The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  The driver pulled the good Samaritan down into the mud and with his mate they dragged him across the track and into a partly flooded storm drain. Using a long branch, the passenger pushed their victim into the water just far enough that he lodged against the roof of the large pipe.

  Within the hour the Volvo has hooked up to the container back in the old hangar, and left. For all intents and purposes, to a casual or professional observer this was a people trafficking operation gone wrong with a driver summarily executed and his body dumped God alone knew where.

  Quite why half the dead had their stomachs cut open would be a question for the local police force to investigate. They could take weeks, months probably, and they’d be wide of the mark. The only person that could shed some light was Popeye Hopkins and he would be a decomposed mess lying in an isolated drain wondering just what the hell had hit him.

  Chapter Two

  New Zealand, Autumn 2015

  The first indication that John ‘Jack’ Cade was ill came late on the Tuesday night. He had what some men bravely and stubbornly called male influenza – it was bequeathed a word, and was a real thing, apparently.

  Walking with it in the late evening, late summer Southern Hemisphere rain with her had seemed like a fine idea. Until it manifested weeks later as pneumonia.

  The fever was the second indicator. The cough the first. A gentle and persistent reminder, followed later by a hacking bark that sounded like an unexplained noise in a remote jungle at night. You found it interesting, yet avoided it like the plague.

  It was a Friday that he had the first high-temperature dream. Staring at his own limbs and watching in fascination as people moved through them, causing him to jolt, and watch in morbid confusion as particles of his body followed them and shrouded them in a green and red mist.

  He called out. But no one came.

  He screamed.

  She bathed his head with cooling water, held his hand, hushed him back into a semi-conscious state.

  It was over.

  It seemed like many months had lapsed since backs had been warmly slapped, hands had been strongly shaken and cheeks gently kissed. A few men had hugged him and more women had kissed him, one, squarely on the lips. It was fine. He was fine with it, and so was she.

  In fact, it was only weeks.

  If he stood still long enough to consider the past ten years or so, to count his friends and the encounters they had all had, and the colleagues he had lost, he wouldn’t have once more boarded the long-haul flight from Auckland, New Zealand to London Gatwick via Dubai.

  It seemed that life was pleading with him to listen, ‘Never go back, Jack. It just won’t be the same. We both know it.’

  He ignored the voice in his head. He could, it was his own after all, so he had complete control. He was good at that, at least. In many ways he was a trouble-free rarity. A normal career police officer; practically squeaky-clean, only unjust complaints against him, no addictions, no hang-ups, no dusty skeletons in dustier cupboards.

  But he was what his long-term friend and colleague DCI Jason Roberts called, affectionately, a ‘complete shit magnet’.

  As the aforementioned stuck to a blanket, so it seemed did bad news and chaos attached themselves to him and anyone who associated with him.

  You found him interesting, yet, if you had a modicum of sense avoided him like the plague.

  The Emirates check-in process was seamless – as always.

  Into the lounge; a small plateful of food, a glass of Rabbit Ranch with its warm notes and fragrant ruby-red colours and then that wait for the world’s longest non-stop flight.

  Thank God for business class – better still, thank the man upstairs for shedding good fortune on him during a hedonistic night in Hong Kong, back in the day, when lady luck had seen to it that he could, at the very least, leave the world of full-time employment, add the word consultant to any email signature and within reason ask a price that everyone considered reasonable.

  The A380 was at cruising altitude and its inhabitants bedding down for the night. Indonesia scrolled across the screen in front of him and all around him his fellow passengers snored the hours away in comfort, or through red and tired eyes selected another film, waiting for the inevitable next meal and arrival into Dubai after a seventeen-hour haul across countries and time zones.

  Downstairs, the living dead endured the economy, trying to find a position of comfort and failing. A few walked around the vast cabin, stretching, yawning, gazing at their fellow prisoners, or out of the emergency exit port hole onto a black ocean a few miles below.

  Cade laid back, switched the headphones to noise cancel mode, and contemplated the past. A career police officer, things had taken a turn – for the better.

  He had taken a chance, convinced a girl to trust him, then helped to fish her naked, neglected and tortured body out of London’s River Thames only days later. Ten years on and he had done the same with her daughter, another redhead, but this time in the upturned wreck of a German sports car, on a deserted New Zealand road, a very long way from her Bulgarian home.

  He had to leave her there, and that was a cross he was to bear until they met again, her very much alive and Cade very much torn between choosing her and the woman he had first worked with at Scotland Yard, one of their best analysts, a fiery girl called O’Shea who he grew to find too attractive to ignore. His ego had almost killed her too.

  Three beautiful women. One sociopathic man and a syndicate of criminals. Cade had thought from the outset that the link was him, but he was wrong, it was larger and interwoven, insidious, and threatening. What made it worse was that the most dangerous person of all was at the heart of the British government, a man they and the people they led were encouraged to trust.

  Jack saw to it that a contact of his killed him.

  A single round, skating through a storm-laden sky, over the Thames and perfectly placed into his head. If the public had known the truth, more heads would have rolled. If they had known why, they would have carried the new Prime Minister around on their shoulders. Cade’s team had prevented civil unrest and financial chaos, had protected the city and its inhabitants from an unprecedented flood and the knowledge that the government had tried to disband the British monarchy – all in the same week.

