Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “It’s been a while.”, he spoke softly as he turned to the figure on the bench, “But the years seem to have been good to you.”

  “I’ve wish they’d been as good to me as you.”, the other replied, looking over the older man’s features, “You should tell me your secret.”

  “Oh, it’s no secret.”, Reynolds laughed, “Just good healthy food and a desire to live life to the full. Mind you, I can highly recommend cutting down on the booze.”

  “You received the note?”

  “I would think that my presence here rather answers that question.”, Reynolds replied, drily, “And yes, you can assume my being here can also be taken as an agreement to the deal. Philips was stupid. I thought he understood that we all needed a little more discipline.”

  “Still.”, he continued, “One man’s loss is another’s gain and I can’t say that this unexpected boost to my finances isn’t unwelcome. The only question remaining is to your identity. Talk me through what S became.”

  Dexter had rehearsed this well. The prosthetics were good enough to pass muster against the old passport photo and the driver’s licence but it had been difficult to balance them perfectly against the various images of Samson that were readily accessible on the web. He was confident enough that the money involved would smooth things along but there was still an awful lot of tension before Reynolds visibly relaxed and invited him to follow him up to his apartment.

  “Before you get any ideas.”, he spoke clearly but quietly as he escorted his visitor, “This property is amongst the most secure in London. That’s why I chose it. I could have kept the records in a remote place but I prefer to be near to them. Ruling out a bank vault meant that I had to rule in a home that was as secure as one.”

  “Believe me,”, Dexter replied, slurring his words a little in the way that had so annoyed him whenever he’d conversed with Samson, “that’s more reassuring than anything. This isn’t about The Circle. It’s personal. I don’t think any of us are too concerned about the others any more. We just want to buy our own way off the hook.”

  They walked slowly through the marbled corridors of the apartment block, the gentle strains of a Mozart piano concerto accompanying them. Numerous high-security glass doors had to be negotiated as they moved deeper into the building, each one opening when Reynolds pressed the palm of his hand against a reader. Eventually, they made it to the lifts which whisked them smoothly to the upper floors.

  To enter the apartment, Reynolds had to use both his palm and his iris, both of which were scanned before the locks yielded.

  “As I say.”, he beckoned Samson in, “There’s security and there’s security. We’ll be safe in here.”

  Reynolds hadn’t been lying about the alcohol. He settled Samson down on a sofa in the cavernous lounge and set a tray of drinks before him, all of which were a teetotaller’s delight.

  “Wait here.”, he told his guest.

  The wait was longer than expected. Sipping a mineral water, Dexter allowed his gaze to wander slowly around the room and take in the number of discretely hidden cameras that monitored every corner. He’d known they were there and had assumed that Reynolds would spend some time keeping an eye on him before feeling confident enough to access the hidden material. All Dexter could do was wait. The equipment that he’d previously installed would be monitoring the monitor and if the worst came to the worst there would be some record of his last movements. Keeping his breathing steady, he leaned forward to pick up a copy of Time magazine, forcing his eyes to scan the pages while he waited.

  “You weren’t such a bad ‘un.”, Reynolds held an open manila file in his hands as he returned to the room, “Although they captured you quite well on a few shots. Here, this is what you want.”

  He placed the folder on the table and watched as Samson extracted an envelope from his jacket pocket which he placed next to it.

  “Electronic records?”, he asked.

  “Some.”, Reynolds confessed, “But don’t worry. None pertaining to you. Pass that one on to the next in the chain. It’s double to delete both paper and electronic.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”, Dexter rose slowly and tucked the folder inside his shirt.

  “Think nothing of it. A final price well paid and we can all move on. And don’t forget, there remain a lot of eyes on us all. I don’t know what’s kicking off just now, but I’m hearing rumours of a new wave of activity from some people that we both know very well. Our consolation, if there is any, is that we have the protection of our knowledge, but I’m not sure that even that will be enough. Things are afoot that might make the past seem child’s play. Anyway, enough of that, enjoy the rest of your life.”

  In the street outside the apartment, Dexter called a cab and tried to stay calm as he raced away from the scene. This was the sort of stuff that Philian Gregory had got himself involved with and now he was beginning to understand that he was skirting a world that was alien and threatening to him. The wrong answer to an unexpected question or the slightest glitch in his disguises and he’d be facing a ruthless enemy. You could only do this for a short time, but he knew he’d have to return soon. Samson was due back next week. Before he landed, Dexter had to find some way to get hold of more of the records that Reynolds was holding. He had an idea about how he could achieve that, but to go ahead with it would be to take another step deeper into the abyss. That said, he was already in this up to his neck and he’d survived so far.

  It all hinged on the weakness that was inherent in the complicated strengths of the security systems that kept Reynolds safe. They were external barriers that hailed themselves as being so impenetrable that they mocked any attempts by the apartment owners to take additional steps to protect the contents of their homes. This much was true for Reynolds and had been confirmed to Dexter when he reviewed the footage that had downloaded automatically from the miniature cameras that had followed him into his inner-sanctum. Dave had always kept Dexter up to speed on the latest developments in surveillance equipment and the samples that he’d used in this case were ones that had been supplied by a Japanese company who were keen to have them installed in all of his properties. They recorded images and sound, clearly and consistently, which they transmitted to a nearby receiving point, which in turn fed them into the fibre-optic networks that downloaded them to a base computer. The external units had taken more than twenty-four hours to make the journey up to Reynolds flat, but that delay was a price worth paying for the fact that they made that journey unnoticed. It was these units that had fed the first data streams to Dexter.

