Department 18 [04] A Plague of Echoes

by Maynard Sims

  As the door to the consulting room closed behind her McKinley smiled to himself ruefully. If only he felt as confident about handling this case as he appeared.

  “I have to go,” Bailey said.

  Bridge nodded. Her face was flushed and she was staring down at the floor.

  “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “I didn’t exactly fight you off,” she said.

  “Even so, you were upset. I took advantage…”

  “Stop,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “I wanted to kiss you. I enjoyed it. I want to do it again.” She looked up into his eyes. He leaned forward and their lips met again. This time the kiss lasted longer. It was softer, with more feeling coming from both sides. When the kiss ended Bailey said, “I really do have to go.”

  “I know,” she said. “I have work to do too.” She ran her hand down the back of her head, smoothing her hair. “Do you think that, one day soon, we can go out together?”

  “A date?”

  “Something like that. I know you’re a busy man, and I need more hours in my day to get done everything I need to do, but maybe it would do us both good to find time for this. What do you think?”

  “You’re the doctor. You prescribe what you think is best.”

  She held him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. Bailey stared back. He felt like he was drowning in those brown velvet eyes. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, convinced that whatever he said would kill the mood stone dead.

  “You’re not very good at this sort of thing, are you?”

  “Out of practice,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yeah, for me too,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to force your hand.”

  “No, no, it’s me who’s sorry. I’d love to go out with you…”

  “But?”

  He shook his head. “No buts. I just can’t believe that a beautiful woman like you would be interested in a grizzled old wreck like me.”

  “Perhaps I like grizzled old wrecks,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  “You’d better.”

  “Promise.”

  “Kiss me again,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Metropolitan Hotel stood in the Euston Road, overlooking Kings Cross station, flanked by a bank and a bureau de change. In the late Twenties it had boasted a grand restaurant that attracted a high-class clientele that included stars of the London stage and many eminent artists and writers, among them George Bernard Shaw and Ellen Terry. Now the place was feeling its age, and many years of neglect had taken its toll. The yellow brick façade was grimy and streaked with bird lime and the windows looked like dull black eyes, staring out blindly at the never-ending stream of traffic that roared and hooted and threw up stinking grey clouds of exhaust fumes.

  At least the reception area looks tidy, McKinley thought as he pushed through the double doors of the entrance.

  There was nobody manning the reception desk but there was a brass bell with a sign that read, Please ring for service. McKinley pressed the plunger and the bell sounded, loud and clear. A few seconds later a middle-aged man in a worn and shiny suit emerged from a back office and approached the desk, smiling.

  “How can I help?” he said, dry-washing his hands.

  “I’m here to see one of your guests,” McKinley said. “Mr. Tevin Madaki.”

  “Is Mr. Madaki expecting you, Mr.…”

  “McKinley. John McKinley. And no he’s not expecting me.”

  The man turned around to study the keys that hung from a varnished board behind the desk. “You’re in luck,” he said. “It looks like Mr. Madaki is in this evening.”

  “Would you know if he wasn’t?”

  “Unless he’s gone out and taken his key with him—which is strictly against the rules—then he’s in the hotel. I’ll call his room and let him know you’re here.”

  A few minutes later McKinley was taking the stairs to the third floor, to room 303, Madaki’s room.

  He rapped on the door and it opened.

  “Mr. McKinley,” Tevin Madaki said. “Welcome. I’ve been expecting someone from Department 18 to pay me a visit. I’m glad it’s you. I’ve been an admirer for many years.” He led McKinley inside and poured him a scotch from a bottle of Johnnie Walker he kept on the desk under the window. Pouring one for himself he said, “How’s Simon?”

  “Out of danger, apparently. The doctor in charge of his case seems to think he’s making good progress.”

  “That would be Maria Bridge. She’s a very good doctor, an excellent surgeon. Almost as good as her father,” Madaki said and settled himself into one of the slightly scuffed leather armchairs that sat to one side of the desk. He indicated that McKinley should take the other.

  McKinley sat and set his drink down on the desk. “You seem very well informed,” he said.

  Madaki smiled, revealing a row of very white, very even teeth. “I make a point of it,” he said. He was dressed casually in a pink cashmere sweater over a white Fred Perry shirt, with grey, moleskin slacks and grey leather moccasins. His hair was cut close to his scalp and he affected a thin goatee beard and equally thin moustache. McKinley found it impossible to age him. He looked anywhere from thirty-five to fifty but McKinley suspected he was older. There was something going on in the African’s eyes that suggested he’d seen a lot of life and that much of it was an unpleasant experience.

  “Would you mind telling me how you knew about Simon and, more importantly, how you knew Trudy Banks was in danger? I take it you were the milkman who left her the Respark.”

  “Oh yes, that was me. And I am a milkman. I have to finance these trips and my investigations in this country somehow.”

  “And it was a happy accident that you just happened to be delivering milk in her street the morning after Simon was attacked.”

