Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  He stood, grabbed hold of her feet and dragged her towards the edge of the track. He took a moment to get his breath back, breathing deeply, partly to try to rid himself of the sight of her face. He rolled her now, using his foot as one would roll up a rug, until she had reached the edge of the gorge.

  He found the end of the tape and unceremoniously stripped it from her face hoping that by the time she was found, if indeed she ever was that the glue would have dissolved, and in doing so taken with it another evidential trace. Her face was such a mess that it hardly mattered, but the almost ruthless attention to detail was typical of his behaviour when dealing with his fellow man.

  The last time he had seen such terrified eyes was when he had ordered the submersion of an equally beautiful life, through the ice and into the lake in his home country. She had the same chances as this one – but nowhere near as much fight.

  He stood, marvelling at the intensity of the Milky Way, the heart of the galaxy that he chose to exist in. It was such a stunning sight. He craved a cigarette, or an expensive brandy. This was a moment to savour.

  He looked down at her, whatever her name was and spoke to her, quietly, as out there in the expansive mountains his voice boomed if he dared to raise it above a whisper.

  “My dear, when I tell you an interesting story in future, it would be wise for you to listen. You were so disrespectful. Are you sorry?”

  The very last action her brain instructed her head to carry out was to nod, once, almost imperceptibly. But he saw it.

  “Good girl.”

  He pushed his foot against her, and she slipped over the edge. He was in the car with the heater on before she had reached her resting place. If he was lucky, the birds would avoid her and leave the unfolding seasons to blend her into the landscape.

  She should have listened.

  As he drove back to his mountain home, he felt uneasy. There was a sense of being uncomfortable, he shuffled in the leather seat until he was able to isolate the problem. In the diminished light he looked down and saw that he was holding the girl’s ring finger. Strangely, having been the one who had removed it from her it made him feel nauseous. He shuddered and swallowed rapidly, trying to contain the bile.

  He opened the driver’s window and considered the finger for a second, rolled it between his own, then flicked it out of the car and into nearby undergrowth as one would a spent cigarette.

  He arrived back at the driveway of his substantial home, opened the garage door and drove in. He sat for a moment and contemplated his life, not for a second giving the girl a second thought, switched the Range Rover off and got out and walked into the kitchen. He picked up a cloth and some bleach and began to meticulously wipe down every surface that she had come into contact with.

  He knew that the authorities would seize on the slightest droplet – telling from one cursory look which way the victim had walked, or in her vile case, had been dragged.

  He spent time on the knife. Teasing himself with its sharpness. With each wipe he folded the cloth before eventually placing it into a plastic bag and walking back outside to the outdoor patio fire.

  He stood and watched the flames, depriving himself of his night vision. He missed a shooting star which his grandmother had always said was a sign of good luck.

  Trapped in a crevice in a cool mountainside location not so far from her own home the girl saw it. Her eyes were vacant a second later.

  He shivered and stepped closer to the flames, withdrew his cell phone and dialled.

  In Kent, alongside the English Channel Cade answered.

  “Mr Cade, how is the weather there? It is rather lovely where I am – a shame I just had to end the life of a pretty and all-too willing young lady. But this is what you have created Jack.”

  Cade was listening.

  “This and everything else I do that society deems to be wrong is entirely your fault. Entirely. You see had you have just allowed me to operate as I wanted to, you and I would never have crossed swords. And, people would not have suffered. All was going well….”

  He paused.

  “Are you there Jack?”

  Cade prayed for the day they were a foot or so apart but for now knew he needed to play the game. “Yes. I am here Alex. I am all ears…”

  “Good. For a moment…anyway, did I ever tell you that Guy Fawkes was a hero of mine? He lived here, in Spain. Fought against the British in the Eighty Years War. But you know that, being an intelligent man. What am I rambling on about, eh? Well I like to read history and your history fascinates me. Jack Cade was a rebel too, wasn’t he Jack? And yet his modern descendant is a company man through and through. I am offering you one chance, join us if you must continue to be fascinated by what we do, or leave us alone!”