  His team, who had flourished under the banner of the Metropolitan Police unit called Orion, had succumbed too. He had lost three of his very best people, four if you counted their covert human intelligence source, a transvestite prostitute with more courage than many men and a mind dirtier than a mechanic’s fingernail.

  The man they called the Jackdaw also known as Alexandru Stefanescu had the key to all of the above and was within days of making history, and an obscene amount of money. Cade had fought with him in a flooded part of the Thames Barrier, watched him almost decapitated, losing both of his hands and then his soul to the same river that had claimed so many of his victims.

  Jack didn’t mean to be dramatic the day that he had delivered Alex’s hands to the Prime Minister. he just took him at his word. ‘Let me see actual proof that the bastard is gone and out of our bloody lives.’

  All of that, and more, had happened only weeks before. Days, if you could be bothered to stand and count them, hours with a lot more patience.

  The redhead called Elena, a girl Cade had known intimately and all too-briefly had found someone new, a soldier they called Mack. Cade’s long-term friend and mentor John ‘JD’ Daniel had retired for the second time and had headed back to New Zealand, vowing to stay there to run his restaurant with his wife.

  DCI Jason Roberts, ‘Ginger’ to his many friends, had remained in London to head up the newly funded Orion squad, clinging onto what was left of the original team.

  Which left Cade, who had also headed back to his adopted home in New Zealand, to a marina-side dwelling called Spindrift, a place he could lay his weary head and relax. He needed to. No man, or woman, can continue at such a pace. And when they do, nature normall
y comes calling.

  Catherine ‘Carrie’ O’Shea had joined him. Life was beginning to settle into a pace, one only enjoyed by those that were lucky enough to reside by the edge of Pacific Ocean in a Southern Hemisphere early Autumn; longish, warm days, with trees offering teasing glimpses of their winter coats and the bluest of seas cooling to a brisker temperature.

  He had returned from his ritual run and an ocean swim that beautiful morning, grabbed O’Shea by the waist and hoisted her up into his arms for a salt-laden and pine-scented kiss.

  She was doing well, all things considered.

  Her hair was finally growing back, the colour was lighter and spoke of a night she was keen to forget. One of many. It seemed that being attracted to him came with its own fair share of problems. One of them, a nasty piece of work called Constantin, who had poisoned her, then later, kidnapped her, allowed her to be used as a lever to extract information and had finally watched as his boss, the Jackdaw had lovingly carved a cross into her stomach. That was the only visible scar she carried now. The others were buried in a lead-lined casket somewhere in the deeper recesses of her quarrelsome mind. At the foot of the deepest ocean trench.

  Cade was running his fingers through her hair and tracing a heart on her back and relaxing when he noticed the neon blue light on the answering machine.

  It could wait.

  Minutes later he was back in the kitchen, pacing. This is where it all started last time.

  There was nothing to fear, they were gone, and the remaining members of their criminal team were either locked up in British prisons, for good, or held by their European counterparts for an equal amount of time. Gone and forgotten.

  But that bloody light still blinked. He had begun to associate the phone with trouble, almost developed a phobia. Leave it. Ignore it.

  “Well, Jack, are you going to answer that?”

  “No, let’s leave it, head over to see JD for lunch, it can wait.”

  He had thought about locking the place, setting the alarm and jumping into the new car, but there it was, blinking rhythmically, it may as well have been calling his bloody name.

  ‘Jack…Jack Cade, Inspector…answer me…you know you want to.’

  “OK. Bastard. You win.” He pressed the button, killing the blue light.

  As he began to listen an English voice began to speak, well-educated, hesitantly at first then with more urgency.

  “Hello…Mr. Cade. Please don’t delete this. You don’t know me, but I think you could help. At least they say you can. Can you ring me on this number? As soon as possible? Please.”

  Cade recognised it as a UK number, wrote it down on the back of a cereal packet and deleted the message. The light still flickered. Christ, would they ever leave him alone? This time the call was live. He stood and listened once more – knowing that the caller was actually stood in his own home, far away talking to himself but hoping he had an audience.

  “Mr. Cade, it’s me again. Are you there? Time is against us; now they tell me that he’s only got weeks at the most. If it helps, and it’s a rather long story, your father once suggested I ring you if the time came. He gave me your number, said if you couldn’t help my dad then frankly no one could. He always spoke fondly of you…”

  The voice paused, broke slightly, took a deep breath.

  Cade was listening now. Any mention of his parents had that effect. Carrie quietly stirred the coffee in her favourite red cup, the one with the equally favoured brand name. She was listening too.

  “My dad is in his nineties now. Has very limited time left. He’s in a hospice, in Kent – as chance would have it, the same one that looked after your dad. Mine’s got dementia, among other things, but he’s as fit as the day he left the navy. Anyway, I’m rambling now…”

  Cade picked up the phone. “Hello. How can I help?”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, my friend. It’s Digby Denby here. It’s late, but I needed to speak.”

  “Digby? Unusual name. Did your parents not like you?”