  “No, it was planned. I swapped shifts with her usual milkman that day in order to give her the Respark.”

  “Why not simply knock on her door and hand it to her.”

  “Because he was watching her, and I didn’t want to reveal myself at that point. Oh, and you can stop trying to get inside my head, Mr. McKinley. I’m afraid your mind probes won’t work on me. I am well protected against such psychic intrusions.”

  McKinley smiled. “You’re very good,” he said. “And who’s he? Who was watching her?”

  “In Africa, when I first came across him, he was known as Nils Larsen. Since he’s been here he’s adopted another host, Michael O’Brien. And more significantly he spent a month, maybe a little more, as a parish priest in Hampstead.”

  “Father Patrick Connolly.”

  “Yes, that’s what he called himself,” Madaki said. “Mae Middleton’s confessor and confidante.”

  “So it was Connolly who was inside her when she attacked Simon.”

  “It was…and it wasn’t. For Michael O’Brien and Patrick Connolly it uses the same body, the same host, although there have been many more over the years, including Nils Larsen”

  “A dybbuk then. Another one.”

  “There are many of them in the world, Mr. McKinley. But the ones who are calling themselves Michael O’Brien and Pieter Schroeder are the two I’ve been tracking. And it’s Schroeder who is the most dangerous. He’s the one who is gathering people around him. Powerful and influential people.”

  “Not your world domination theory,” McKinley said. “Simon said you had some kind of James Bond master plan going on.”

  Madaki smiled. “I think I caught Simon at the wrong time. I never suggested anything so preposterous. No, Schroeder has formed some kind of cartel. From what I’ve been able to find out he is offering them some kind of eternal life, in return for significant remuneration.”


  “You mean they’re paying him to be part of his club?”

  “Oh, yes,” Madaki said. “They’re paying him a great deal of money. The irony is they are being conned. Schroeder can’t provide them with everlasting life any more than you or I can.”

  McKinley sipped his scotch and shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone would be gullible enough to believe him.”

  “Then you underestimate the dybbuk inside Pieter Schroeder. It has survived for years, possibly centuries, living by its wits. Alvar Liscombe was a prime example of its cunning. Liscombe was a ferociously intelligent man as well as being a gifted, albeit erratic, clairvoyant, and yet he was easy prey for the dybbuk. The thing took him over on their first encounter. But it only stayed with him for a few years until, in fact, it met Schroeder and in him found a perfect vessel—wealthy, influential, powerful; everything the dybbuk needs to survive and prosper. Which is why the dybbuk has remained there for so long.”

  “These people in his cartel will have been charmed and convinced by him that he can deliver what he’s promised them. Remember the dybbuk is an immensely powerful demon, Mr. McKinley.”

  “How do you know all this?” McKinley asked.

  “Another drink?” Madaki said, avoiding the question.

  McKinley shook his head.

  “I came to see Simon because I have reached the end of the line. I’ve been investigating Pieter Schroeder for many years, but now I’ve hit a brick wall. I have no idea what the real reason is for gathering these people around him. I need the resources of Department 18 to move the investigation forward. I can’t do it on my own.”

  “Then you’re going to have to come in to Whitehall to meet with my colleagues. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I will tell you everything you need to know when I come to the Department,” Madaki said.

  “Tomorrow morning,” McKinley said.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Everett Deayton was on edge as he came in through the front door. Bailey’s visit had unsettled him and the walk to the shops had done little to calm him or steady his nerves. It was easy to forget how much danger he was in. Each uneventful day that went by dulled the senses and eroded the urgency of the situation, until complacency set in. Bailey’s visit had brought him up sharp. He needed to up his game, make vigilance his watchword. “And stop thinking in clichés,” he muttered, allowing himself a wry smile.

  The noise from upstairs was small and, had the house not been so silent, he wouldn’t even have noticed it. But he had definitely heard something. It sounded as if someone was tiptoeing across the floor of the room directly above him. He listened hard, waiting for it to repeat but the house stayed silent.

  He took the stairs one at a time, avoiding the treads that creaked, and paused on the landing, looking along the carpeted corridor to his bedroom. The door to the room was shut. He’d left it open. He always left it open. Closed doors made him feel uneasy. There was always the possibility that something was lurking behind them.

  He crept along the landing as stealthily as his arthritic legs would allow and stopped outside his bedroom, his gnarled fingers curling around the brass doorknob. Slowly and silently he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

  “I know you’re here!” he yelled as he strode into the room. He looked around quickly but the room was empty and nothing seemed out of place. He walked across to his bed. The counterpane was very slightly creased, but he may have left it like that. He smoothed the cover with his hand and then went to check the other rooms.

  Like his bedroom the other rooms were empty and undisturbed. In the bathroom the tap on the washbasin dripped annoyingly. He tightened it until the dripping stopped and then went back downstairs.

  His imagination then, he decided, as he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He looked through the kitchen window but couldn’t see the small, overgrown garden in the dark. All he saw was his reflection bouncing back from the glass. His reflection, and the reflection of the man standing behind him in the doorway.