  His voice was slowly getting louder.

  “Above all, stop interfering or I will plunge my hand into your ribcage and slowly pull your collective hearts out, one, by one. Yours will be the last and the finest moment. Have a lovely evening. Oh, and Jack I actually nearly forgot!”

  “Carry on.”

  “I loved her you know. Truly. And our daughter Elena means more to me than my wealth, even more than my reputation. She is safe for now. She wants for little and as educated as she is she is oblivious to the happenings of the world around her. I will always protect her, to the death. If you or your authorities ever try to take her as you did her mother then I will make the ultimate sacrifice.”

  “You’d kill your own offspring? Surely that’s a trait reserved for animals Mr Stefanescu? You make it sound like you are an insect not a nurturing bear.”

  “Maybe in your world. But in mine we consider it the actions of a brave man. Go and be a policeman somewhere else and leave me and my…locusts to strip your plentiful fields of all their goodness.”

  “I will. In the meantime I’m shopping for an appropriate pesticide to eradicate you. No offence.”

  “None taken Mr Cade. I would say until we meet again but that would be a lie. A famous Hungarian scientist wrote about the six degrees of separation Jack, I cannot recall his name, but it is not important. What is important is that we will never meet until I am ready and when that day comes, it will probably be your last. You will then suffer a degree or two of separation.” His cackle filled Cade’s earpiece.

  “Before you go Mr Stefanescu.”

  “You have five seconds Jack. Four…”

  “The scientist was called Frigyes Karinthy. His theory was simple, brilliant, but simple and suggested that any two people, even you and I, could be connected in no more than six steps. Talking of which, thank you for confirming that you live in Spain.”

  There was no trademark laughter, just an emptiness that caused Cade to smile. He dropped the phone into his lap before speaking to Daniel.

  “John I confess to having enjoyed that, but make no bones about this, this guy is unhinged. This is no longer about money. This is an old-fashioned ‘he and I’ game and that scares me. People are going to get hurt. This nutcase would even have his own daughter killed to prove a point. Whichever ‘path he is, he is that one.”

  “Sociopath. I’ve seen his type before. All talk Jack.”

  He wasn’t convinced, and neither was Cade.

  “One thing’s for sure JD – he didn’t like being caught out just then and he won’t be in Spain much longer. I made a mistake there. God knows where he’ll head now – can we put in a call to our friends in Interpol and see if they have any new notices for him or at worst some local intelligence to suggest where else he may have properties or associates?”

  “Consider it done. In a few months you could do it yourself.” Daniel waited to see what reaction he would get from Cade, a man he knew was in turmoil over a professional and personal decision that he clearly didn’t wish to make.

  “I’ll give the team a bell. Here you go Jack, you drive.”

  The two white vans joined the M2 motorway and were joined by two marked vehicles from Kent Police. A highly conspicuous yel
low and blue Volvo T5 saloon sat at the rear providing cover whilst its estate version, larger and containing an alert and ever-hungry German Shepherd dog, three staff and an assortment of weapons cruised along at around eighty, its driver watching ahead, knowing that his colleagues were observing the rear.

  A total of four Metropolitan Police patrol vehicles had shadowed the procession south and were now peeling away, around the major roundabout and quickly back onto their area in London, just south of the River Thames. Their work was done. They had picked up the vans as directed in a covert briefing, accompanied them to the agreed rendezvous and were with any luck going to be back at base in time for an early finish – and all on overtime at less than eight days’ notice.

  All the Kent team could see now were three articulated trucks, a rental car and two unmarked Volvos – more of their own team, all armed and standing off – ready. It was quiet but the briefing had informed them of extensive traffic ahead, a consequence of yet another French port blockade and lightning strikes by workers at the port of Calais. Known as Operation Stack it had been a major headache for Kent Police and the Highways Authority for many years – chaos, neatly parked up and packaged as a success.

