plunge.”

  Jane wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close so their lips were inches apart. “Why do you think?”

  “You meant what you said this morning, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He planted his hand in her hair and guided her mouth towards his.

  “I love you, Jane,” he said as they paused for breath.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “I love you too.”

  “So what now?”

  “I don’t know. I go home and tell David it’s over.”

  “And then what?”

  “One step at a time, eh?” she said with a smile. “Kiss me again.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  “Are you always on duty?” Bailey said as Maria Bridge met them in the corridor.

  “Sometimes it feels like it. I can’t actually remember when I last slept.”

  Bailey smiled at her sympathetically. “How is he?”

  “You can see for yourselves,” she said. “This way.”

  She led them along the brightly lit corridor to a room at the end. Simon Crozier was sitting up in bed, his eyes closed.

  “Is he asleep?” McKinley said, but no sooner had the words left his lips when Crozier’s eyes snapped open.

  “No, I’m not. Harry, good of you to get here so soon. Why is McKinley here?”

  “For your protection,” Bailey said.

  Crozier’s hand went to his neck and his elegant fingers fluttered on the skin of his throat. He smiled ruefully. “What happened to your forehead?” he said to Bailey.

  “Ask your guardian angel here,” Bailey said, inclining his head towards Bridge.

  “I hit him with a bed pan,” she said. “It was the only thing to get him off you.”

  “Good for you,” Crozier said with a dry chuckle and then turned his attention back to Bailey. “Possession?” he said.

  “A form of it,” Bailey said. “We saw a similar phenomena last year when Martin Impey was attacked in the British Library.”

  “So not demonic then?” Crozier said.

  “The jury’s out on that one,” McKinley said. “Whatever possessed Mae Middleton seemed to have a very human profile, but for a human to be able to achieve the possession and have such strength is rare. Fiona Meredith, the solicitor Mae’s family called in, was literally torn limb from limb.”

  Bridge made a small noise in her throat. They all turned to her.

  “I think I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. I don’t think I need to hear any more of your conversation. Please don’t tire him. He’s been through a huge trauma,” she added to Bailey and McKinley.

  “I’d like to speak with you before I leave,” Bailey said.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be here for at least another hour, and you won’t be keeping Mr. Crozier that long, will you.” It wasn’t a question.

  When she’d left the room Bailey said, “Why did you ask to see me, Simon?”

  Crozier shifted himself in the bed, wincing in pain as he tried to adjust his pillows. McKinley stepped forward and helped him. When he was settled Crozier blew the air from his lungs in a steady stream. “Moving hurts,” he said. “I think I’m going to be in here for a while. In the meantime, you’re in charge, Harry, and there are some areas…well, one actually…where I have to bring you up to speed.”

  “Alvar Liscombe,” Bailey said. “And, before we go any further, I should tell you that I’m not in charge. The Home Office has sent someone in to run the Department.”

  “Have they indeed. I don’t like the sound of that. And how did you know about Liscombe?”

  Bailey spent the next ten minutes telling his boss about Paul Lucas and Trudy Banks, the death of Alec Rutherford, and everything else that had happened while Crozier had been in hospital.

  “It sounds like a bloody mess,” Crozier said. “And everything we had on Liscombe has gone?”

  “We’re still waiting for Impey to get back to us with his results, but it doesn’t look promising,” Bailey said. “Why your sudden interest in Liscombe anyway?”

  “There’s nothing sudden about it. I’ve always found Alvar Liscombe a fascinating character, and I’ve read a great deal about him over the years, every file, every newspaper report.”

  “So you’re quite an authority on him,” McKinley said.

  “I’d say so. What are you driving at, John?” Crozier added, reading the thoughtful expression on McKinley’s face.

  “I would have thought it was obvious. There seems to be a plan to wipe out everything we know about Alvar Liscombe. You seem to know a lot about him. It makes you a target, as disposable as the computer files.”

  “I suppose it does,” Crozier said.

  “Why were you delving into Liscombe’s life this time?” Bailey said.

  “I was approached a few days ago, and what I was told intrigued me. Apparently Liscombe didn’t disappear at all.”

  “Then what happened to him?” Bailey said.

  “My source told me that Liscombe faked it all and slipped out of the country; left by a back door and went to South Africa.”

  “But why? I thought he was a popular figure in the country. Doyen of the chat-show circuit, a reliable source of sound bites for the press.”

  “He was. There was even talk of him having his own show on television. But his popularity with the public made him increasingly unpopular with other parts of society. The Catholic church for one saw him as a subversive influence.”

  “Is your source reliable?” McKinley said.

  “Very reliable. Tevin Madaki has been a friend of the Department for many years. He’s helped us out on a number of cases in the past.”

  “Then perhaps you need to tell us exactly how all this went down,” McKinley said.

  Crozier nodded slowly. “Yes, perhaps I should.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The British Film Institute restaurant was rammed. The BFI was showing a short season of Ingmar Bergman films and tickets sold out weeks ago.

  Simon Crozier bagged a table by the window that looked out onto the Embankment and sat reading the late-night final edition of the Evening Standard, nursing a cappuccino and nibbling at an all-butter cookie. He didn’t look across as someone slid into the bench seat opposite him. It was a rare occurrence to keep a table to yourself for long. He flicked over the page of the newspaper and started reading a highly biased piece about the forthcoming mayoral elections.

  “Hello, Simon,” a voice said.

/>   Crozier finally looked across at the man sharing his table. “Tevin? What on earth are you doing here? I never had you pegged as a Bergman fan.”

  “Ingrid maybe. Not this one. Anyway, I didn’t come here to see a film.”

  “No?”

  “No. I came to see you.”

  Tevin Madaki was in his late thirties, a tall, good-looking African with high cheekbones, a slender nose and a full mouth. His cheeks were marked with tribal scars and he kept his hair close cropped to his skull.

  “Oh,” Crozier said. He didn’t bother to ask Madaki how he had tracked him to the BFI. He knew only too well that Tevin Madaki was a highly resourceful operator. “Work then?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How long have you been in the country?” Crozier said, trying to delay the inevitable. He got precious little time away from the Department and hated it when work encroached into his leisure activities.

  “I flew in five days ago. I’ll be here for a few weeks.”

  “Why are we meeting here? Why haven’t you come to see me in Whitehall?”

  Madaki leaned forward in his seat. “Because what I have to say is for your ears only. I didn’t want to come to the Department and make my presence here known.”

  “All very cloak and dagger, Tevin. We’re not MI5, you know.”

  Madaki smiled. “I know that, Simon. The information I have is very sensitive, and it could rustle a few feathers. You wouldn’t thank me for that.”

  Crozier took a bite from the edge of his cookie. “You make it sound very intriguing. Spit it out then.”

  “It concerns one of the Department’s heroes. As I say, very sensitive.”

  Crozier checked his watch. The film started in twenty minutes and he didn’t want to miss the beginning. “Who,” he said.

  “Alvar Liscombe.”

  “But Liscombe’s been missing for nearly fifty years,” Crozier said. “It’s ancient history.”

  “He was never missing and history has a way of making its presence felt in the here and now. Echoes, Simon. A plague of them.”

  “You’re talking in riddles, Tevin. Explain what you mean.”

  Tevin Madaki took a long pull from the bottle of sparkling water he’d brought to the table. “To explain what I mean I have to take you back in time to a year before Liscombe resigned. His last case, in fact.”