  He laughed for the first time. “I’m in the navy. No one has a real name in the mob.”

  “Then Digby it is. Sorry, carry on.”

  “My father, Tom…”

  “Stop.” He needed a second. The name. That name was so familiar.

  “You say Tom Denby? The old naval officer?”

  “Yes!” His son seemed relieved, surprised, if not emotional.

  “Tell me more.”

  “That’s it, Jack. I don’t know. He started rambling on about an operation a few days ago, and it’s taken this long to track you down. The thing is I know he had a serious role in the navy, later the Ministry of Defence, something to do with national or border security. But what he is telling me sounds farcical. He’s mentioned an operation that might have been called Griffin. But he says he needs to speak to someone he can trust.”

  “And that’s me? Via six degrees of separation?” Cade asked, looking at O’Shea who nodded encouragingly.

  “I’m afraid so. You are all that is left. I think most of the old boys are all gone, windswept headstones in unkempt corners of cemeteries around England. There was a young man called Daniel too, but he’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and if I ring up the Home Office and even begin to tell them what I am hearing – they will either have me sectioned or lock me up for good or treason or all three.”

  Cade looked at Carrie, shrugged his shoulders.

  So, JD was part of this. It was sounding familiar.

  “How long have we got? Honestly?”

  “I’ve no idea, Jack. Days? A few weeks at most. Months? Who knows? He doesn’t realise he has stage four cancer, in that respect dementia is a blessing.”

  “OK, what do you want me to do?”

  His voice broke now. He was crying. “Come and sit beside an old man’s bed and hold his hand…and listen to what he has to tell you. Because if he tells you what he told me, then you are going to want to hear his story. The problem is he’ll have no idea he told me and in truth I was half asleep so only heard the ending.”

  Cade looked at O’Shea. ‘Well?’ She nodded, thumbs up, encouraging.

  “I’ll be there. Two days. And if it helps, John Daniel will hear about this when I’ve hung up from you. He lives a few miles away from me.”

  “So, it’s John. I always thought he was called Daniel. But he’s still alive? Bloody hell, this has been worth tracking you down just to hear that. Dad was his mentor…spoke so highly of him.”

  “So where are you these days, Digby?” asked Cade, fishing a little.

  “Right now? I’m in the UK about to deploy back to the Gulf in a few weeks, piracy patrols. Oh yes, all the top jobs. Will teach me to come from a military family, won’t it? Everywhere you look it seems.”

  “What does your wife think of the deployments?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t see her anymore, Jack. She’s in the army, done well by all accounts. Takes after her father.”

  “Well Digby, I wish you well. I’ll get some tickets booked and head on home. You’re lucky you caught me a good time, I’m bored, you see, like a puppy with nothing to entertain him – I go looking for trouble.”

  “And you reckon you can solve Dad’s ramblings?”

  “I reckon I can give it a bloody good go.”

  Digby’s silence spoke volumes, but he was at last able to smile.

  Cade picked up his cell phone and pressed three.

  “Hello Jack, what time are we expecting you for lunch?” Daniel’s ebullient voice had never changed.

  “In thirty minutes. And when I get there prepare yourself for a shock.”

  “Don’t tell me you are going to offer to pay for lunch?”

  “Funny man. In fact, process this now and we’ll see you soon. I’ve just had a call from Tom Denby’s son in England.”

  “Never!”

  “One hundred percent. He’s asked for me. He’s got weeks left, John. Needs
to leave some kind of legacy. Wanted you but you are listed as missing, presumed retired.”

  Daniel was clearly thinking on his feet. They knew each other well.

  “So, the old sea dog is finally willing to let go of the bone?” Daniel inhaled. “I often wondered when the day would come. See you in twenty. That new car needs running in.”

  “Remember what happened last time? I’ll take it easy. And I expect a thorough briefing over a chicken liver, two salad leaves, and a drizzle of oil that you have the audacity to call lunch!”

  “I cannot abide cheeky kids. See you soon. And about time I drove the Jag.”

  “When you can convince me you are truly sorry for calling my last vehicle a hairdresser’s car!”

  Cade looked out onto the driveway. She sat there raising her eyebrows. Flirting. Waiting as she always did, a willing mistress with an incredibly cute arse, lifting her skirt ever-so-slightly.

  She even looked fast stood still. ‘I’m all yours. Come and play…’

  Cade was glad he had listened to his inner voice and traded up, treating himself. Up until then he had had very little else to spend his money on, so why not? The boat was idle, rising up and down at her moorings twice a day, encrusted in barnacles, the ocean’s refugees, and he really needed to sell her. So, she moved to a different harbour, and he was able to finally close the door on another deep-rooted chapter.

  He plipped the remote on the new toy, a dark grey, Jaguar F-Type, held the door for O’Shea, who to be fair had a backside with similar attributes, allowed the big cat to settle to a purr before setting off along a road, that for him at least had two different meanings.

  Death and Life.

  Chapter Three

  Kent, England

  Having arrived at London Gatwick airport, Cade and O’Shea picked up the hire car, a grey Audi and joined the continual throng that headed down the M25 and into the county of Kent.