  They had come into their own during his visit. The briefest shake of hands had been enough for Dexter to allow the two units he held to transfer themselves to a new host. He knew that they were programmed to sense human skin and would therefore make their way into Reynolds hair without him noticing. Whilst Dexter, as Samson, had sat quietly in the lounge of the apartment, his every move being monitored, he had the satisfaction of knowing that a parallel monitoring process was happening as his own cameras recorded Reynold’s retrieval of the necessary files. Dexter had expected a heavily-armed safe at least, his theory being that he would be able to see the combination being entered. The reality was surprising and reassuring. Reynolds kept the files behind a hidden panel in his bedroom, one which was secure in its invisibility but which had no other protection. From what he could see, the archive stored there couldn’t be all the records that Reynolds held, but it was something and it would give him more names, which in turn would keep this whole process going.

  Comfortable with this inside knowledge, Dexter considered numerous alternative ways to access the apartment but found himself being forced back to a plan of action that refused to stop announcing itself as the only viable option. Eventually, but still reluctantly, as the time of Samson’s return to the UK drew nearer, Dexter made the necessary preparations and made his move.

  Chapter Twe
nty-Three

  Reynolds was a creature of habit. That was good. Every Tuesday night he made his way to a small, private casino, tucked away in the darker recesses of the backstreets of Westminster and strictly an exclusive joint. Whether he was successful or not in his gambling, Dexter neither knew nor cared. All that was important to him was that the evening ended with Reynolds walking the short distance from the casino to a private brothel, where he would end the night. Between the two points, hoardings surrounded a disused bank branch that was being refurbished and reclaimed as another niche restaurant which would feature kitchens in the old vaults as its unique selling point. It was all very London, was likely not to succeed, and would again be refurbished the following year. For now, it served a purpose.

  Geoff Samson approached Reynolds with a shifty and shuffling gait that seemed to imply that he was just returning from a visit to the very establishment that was the other’s destination. He let Reynolds perform the greeting.

  “Samson?”, his voice was half-humorous, half-surprised.

  “Reynolds.”, Samson whispered in reply, “Strange to meet you here. But I must hurry.”

  “No secrets between us, hey?”, Reynolds patted him on the shoulder, “I think I know where you’ve been. No worries. I’m on my way there myself as it happens. Nothing like a bit of premium meat, is there?”

  Without replying, Samson drew nearer to Reynolds, ostensibly returning the pat on the shoulder but using the movement to empty a small syringe into his arm. The sedative acted immediately and Reynolds had little time to voice any sort of protest.

  Half an hour later, Reynolds returned to his apartment.

  “Early this morning?”, the night porter asked.

  “Had to cut it short.”, Reynolds croaked the words and feigned a small heave, “Feeling absolutely awful. But don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

  He waved a thick paper bag at the porter which he then placed against his own mouth, accompanying the move with a series of small heaves that left no doubt as to the bag’s purpose.

  “I’ll let you get on then, Sir.”, the porter replied, keener to see Reynolds out of the way than to have to clear up anything he left in the lobby, “Goodnight, and hope you feel better soon.”

  By that time, Reynolds was halfway to the bank of lifts, but he gave the porter a brief wave before staggering further into the building. He stopped at each of the security checks, leant against the wall to steady himself and took a few deep breaths before placing his palm against the sensors. It was a slow walk but he made it without incident and rested as the lift carried him silently home. At his front door, the iris recognition software took three attempts to properly identify him, but it let him through in the end and he stumbled into his home.

  At least, that would be the report that the surveillance team would give up when the whole incident had played out fully. The reality was that Bob Dexter was now in Reynolds’ apartment. One authentic element of the situation was the sickness. Carrying a recently amputated hand and a still warm eyeball were enough to make anyone feel a little nauseous. On top of which, the latex prosthetics that transformed him into a dishevelled likeness of the other were hot and clammy and they gave off an odour that added to the nausea.

  He had no intention of removing any of the files that he came across. He wanted there to remain an element of uncertainty around his actions that would raise the levels of suspicion without prompting too dramatic a response. Names were all that Bob Dexter wanted and photographing the files gave him all he needed. Another of his primary objectives was to keep any suspicion well away from himself. For that reason, he made sure that he left enough fingerprints and fibres to implicate Samson. The gloves he wore were probably the only reason that he had managed to get this far without letting the sickness overcome him. They gave him a thin layer of protection from the flesh that he held. More than that though, they were cast with fingerprints that he had taken from Samson and which would point the finger firmly in his direction. Exiting the property was easier than it should have been and facilitated by a resident’s only access route to the high-rise’s underground car park. They’d have caught him on camera, but that didn’t really matter as it wasn’t him they were catching.