  “So what’s your thoughts on all of this then Pete?”

  “No idea. The boss mentioned some sort of package. The French have insisted that they collect and deliver in person. Somehow they’ve been given permission to come onto our patch and pick it up. It’s apparently really bloody important so they’ve come in force. I offered to take them all the way to Paris, but the boss thought I was taking the piss.”

  “Andy Mahoney gave me the heads up. Apparently it’s a secret agreement between the UK and France – a political hand grenade for which only Home Secretary Blunkett has the pin. Some sort of open borders policy they’ve signed off on, allows more nations to enter our place unimpeded. If this gets leaked early, it could cause mayhem with tens of thousands of folk trying to get into Britain, we’d lose all control of the border and probably never recover. Andy told me not to say anything, or he’d shoot me.”

  “You’re safe there then pal!”

  The two laughed like errant schoolboys as the convoy accelerated down Bluebell Hill towards the M20 interchange and a faster route south to the coast.

  On board the French vans the police staff chatted in their own language, almost replicating the conversations of their British colleagues, not least about the opportunities that the overtime would bring them.

  At Guy’s and St. Thomas’ Hospital, a new shift had arrived. Fresh and bright-eyed and ready for the night shift that would inevitably leach their energy and resolve until the early shift relieved them, allowing them to head home, grey-skinned and lifeless, the only joy being dropping into bed when their neighbours were heading out into the cold.

  A newly qualified junior doctor took a quick look at O’Shea’s note and tutted.

  “How’s this one doing?”

  “Honestly? Not good. Case studies say she should be responding but she has shown no signs of recovery yet. We are working with the Poisons Centre but even they are somewhat flummoxed. There’s a suggestion she may have ingested something else – unwittingly – but the two have formed some type of cocktail that we don’t know a great deal about. Time will tell.”

  “Any relatives? If so, let’s think about getting them here shall we, I assisted on a case like this last year, he was doing fine, then gone. No outward signs that we were about to lose him.”

  He clicked his fingers to emphasise the speed of demise and picked up a new set of notes.

  “Looks good. Good reaction to the drugs and the infection appears to have abated. Let’s send him home in the morning shall we?”

  In the adjoining wing Roberts was also being readied for discharge. A pile of painkillers, a sling, a doctor’s note and word or two about his recovery from a charming nurse was all that stood between him and a few months off work.

  The trouble was he was already bored. He flicked through a much-thumbed copy of Top Gear and decided on the Porsche. Then changed his mind and chose the Ferrari. He put it back down again and shuffled around the room, sat down and stared out of the window. It was then he saw his phone.

  His call was answered almost immediately. “Cade.”

  “Jack, it’s me. How’s it going?”

  “Christ, it’s the Great Train Roberts!”

  “Nice. I see what you did there. You took my surname and added it to a historical and somewhat notorious crime to make a pun. So seriously guys come on, how’s it going. Are you missing me?” He grimaced quietly, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed being tended to by stocking-wearing nurses?”

  “I have been Jack but to be honest Dennis wasn’t my type. What can I do to help? It’ll be ages before my wife gets here.”

  “Go and see Carrie for me. Send her my love and tell her to get well soon. Right now that’s the best way you can help me. We are narrowing things down here. We’ve got some good intel that suggests our people are en route to the south coast. We have every man, his dog and the dog’s dog waiting in the wings. You know there was a job earlier at Hatton Garden?”

  “Yeah, the guard outside my door filled me in on all the gossip. Sounds exciting, but what’s that got to do with our band of merry men?”

  “One of three things Jason. Nothing. Greed or a very fine attempt at distraction.”

  “Why not both? A bit of good old fashioned gluttony and distraction?”

  “Indeed. But we are all completely buggered if we can’t figure what we are being distracted from.”