  With a small cry he spun round, the glass of water flying from his fingers and shattering on the counter.

  “Hello, Everett,” Leon Sultan said as he walked across the linoleum and grabbed Everett Deayton around the throat.

  Bailey pulled up outside Everett Deayton’s house and parked his car in a Residents Only bay. The house was in darkness. Bailey checked his watch. 10:30. He should have come earlier, but time had slipped away from him. After leaving the hospital he hadn’t come straight here, deciding instead to drive down to the Thames and park up, staring at the river traffic and thinking about Maria Bridge.

  The kiss had taken him by surprise. Through choice he hadn’t been in a relationship with a woman for over a decade. He’d ruined his last relationship with his heavy drinking and his almost obsessive dedication to his job. When he quit both and went to live in Ireland there had been occasional dalliances, but nothing serious, and he decided not to pursue another serious relationship in his life. It wasn’t fair on any woman involved with him; it wasn’t fair on him. One day he would have to reappraise why he came back when the Department called. For now he was too busy.

  And now Maria Bridge had come along and swept all his reservations aside. The kiss was a prelude to a life-changing experience. It made him realize what an empty and lonely life he was living, and how desperate he was to be with a woman he could love and cherish, and who would love and cherish him in return.

  Of course, he could be reading far too much into it. It was, after all, only a kiss. But something about her was working away at him on a far deeper, more primal level and he realized, with a mild sense of shock that he had fallen in love with her.

  “Oh, shit, Harry, that was quick,” he said to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bailey forced all thoughts of Bridge to the back of his mind. It was time to concentrate on the job in hand. The house was in darkness and he chided himself for not getting here earlier, but got out of the car and approached the front door anyway. Hauling Deayton out from his bed might not be such a bad thing. In his sleep-addled state the old man might be more forthcoming, less guarded.

  Bailey’s finger was on the bell push when he noticed that the front door was slightly open. He took his finger away from the bell and nudged the door fully open with his foot.

  He found Deayton in the kitchen, tied to a tubular steel chair and dead, his throat slit from ear to ear.

  Before he’d died Everett Deayton had been tortured horribly.

  Strewn across the table were the instruments his torturer had used to inflict unimaginable pain on the old man in the last moments of his life: kitchen utensils and appliances.

  Deayton’s left hand had been pinned to the table with meat skewers, probably hammered through flesh and bone by the bloodied steak tenderizer that lay adjacent to them. An electric liquidizer had been used to mutilate his other hand, the razor-sharp blades severing sinews and ligaments, and chewing through the bones of his fingers.

  Skin had been stripped from his cheeks with a potato peeler, and the same instrument had been used to gouge out his left eye. A cheese grater had been brought into play, ribbons of bloody skin still hanging limply from its metallic teeth. Along with various bloodstained knives and forks, these were the implements that had made the last few minutes of Everett Deayton’s life a living hell.

  This was bad, not only for Deayton but for him too. He should really be calling the police to report the killing, but he couldn’t afford to be implicated in another crime.

  Instead he rang the Department’s Laura Bettamaine. Laura had been in charge of the Department’s clean-up crews for the last five years. She was forty-five, a petite brunette with lively eyes and a ready sense of humor that was vital to her, given her occupation.

  “Laura, I have a problem,” he said.
r />   “Don’t we all, Harry? What do you need?”

  “A complete clean up and disposal, and, Laura, it’s one of ours.”

  “No one’s out on assignment at the moment,” she said.

  “It’s Everett Deayton. He used to be…”

  “Director in Chief,” she finished for him. “You used to work under him back in the day, didn’t you?”

  “I did. He was a good man. A friend.”

  “Details?”

  “Mutilated and murdered. It’s a code three. I don’t want the police involved.”

  “And they won’t be, Harry. I’ll get my best team on it. Give me the address.”

  He told her.

  “They’ll be there in forty-five minutes. And you’d better get your arse out of there in case a well-meaning neighbor has called 9-9-9. Don’t hang around. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Laura, you’re a treasure.”

  “Don’t I know it? And, Harry, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He disconnected and went back to the kitchen, staring at Deayton’s body, a heavy weight of sadness in his heart and a small, white-hot ball of rage burning like acid in the pit of his stomach. Everett Deayton was one of the good guys and he certainly didn’t deserve to die like this. One way or another, he was going to find who was responsible and make them pay. “I promise you that, old friend. I’ll make them pay,” Bailey said quietly and left the house, closing and locking the door behind him.

  “When is David bringing the girls home?” Carter asked.

  “In the morning. Knowing him he’ll have them up at the crack of dawn. They’ll be showered, fed and on the road before the morning rush hour.”

  They were sitting in Carter’s Saab, in the car park beneath Department 18’s Whitehall offices.

  “Come back with me,” he said. “Stay the night.”

  Jane looked him steadily. “That’s not such a good idea,” she said.

  He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes. “Why not?”