  On his return to the UK several days later, Geoff Samson was surprised to receive a late-night visitation to his home. He recognised Steve Reynolds, despite the eye patch that covered one eye and the pain that twisted his face every time he moved the heavily-bandaged arm that he held in a sling and which seemed just a tad shorter than it should be. The two men who accompanied Reynolds clearly didn’t want to be recognised. They wore ski masks and were dressed in non-descript black outfits.

  “Reynolds?”, Samson had drunk one or two glasses of wine too many but he managed to keep his voice calm, “What are you doing here?”

  “No niceties.”, Reynolds hissed, “And before you even think about doing anything stupid, you should know that I have another colleague upstairs, standing guard over your wife. Now, I think you were about to invite us in.”

  He beckoned them into the converted farmhouse and they sat around the kitchen table.

  “An explanation.”, Reynolds said simply.

  “For what?”, Samson replied.

  “For this,”, Reynolds pointed to his eye, “and for my hand. You really think we couldn’t track you down.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re saying.”, Samson pleaded, “I had nothing to do with any of that. Besides, I only flew back to the country a few days ago.”

  Reynolds explained what had happened. He quizzed Samson on the visit he’d made and the deal they’d done and he quizzed him on the night that he’d lost his hand and his eye. The more he probed Samson, the more he began to suspect that the guy was either a very, very good liar, or there might be some truth in what he said.

  “I’ll make a call.”, he told Samson, “And you’d better pray that it supports what you’re saying.”

  The wait was agonising for Samson but he was comfortable that he’d soon be off the hook. When the call came back, his confidence quickly faded.

  “No records of you leaving the country.”, Reynolds whispered maliciously, “And no record of your staying where you said you were staying. The lodge was booked and stayed in by a Felix Montgomery and his wife. The private jet that flew them in had them as the only passengers. So, you want to tell us more.”

  Samson’s mind flitted back through the journey and the holiday. Dexter had sorted everything out for them. Their passports had been taken when the limousine picked them up from their home and they hadn’t seen them again until they’d arrived back. In fact, he couldn’t recall a time when they’d had to confirm their identity. Even the staff would only refer to them as Sir and Madam.

  “It’s a set-up.”, he sighed, “I was set-up. The trip was a gift. A client of mine. Bob Dexter, property dealer.”

  “Enough!”, Reynolds stood and slammed his good hand on the table, “You know that’s all a pack of lies. We met. You drugged me and you went back to my apartment. Your fingerprints are all over the place and even some of your hairs. You think I’ll buy your little story. No. I’m sorry, but that’s the trial over. Guilty.”

  Reynolds nodded to the two men who began work on Samson. The pathologist’s report put death down to shock caused by the number of injuries that he received. That same pathologist concluded that Samson’s eyes had been removed and his hands cut off whilst he was still conscious. His wife knew nothing of it until she came down in the morning, her mind a blur after what she at first believed to be a nightmare that was preceded by a very deep sleep. After the screams and the tears and briefest moment of intense mourning, she picked up the photographs that had been left next to the corpse. Suddenly, she felt less mournful as she discovered the hidden life of her devoted husband.

  Dexter read the reports in the press. They talked about a revenge killing or a bun
gled robbery, but there were no witnesses and the police were struggling to find any clues. It would be a crime that remained unsolved, and yet which caused no real concern to the forces of law and order who set it aside as being one of those incidents that formed a closed circle. They’d continue to keep it as a live case, but the public weren’t in danger and there were others who would take priority.

  In the same papers that carried the reports of Samson’s death, prominence was given to a much tastier story: that of the school inspector who had been detained by police for questioning over historical sexual abuse allegations. This was much more popular fayre and the early indications seemed to point to it being an opportunity for a swift and comprehensive prosecution. The scapegoating of popular entertainers had waned of late, amidst too many false allegations from troubled and needy individuals whose memories of events were, if not completely false, at least distorted in many ways. Those who’d been found guilty were serving their sentences, their victims enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame. There were fewer of both now. Several misguided attempts to continue this populist line of pursuit had stalled and there were calls now for closer scrutiny of those raising the allegations and even penalties for their wasting police time.

  Given that background, the dossier delivered anonymously to a busy police station in the West Midlands was, at first, given only brief attention. Fate raised it higher up the pile when one of the alleged victims arrived at that same station on the following day. The officer who processed his details was taken by how ordinary and straightforward was his manner of approach that he arranged for an immediate interview with their child protection team and things moved on swiftly from then.

  The project that the twins had been pursuing had been less complex and much less challenging than that being followed by Dexter, but it wasn’t easy for all that. It called on their own particular expertise in meticulous and thorough administration, and on their knowledge of the intricacies and foibles of social networks. They tracked Daniels’ career back to his teaching days where, during the height of The Circle’s activities, he had been a lowly form-master in a grammar school in Cheshire. His record there had been impeccable and had secured for him a progression of promotions that had seen him move into more senior positions across the country before taking up a role as an OFSTED inspector. He had deferred retirement, was comfortably settled in his role and in his financial independence, and was active in several projects that drew on his experience. Nothing of note there then. However, his former pupils proved to be a fountain of useful knowledge.