by Ken McClure
‘Lawler has the capacity to control this switch at will.’
‘Did Barrowman find out how he did it?’
‘It’s not recorded in his notes, but one of the disks is encrypted and I haven’t found a way to crack it.’
‘You’ve no idea yourself?’ Steven asked.
‘Come on,’ laughed Lukas. ‘I suspect people will be applying for five-year grants into the foreseeable future to figure that out if we can’t get into that disk.’
‘Do you think that’s what happened to Barrowman himself, he inadvertently triggered the switch?’
‘There’s a long history of scientists trying out their discoveries on themselves,’ said Lukas.
Steven considered for a moment then said, ‘If this were all true, it would mean that every now and then in the normal way of things, a baby would be born with a mutation that causes the sequence to trigger the wrong way . . . and he or she would grow up with a psychopathic personality?’
‘That’s exactly what would happen in the normal way of things and what I was thinking as I read through the notes,’ said Lukas. ‘’But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Barrowman believes it’s the other way around. He thinks that the evil state was the norm in early human beings and the switching mutation occurred to introduce decency and care and empathy and sympathy and so on.’
Steven felt stunned. ‘He’s suggesting that human beings are naturally evil but have mutated to become . . . better?’
‘And stay that way unless the genome reverts to its original state, in which case you get a psychopath, not the other way around.’
‘It sounds as if there was an ancient battle between the forces of good and evil and, in the end, good won?’
‘As a broad general statement . . .’
‘There’s more?’
Barrowman goes on to speculate that the evil state is stronger than the mutated one: evil people are liable to be more powerful and are capable of exerting great influence over others. The ones we are aware of in society tend to be criminals who get caught committing horrific crimes and get locked up, but he suggests there are others.’
‘Others?’
‘Psychopaths who are clever and cunning enough to rise to the top in whatever field they choose to be in . . . including government, where they can exercise their power . . . to great and often horrifying effect.’
‘You mean people like Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot . . .’
‘And throughout history, Attila the Hun . . . Caligula . . . Vlad the Impaler . . . Idi Amin . . . the list is endless. People who will do the unthinkable because they see nothing to stop them and can influence others to follow them without question.’
‘Well, at least that answers my mother’s question,’ said Steven. ‘She always used to ask, how do such awful people get into positions of power?’
‘I don’t think she’s the only person to ask that,’ said Lukas.
‘If Barrowman threw the switch in himself it would suggest he knows how to do it: That’s the knowledge the intelligence services and Porton Down will be after.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Lukas, ‘much as I’d like to.’
‘How do you think they will be getting on with analysing Barrowman’s data?’
‘Pretty well,’ said Lukas. ‘Barrowman kept good notes and has lots of data. It’s not difficult to work your way through it.
‘Pity,’ said Steven, forced to imagine a city where the switch was thrown in an entire population and the resulting mayhem. ‘You’ve been brilliant,’ he said to Lukas.
Steven didn’t know what to feel as he drove home. He had hoped to feel cheered by hearing how much Lukas had been able to decipher but the opposite was true. He felt as if he wasn’t a real person at all, the real him was hidden under some kind of genetic sedation, as was everyone else . . . apart from creatures like Lawler. Tally would make sense of it, he decided. She was good at finding the common-sense view of all situations. He looked forward to being told to get over himself.
He glanced at his watch as he slowed and turned into the down slope to the entrance of the underground garage, deciding that Tally would probably be home. He parked the car and made for the stairs. The only thing blocking his way were two dead policemen.
Steven froze and stared at the tableau of death. He hadn’t known the men personally, but had seen them often enough over the past week or so, they were part of Tally’s protection detail; their throats had been cut.
Steven hurtled up the stairs, to find his fingers all thumbs as he fought against the effects of adrenaline rush to get his key in the lock. The door flew back and he stopped dead in his tracks. He waited until his breathing had subsided, took out the Glock from its holster and started moving through the flat slowly and silently. He completed the search; there was no sign of the killer . . . and no sign of Tally either.
Still breathing calmly but slightly irregularly, Steven put the pistol back in its holster and took out his phone. As he did so, he noticed the note lying on the table: it wasn’t written in Tally’s handwriting. He picked it up.
I want my stuff, Dunbar. Your woman will provide entertainment until I get it. Wait for a call.
Steven remembered that Barrowman had his mobile number from earlier times. He called the emergency number made available to all Sci-Med investigators engaged on live investigations and listed what he needed and what he wanted to happen. This was acknowledged without question. He asked that the police protection unit be informed sensitively that they had two officers down and where they could be found – it was too late for an ambulance – MI5 should be informed of the situation – CCTV footage covering that past two hours was to be made available for examination and John Macmillan was to be informed as was Jean Roberts. Both should be asked to return to the Home Office as quickly as possible. He called Lukas using the house phone and was relieved to find he was still in the lab. Without explanation, he asked what had happened to the original disks and memory sticks containing Barrowman’s data.
‘I’ve got them,’ Lukas replied.
‘And the notes?’
‘Yes, them too.’
