by CJ Carver
Dan didn’t comment. Just said, ‘Tell me the next street you come to.’
‘Great Peter Street,’ she said.
Silence for a short while. Then he said, ‘Grace, I can see you . . .’
She heard him saying urgently pull over, then, to her: ‘I’m in the black cab . . .’
She was aware of the taxi stopping just ahead, the door opening, but her concentration was on the two men because, at that moment, Clipper touched his companion on the arm and peeled away.
‘Dan.’ Her voice was urgent. ‘They’re separating.’
Both men vanished at the crossing ahead, Clipper turning left, Dark Hair right.
Dan pounded to her side. ‘You think they saw you?’
‘I haven’t been hiding from them.’
‘OK. They haven’t clocked me yet so I’ll take Clipper. You take the other guy. Keep your phone on and keep talking to me.’
He ran for the crossroads. Grace ran after him. Both of them fell into a walk as they turned after their individual quarry. Grace could feel her heart pounding, her adrenaline ticking fast as she continued alone, but when she glanced at Dan, he looked as relaxed as though he was out for nothing but a winter’s stroll.
She could see the dark-haired man was on the phone. He’d dropped his pace so Grace pulled back. He remained on the phone. So did Grace. He continued ambling, meandering south-west.
‘Clipper’s cleaning,’ said Dan. ‘Trying to see if he’s being followed. I’m hoping he’s just looking for you and that he won’t spot me . . .’
‘My guy seems to be in no hurry. Out having a ramble . . .’
They kept in touch for the next ten minutes, until Grace said, ‘My guy’s gone into Tate Britain.’
‘Clipper is . . . he’s doubling back . . .’
Everything went quiet.
‘Clipper’s on a mission,’ said Dan. ‘He thinks he’s lost you. Your guy is the red herring.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Stay where you are . . .’
Grace hovered inside the gallery’s entrance, near an information desk, but couldn’t see her target. People came and went, kids, grandparents and young couples chilling out on a Saturday afternoon. The minutes ticked past.
‘Grace,’ Dan said. There was something odd about his voice.
‘What?’
‘Clipper’s gone to ground,’ he told her.
‘Where?’
He gave her directions. It wasn’t far.
She found him standing on the corner of Millbank and Horseferry Road, seemingly oblivious to the traffic roaring past. He was staring at an impressive stone building decorated with statues. It had started to snow and flakes had caught in his hair and settled on his shoulders. His face was pale. He didn’t turn or greet her as she approached, just said, ‘He’s in there.’
She looked at the entrance and noted the closed-circuit TV camera, which felt as though it was directed straight at them.
‘MI5’s headquarters,’ he said.
He took a deep breath and added, ‘I think it’s where I used to work.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As Dan stood, snow clinging to his eyelashes, his mouth, images flew at him. Joe Talbot’s pleasure at seeing him. His old colleagues’ discomfort at the reunion. His father’s odd guilelessness when it came to discussing Dan’s old job. Grace’s shock when he’d upended the umbrella stand and found her mother’s front door key. Stella standing in the supermarket gazing at him, her expression amused.
You knew I was watching you but you didn’t give anything away. I guess it shows that our training sticks with us even if we don’t realise it.
Dan felt his mind open as more pieces fell into place. He now knew why he was so private. Why he hated being made the centre of attention. Abruptly, he recalled the R. V. Carpet Cleaners’ van. The way the van had driven when he’d followed it, like professionals. Had they been MI5? Were they old colleagues of his?
He used to work for MI5.
He could feel the shock of it, the strangeness, a sense of disbelief – had he really been in a firefight with Stella? – but these sensations paled beneath the sensation of liberation. Somehow, somewhere inside him, he knew it was true. Now he knew why he’d wept when Stella died. How he’d found her hiding places. Why he watched the news avidly, why he got his kicks out of driving hard and fast, searching for an adrenaline buzz.
Stella’s voice: Because it’s the most exciting thing you could find to do.
He said, ‘Your mother worked here too.’
‘Oh, God.’ Grace’s voice was faint. He turned to look at her. She was staring at the building. She’d gone white. ‘I really don’t want to hear this.’
‘It explains why she had those passports and money. Why she contacted me in the first place.’ He still hadn’t told Grace about Cedric and wondered if he should.
‘So what’s DCA & Co.?’ Grace asked. She was hugging herself but whether from shock or cold – maybe both – he couldn’t tell.
‘What it says it is. An intelligence and advisory firm. My guess is it’s staffed by ex-service personnel.’
‘Oh, God,’ Grace moaned again. ‘I don’t believe this.’
‘Hey.’ He was surprised to find himself smiling. ‘At least we’re the good guys.’
She shot him a look of disbelief. ‘Are you sure about that?’
He thought for a moment then brought out his phone. He saw he had a text message from Jenny. He read it dispassionately, his feelings locked down tight. He didn’t respond but dialled another number.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ he said when Stuart answered.
‘No problem. Everything all right?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Yes. I’m standing outside the edifice where I believe I used to work. I’ll give you a couple of clues. It overlooks the river and is a stone’s throw from the Home Office.’