  “I’ll do some digging. I’ve got time on my hands. I’ll put a call into my old girlfriend Lucy. She owes me one. If anyone knows the inside word on that toothless lover of hers it’s our Lucy.”

  Suddenly re-engaged, Roberts was dialling her number before Cade realised he had even disconnected.

  “Lucy speaking.”

  Roberts grimaced again, but for different reasons. Knowing he had added his own codename to appease his cross-dressing playful informant he swallowed hard and continued, praying that Cade and Daniel would never find out.

  “Harrier. It’s Spitfire here. I need your help.”

  He spent fifteen minutes outlining what he needed and promised to wipe the slate clean and forget about the rather distressing fight that they had once had.

  “So, you just want me to phone Constantin and ask him where he is, what he is doing and why and how he plans to leave Britain? Anything else darling?” he added sarcastically.

  “When would be really nice.”

  “Whenever you are ready sugar.”

  “Lucy, seriously stop it. I am not your type. I’m far too straight.”

  Thomas snorted a laugh, “Darling, you married types think you are straight when in actual fact you are the campest of the lot, you thoroughly naughty boy. Anyway, leave it to me. I’ll work my magic. Ciao!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A text revealed itself on Constantin’s cell phone. Although full of flirtatious chatter the key message was clear. Thomas wanted to know where he was. He was sorely missed, it said.

  He trusted no-one. But surely, he could trust her? Even his paranoia allowed for that.

  I am heading home. One day I will return for you. Keep yourself warm for me. La revedere. C xx

  Thomas read the basic response and assumed that ‘home’ meant Romania. That was the easiest job she’d ever had and the resultant official pardon would be worth its weight in diamonds and pearls.

  Goodbye indeed.

  She copied the wording and forwarded it to Roberts adding, “Now we are even. Keep in touch. I’m always here for you. X”

  Roberts read the data and deleted it. The last thing he needed was his wife to misread the signals and assume that he was being unfaithful with a member of the fairer sex when nothing could be further from the truth.

  He wasn’t being unfaithful, full stop. But how he exp
lained to his adoring wife that he had been spending quality time with a dubious, undeniably cross-dressing, jelly-wrestling and shaven male prostitute he really was not sure. Roberts wasn’t certain what his intelligence source Harrier was anymore, male or female or some kind of weird twenty-first century hybrid – A male Prostitute, perhaps? There were some things he could never explain and many more that he could never un-see.

  In seconds the message appeared on Cade’s frenetic phone. It only sought to reinforce what they already knew.

  “Tango Mike One-Four.”

  “Mike One-Four.”

  “Convoy is proceeding south. No issues. Any intelligence updates for us, please. Over.”

  “Negative One-Four. Be advised that heavy traffic is ahead of you. Operation Stack has been initiated. Expect significant delays as you approach the tunnel.”

  “Ten four thank you.”

  Pete French grinned at his partner. “Marvellous. Ah well, think of the overtime.”

  They both rubbed their hands together and carried on along the major British motorway towards the iconic tunnel.

  Ahead and deliberately stuck in the southbound chaos were two of the marked Renault vans belonging to Stefanescu’s group. Seemingly part of the serpent that wended its way towards the coast, they were primed. Having joined the traffic queue only minutes before, the varied members were readying themselves.

  ‘Make it simple. Do not over-complicate.’

  “Mike One-Four passing Ashford, approaching stationary traffic. Stand by.”

  “Standing by. Cameras show all three lanes are now static One-Four. Control room inspector has authorised that you use the hard shoulder.”

  “Yes, yes. Moving towards the hard shoulder now. Convoy is indicating to follow us. All units reducing speed and entering the hard shoulder. Over”

  A mile further ahead an articulated truck had limped off the inner line of traffic and onto the emergency lane. With no apparent technical fault it came to a halt just outside the village of Sellinge. With its dark blue trailer and no lights it was barely visible. On a section of the motorway not covered by cameras it simply wasn’t there.