‘Thank God. Barrowman’s got Tally. He wants his data back.’
‘Oh man, I’m so sorry. Just say where you want me to bring them.’
‘The Home Office, we’re all going to meet there.’
‘On my way.’
The phone rang again as soon as Lukas had rung off, it was Macmillan. ’What’s going on?’
‘He’s got Tally.’
The wail of sirens announced the imminent arrival of the police with two ambulances following behind. Steven looked out of the window, thinking again that there was no hurry for the ambulances as the awful image of the two dead officers added to the turmoil that filled his mind. He stared at his mobile, knowing that this was now his one link to Tally; he put it gently in his pocket. He went downstairs to speak to the policemen and saw that the senior man was the officer he’d spoken to when setting up protection for Tally. He was doing his job, issuing instructions, but was clearly upset. Steven read it his eyes when he came over to speak to him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Steven.
‘They were good men.’
This was the wrong time for Steven to have this conversation. ‘He’s taken Tally.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered the policeman. ‘What a mess.’
‘I’ve got to get to the Home Office,’ said Steven, ‘to decide what we’re going to do.’
The policeman nodded. ‘Of course.’ He turned to look back at his two dead colleagues and said, ‘These guys were the best. For what it’s worth . . . there must have been more than one of them.’
TWENTY-SIX
Steven thought about what the policeman had said as he made his way to the Home Office. The man had just lost two of his close colleagues, probably friends, who had died suddenly and horribly, but somewhere among the grief would be the fact that they had failed to do th
eir job. The had failed to protect Tally and that would add discomfort to the mix. The DI would want to minimise any damage to their reputation if he could. Could Barrowman really not have been alone? It seemed unthinkable to imagine he’d had an accomplice to murder, but the fact that he was still at large seemed ridiculous too. A wave of anger aimed at the police and MI5 threatened to challenge his judgement, but he rose above it. Any kind of emotion in the current situation would be counter-productive. He needed to be at his cool, calculating best – so why was a tear running down his cheek?
‘Have you heard anything?’ Macmillan asked as Steven entered the office to find everyone there except Lukas.
Steven said not.
‘Time enough yet,’ said Macmillan, making everyone wonder what that meant.
‘The trace is on your phone,’ said Jean before she handed him a new one with a new number. ‘Everyone has a note of it. ‘No one will call you on the old one.’
Lukas arrived, apologising for being last. He handed over the packages they had intercepted at the sorting office. ‘I’ve done my best to re-pack everything the way it was. Maybe he’ll think we haven’t had a chance to look at anything yet. Not a lot of time has passed.’
Steven didn’t believe that for a moment, but thanked him.
I suspect what he’s really after is the one disk that is protected by encryption. I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to crack it,’ said Lukas.
Steven nodded, adding, ‘Can’t be helped.’ This was for the benefit of anyone who was about to suggest they should give Barrowman a false one in place of it. That was a non-starter.
He let the police and intelligence services representatives have their say about what should happen before saying, ‘There are a number of agendas present here. We all want Barrowman for our own reasons: a dead MI5 agent and two dead policemen have to be avenged, but the bastard has my lady and I want her back alive. That takes priority.’
There were no dissenting voices.
‘Barrowman is a psychopath and a very clever man. I don’t want anyone coming up with cunning plans designed to trap him – think what happened at the sorting office. He’s been running rings round us so we will respect that while I do whatever he says to get Tally back. There will be no interference from anyone, absolutely none. I will keep Sir John and Jean advised and call on the Sci-Med back-up service if I need anything. Everyone else should stay out of it.’
‘I understand how you must feel, doctor, but kidnap is really a matter for the police . . .’said the senior policeman present, but Macmillan shut him up with a look and the words, ‘Not this time.’
Steven went home to his flat. He sat in his chair by the window, watching as the sky darkened. He held his phone lightly in his hand willing it to ring and he had pen and paper at his side ready to jot down instructions. The phone call when it came wasn’t going to last long enough for anyone to trace the origin. He expected a simple directive, probably to call another number from another phone. He would comply.
The minutes passed . . . the hours passed . . . the stars came out and the call didn’t come. Steven’s angst was becoming unbearable . . . and then he worked it out. Barrowman was orchestrating his misery. He was torturing him by deliberately not calling, letting his own imagination do the job for him. ‘Oh, Tally my love, he sighed . . . where are you . . .’
By two in the morning Steven had drunk so much coffee that his nerves were jangling. He paced up and down for close to thirty minutes before going through to the bedroom and throwing himself flat on the bed to lie in the darkness, allowing thoughts to come and go and reappear again in a varying order to form a changing mental tapestry which rivalled the flickering shadows on the ceiling as occasional car headlights passed along the street below . . . Macmillan’s assertion that Barrowman had found somewhere secure . . . somewhere he wasn’t alone . . . somewhere he felt so secure that he had started to think about science again. He wanted his data disks and a batch of chemicals . . . The forensics mix-up over Lucy Barrowman and the police failure to find her attacker, the disappearance of Lillian Leadbetter . . . and their current failure to find her either . . .the policeman’s assertion that Barrowman hadn’t been alone in carrying out the murder of his officers.