‘Ah. I was wondering when you’d find out.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was going to, earlier. But then you rushed –’
‘Stuart. Tell me.’
‘OK. You worked in Immigration, as you already know. As a civil servant. But it was more than that.’
Dan waited.
‘You worked for the Security Service. MI5 to be precise.’
Dan let the knowledge settle in his heart like a wild animal returning to its nest.
‘Who knew?’ Dan said.
‘Close family and your employer only.’
‘Close family being?’
‘Your wife and your father.’
‘Not my old school buddy, Matt?’ Dan asked.
‘No.’
‘Dr Orvis?’ Dan said.
‘No. But I can’t discount the fact he might have guessed. I can assure you that aside from our financial director, I’m the only person at both hospitals who knew.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Dan asked.
‘I wanted to.’ Stuart Winter sighed. ‘But I was told that under no circumstances should you know. Not unless it was absolutely vital.’
‘And now?’
‘When I heard from Orvis on Thursday, I rang a number I was given after you were discharged. I spoke to someone called Bernard. He used to be your employer. He agreed the circumstances dictated it was time for you to know the truth.’
‘His number?’
Stuart recited a London landline number.
Dan said, ‘What about Cedric?’
‘Who?’ Stuart sounded genuinely puzzled.
Dan repeated the name.
‘I don’t know anyone called Cedric. Sorry.’
‘What about Stella Reavey?’ He felt Grace’s gaze fix on him, intent.
Stuart said, ‘Stella visited you practically every day, along with another work colleague, Joe Talbot. They were desperately worried about you and when you lost your memory of them, they were both very upset.’
Ther
e was a long pause.
Stuart added, ‘You do realise that if we hadn’t administered it, you wouldn’t be functioning very well, if at all.’
‘So Orvis said.’ Dan’s voice was curt. He resented having to be reminded of how ill he’d been when he couldn’t remember anything about it.
‘Sorry, Dan.’ Stuart was instantly apologetic.
A brief silence.
Stuart said cautiously, ‘Is there anything else I can help with?’
‘No,’ Dan said, then he added, ‘Thanks.’ And he meant not just for the number, but for the man’s honesty and Stuart seemed to know this, because he said quietly, ‘Keep safe, Dan.’
Dan ended the call but didn’t put away his phone. Aware Grace was watching him, he dialled another number. He said, ‘I know where I used to work.’
‘Oh, really?’ His father sounded as blandly interested as though Dan had just announced he’d booked his summer holiday. He wondered if he’d inherited his father’s ability to dissemble so flawlessly or if it was something he’d learned over the years. Nature or nurture? He couldn’t tell, but it appeared both of them were masters at the art.
‘I’ll give you a clue,’ said Dan. His voice was tight. ‘It’s next to Lambeth Bridge.’
‘Ah,’ said his father.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Short pause.
‘They asked me not to.’ His father sighed. ‘The doctors too. They thought it would do you more harm than good.’
Dan’s grip on the phone tightened so hard he wondered why it didn’t crack in half.
‘Look,’ his father said. ‘This is better done face-to-face, don’t you think? When can you come down?’
A white-hot poker of anger speared Dan’s heart, driven by betrayal and heated with deceit.
He hung up without replying.
Ragged images, barely formed, moved at the periphery of his consciousness.
Dr Orvis’s voice: Each memory has an emotional core.
Even if he had no memory of a place he could still find himself drawn to it without knowing why. Now he stared at the imposing building that was Thames House North. The urge to walk inside, hear his footsteps on the lobby stone floor, greet the security guards before slipping his smart pass into the barrier and stepping into one of the security capsules was so strong he felt he could fall to his knees and scream.
He wanted to immerse himself in the intense atmosphere. Hear the computer keyboards clicking, the phones ringing, join in with the everyday banter.
He wanted to go to work.
Impossible. Even he knew that, but it didn’t stop him wanting, longing to reconnect with the person he’d once been.
‘Dan?’ Grace was watching him anxiously.
‘It’s confirmed. Your mother and I used to work here. Joe too.’
Grace’s eyes went to the imposing building. ‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know.’
She looked back at him. Her expression was wary, almost fearful. She licked her lips. Glanced at Thames House North, then over his shoulder, over the river and up and down Millbank. She said, ‘There’s something you need to know. About Mum.’
He waited. The snow was falling harder now, beginning to settle on the road.
She closed her eyes briefly and clenched her fists. Quietly, she said, ‘Do you know someone called Sirius Thiele?’
He was going to say no, but then he paused. The sound of the name Sirius had caused a strange feeling to climb inside him, reminding him of being at home and wanting to close the curtains in case someone was watching. Disquieting, slightly repulsive. Odd. He couldn’t explain it so he gave her his stock response when he was in doubt. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Saturday 1 December, 3.40 p.m.
After leaving Grace Reavey’s surgery, Lucy returned to Basingstoke cop shop feeling dazed. Reality seemed to be unravelling: it was as though someone had taken the end of a thread on a sweater and pulled until the stitches slipped, undoing the seam and leaving the garment gaping, useless.