Steven suddenly sat bolt upright; his breathing had quickened to shallow, short breaths. He knew what was going on. He knew where Tally was.
He was surprised at how quickly Macmillan answered his home phone at that hour in the morning. ‘Has he rung?’ Macmillan asked.
‘No, but I know where she is and I know where Barrowman is. They’re in Moorlock Hall.’
‘How on earth . . .’
‘Barrowman must have gone there after killing the MI5 officer. Groves, the medical superintendent, wouldn’t have known anything about that so he allowed him in, assuming it must have something to do with his research project. Barrowman was armed with the gun he had taken from the MI5 man and had the element of surprise on his side; he probably forced Grove to free Lawler and the pair of them took over the place after doing God knows what . . . Since then, they’ve been enjoying trips up to town in a staff car to leave business cards, pick up parcels . . . and assault Lucy Barrowman!’ Steven exclaimed as he suddenly realised it could really have been Lawler who attacked her; it wasn’t a forensic mistake. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Some other things make sense now,’ said Macmillan. ‘The Post Office box system must have been used by Moorlock Hall when it was still a secret. Groves must have told Barrowman and Lawler about it under duress and they’ve been using it to order in what they wanted.
‘I can only imagine what they did to Groves to get the information,’ Steven murmured. ‘Oh, God, Tally’s their prisoner too.’
‘You say he hasn’t phoned?’ asked Macmillan quickly.
Steven told him why he thought he hadn’t. ‘He’s got me dangling on a hook; he’s enjoying my suffering.’
‘If you’re right about all this we have the advantage,’ said Macmillan. We have the time between now and when he phones to get organised.’
‘We can’t risk a full-frontal assault,’ said Steven. ‘These animals have nothing to lose, they’re already serving life. There will be no possibility of negotiation either.’
‘I’m thinking anti-terrorist squad.’
‘I’m thinking the Regiment, said Steven, using the nickname of the SAS, but Moorlock is not an ordinary building, it’s a high security prison. There are no windows, no openings for stun grenades, no weak doors.’
‘And on top of that we don’t know how much time we have to set up anything at all,’ said Macmillan. ‘It all depends on how long Sonny Jim gets pleasure from making you sweat.
‘He’s doing well,’ said Steven bitterly.
‘We have to regard this as a full hostage situation, but not necessarily one the police can handle. I’m going to call the Home Secretary and brief her along with our recommendation. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear from her, but, rest assured, I’m very much aware that Barrowman could call at any moment.’
‘The moment he does we revert immediately to the original plan,’ insisted Steven. ‘I do whatever he says and make the exchange without interference from anyone.’
‘Of course, but in the meantime, there’s no harm in getting things moving. We can get SFO police officers in position at a safe distance. They could at least report on anyone leaving the building and perhaps even intercept when they’re well away.’
‘The priority right now is Tally,’ insisted Steven.
‘I absolutely agree,’ said Macmillan, but the longer he keeps you dangling the more it works in our favour. It will take a while to get an SAS troop there from Credenhill assuming permission is given.’
‘I want to be near Moorlock Hall,’ said Steven.
‘Not a good idea,’ said Macmillan. ‘Barrowman will assume you are waiting for instructions at home. You don’t want to be a two-hour drive away when he gives you details of the exchange.’
‘You’re right. God, I just need to be doing something.’
‘I know, but sit tight and I’ll get on with the organising things. Let me know as soon as you get the phone call and I’ll freeze everything until Dr Simmons is safe.’
If Barrowman suspects for a moment that we know he’s at Moorlock Hall . . .’
‘I’ll make it crystal clear that that mustn’t happen.’
Steven called Sci-Med support and requested an old car be made available. ‘Anything as long as it goes.’ He didn’t want to use a high-profile car like his Porsche. If there were to be a rendezvous, he would rather he spotted what the opposition was driving rather than the other way around. The old car was to be left in Maple Street, neighbouring Marlborough Court: the keys should be left under the passenger seat.
‘Understood.’
The hours continued to pass but, at least, Steven’s anguish was now mitigated by the knowledge that Barrowman’s tactic might be working against him. At a quarter to four the phone rang but it was his new mobile. Macmillan reported that permission had been given for members of 22 SAS regiment to be deployed from their base at Credenhill in Herefordshire. An initial team of six were already on their way to appraise the situation, Police Specialist Firearms Officers were already in position at a discreet distance. No one had left Moorlock Hall.
Steven drifted off into an uneasy sleep in his chair around five thirty but woke with a start an hour later. The dawn of a new day demanded that he get himself into gear. He still had some Benzedrine tablets in the bathroom cabinet from an occasion in the past when it had been essential that he keep awake and alert for long periods. He took two, put on some coffee and made himself two slices of toast to give an impression of breakfast.
Macmillan called at seven. ‘No phone call?’
‘No,’ Steven replied, irritated that he’d been asked.’
‘Strange.’
Steven had to edit his reply. He knew he was incredibly on edge. ‘Yes.’