Three people on Jamie’s list had been diagnosed as bipolar.
Bella, Jamie and herself.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that each of them had been prescribed the same drug, could it? She remembered her instructor at the Training School. In his thirties, bespectacled, concave chest, his nerdy looks belied a sharp analytical mind. Now, his voice echoed in her memory.
There are no coincidences in police work.
She popped out of the station to grab some lunch and get some fresh air – it was stifling inside – and now she was hurrying back. It was when she paused on the pavement, waiting for a taxi to pass, that she noticed him, the man who’d been in the queue behind her at the sandwich bar. Narrow-shouldered with short brown hair, a dark padded jacket, jeans and boots. She wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t stepped out in front of a delivery lorry, forcing it to slow.
She didn’t think anything of it until five minutes later, when she saw him walking ahead of her. He’d put on a beanie. He paused at a shop window and as she overtook him, he fell into step behind her. For a moment she thought he was an undercover cop returning to the station, but as she turned her head slightly to see him better, she found him staring at her, intent, his eyes seeming to burn with an inner flame.
She’d surprised him, because the second their eyes met, he almost seemed to flinch. Then he snatched his gaze from hers and scurried down a side street. Vanished.
Something cold touched her spine.
‘Shit,’ she whispered.
Hastily she pattered up the station steps and pushed past the handful of reporters loitering.
‘Do you work here?’ one asked eagerly.
‘Do you know anything about the Cargo Killer?’ another demanded.
It hadn’t taken them long to find a nickname for the killer, she thought. She said, ‘Nope, sorry. I just want to report a lost dog.’
Immediately they lost interest.
Even though the police hadn’t released the fact that there were three bodies being repatriated from India that were linked to Bella’s attack and Jamie’s murder, they were still circling like sharks in bloody water. God alone knew what they’d do when all that came out.
Inside the station, Lucy peered through the window but the man in the padded jacket wasn’t there.
Was she being paranoid?
Shivering, she went and grabbed a cup of coffee before immersing herself in the comforting commotion of the beat office. A couple of officers greeted her – they’d met at an earlier briefing – before turning back to whatever they’d been doing. They were busy, preoccupied. No one was watching as she went to the first empty desk and opened the top drawer. Nothing. She moved to the next. Her mind sparkled. A set of handcuffs as well as a key. She swiped the key and stuffed it in her front pocket. She didn’t want to get kidnapped and handcuffed and not have a key to hand.
She saw the whiteboard already had notes about her and the other victims. Things were moving fast. She checked outside a couple of times, but she didn’t see the man again. Paranoid or not, it was a reminder for her to be vigilant. She made a note of the man on a colleague’s computer but when she came to describe him, she had woefully little to go on. Forties? Medium-brown hair, mid-build, mid-height. She could be describing half the male population.
She spoke to one of the constables. ‘Where can I find Constable Glebe?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed out a young, florid-faced man sitting in front of a computer screen. Overweight, thinning blond hair, fleshy lips, eyebrows so fair they were hardly visible. She studied his features so she’d know him again: Constable Glebe had been the officer attending Jamie’s missing person investigation and, if she got out of this alive, she was going to report him, not just for being slack in not ringing Dr Smith when he should have, but for putting her life in danger. If he’d done his job properly they might have found the killer by now. Stupid bastard.
Before she stepped outside, she checked to see if the man in the padded jacket was there.
Nobody.
She slipped through the front doors, senses alert. Past the journos. The air was piercingly cold and a thin layer of fresh snow lay all around. Lucy hurried down the steps, careful not to slip, and began walking along the street. She faced the traffic to make it difficult for a car to pull up and bundle her in.
Better to be paranoid than dead.
Away from the station, her mind reignited. She had to investigate the bipolar angle on the quiet. She couldn’t risk anyone at work finding out what Dr Mike Adamson had said. She couldn’t risk her career but she didn’t want to risk her life either. If a killer really was on her trail, she had to find out who he was and stop him. Preferably from a place of safety.
She passed a Victorian house offering bed and breakfast. Three stars, free wi-fi and free off-road parking. Lucy paused by the driveway to ring Mac.
‘Missing me already?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘Like a skewer in my ear.’
He snorted. ‘So, what’s up?’
‘I’m going underground,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to find somewhere anonymous to stay and rent a car. I’ll put everything on expenses and –’
‘Hang on a minute, Lucy, you can’t just –’
‘I’ll make sure I stay somewhere cheap and rent a wreck so you won’t get hauled over hot coals later. I’m going to get a pay-as-you-go phone so he can’t track me.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘If you’re going to go anywhere, it should be back here.’
A flash of red seared across her vision. ‘You’ll regret saying that when my body’s found beaten to a pulp with a fucking handcuff clamped to my wrist.’
Silence.
‘Point taken,’ he sighed. ‘But I don’t like you going it alone. What if he finds you? What if you disappear like the others? We won’t know where you are or where to look.’
‘OK. I’ll tell you, but if you tell a single soul I will reach down your throat and pull your testicles out through your mouth.’
‘Christ. You sure know how to engender a feeling of trust, don’t you?’
‘Do you agree?’
