“Sounds flash. What’s your budget?”
“Until you ask nicely, what I’ve got left on my credit card.”
“You serious? You are actually funding this escapade?”
“Yep, at least until someone is prepared to listen. And that someone has to be one hundred percent trustworthy.”
Roberts thought for a second. “Shouldn’t be too difficult…” He rubbed his eyes, picking out an errant piece of yellowy grit that his mother used to call sleep dust, flicked it across the office.
“I’ll get that shopping list sorted.”
Cade grabbed the second bag, slammed the boot shut and took the stairs back up to his floor. It gave him a chance to surveil the rest of the building. It was what police staff knew as the Grounds. What followed was what was known internationally as the Situation.
For Cade this was the hardest part. What was he now dealing with? And why? Was Roberts correct? Was he allowing emotion to stain his decision making?
As he approached the room, he heard a voice.
“Mr Cade?”
He turned, tensed up his fists, subtly altered his stance. “Yes?”
“I’ve got your newspaper and the new room key. Sorry the old one wasn’t to your liking.” The well-groomed man with his foreign accent smiled and handed it over. “Enjoy.”
Cade waited for him to leave then opened the door to the large bedroom, almost exactly the same as the one he’d left the sailor in ten minutes before. He found Denby stood by the window, hand on the wall, beneath a picture of river life in times gone by, watching the boats flit up and down the Thames. He nodded his head.
“Hello lad.” He beamed. “Smashing view.”
“Tom. Two things. If we are going to get along, you need to listen. You need to stay away from the windows and stop ordering bloody newspapers. OK?”
“That’s three things.”
“Jesus Tom you need to listen to me. Imagine I’m an admiral or something. You need to do as I say or we might both end up…” He fished for a suitable word, no point in upsetting the old man.
“Dead? Hardly. I’ve been pretty much dead for the last six months Jack. I apologise. You need to understand that this issue I’ve got means that one minute I can recite the Ancient Mariner word for word and the next I can’t remember my bloody name.” He sighed. “I’m sorry lad. I feel that you are regretting hearing my story.”
“Tom. I made a pact with your son that I would listen. I did and what you told me was good enough to keep me on side. What I need from you is for you to start writing down what you can remember. How many of these children you saved, where they ended up and who in the government knew about it.”
“OK. I’ll do my best. It was tough back then. You know some people said it was tantamount to modern-day slavery.”
“Best you don’t repeat that Tom.”
“I’ll try not to. The thing is…” He paused, reflective. “You see, the thing is we were supposed to be the last, but there were others after us. They told us she was scrapped, along with the other freight ships, that they had enough people…”
“I sense a but here.”
“Last I heard the British government were still shipping young people here. Via the back door. Into ports up north where they could blend them in, sometimes they kept them in huge buildings. Probably still do. The local Africans began to realise that there was money to be made. They had relied on Bauxite for so long. It should have paid them more than it did. The British and the French had exploited that. Then there were the diamonds. Some as big as a grape Jack and in more recent years came the oil and gas.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it’s all about money isn’t it? It wasn’t just the Brits and the French that were raking it in. There were a few locals, the canny ones, the ones that saw a deal was there to be done. They sold resource consents, they sold land that did not belong to them, they sold their people.”
He began to cry. “They literally sold their children to the British. A future workforce was guaranteed. The British public didn’t want to drive buses, or trains or clean the streets. It was beneath them…”
“Tom. Let me stop you my old friend. This sounds like post-war stuff. We know that happened. Are you sure you are not getting confused? Perhaps you are tired?”
“How dare you? I may be old and I may be slightly senile kid, but I am not stupid.” He stood, staggered slightly and turned away from Cade, looked out across the river towards the Ferris wheel that turned imperceptibly.
“I’m sorry Tom. I didn’t mean to offend you. I hope you realise…”
“No lad. I hope you realise. This is now. This is not post war. Someone in the government of this country is getting richer by the day. Those people are locked into this, by fear, their families are under constant threat of death if they don’t keep supplying people. Imagine how that feels. It is now. Spring 2016 Jack not some bygone era. I cannot be more specific than that.”
“OK. I hear you. So, who do we need to start looking at in the government?”
“I have no idea. That’s your job. You did it with the Police Minister. He soon got what was coming to him.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Like I say, I’m not stupid. I have my contacts. But outside of the government I do happen to know where you need to start looking.”
Cade sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. It looked inviting. He was tired, jet lag had a tendency to wrap around its host, like mistletoe on an apple tree.
“Fire away, Lieutenant Commander, I am all ears.”
“You need a man in West Africa. Guinea to be accurate. But he needs to be good. Able to blend in, skilled, able to work alone. He needs to be your intelligence collector. And…”
“And?”
“You need someone in Spain. Get someone down there. They need to meet up with an old pal of mine. He’s retired. Lives on a golf course in the south.”
“Hardly time to practice my short game Tom.”
“Ah, but you see that’s exactly what you should be doing young man. Open your eyes, expand your horizons and take them bloody blinkers off. Just because someone is retired doesn’t mean they are retarded. No, the man you need to see is called Brian Downey. He’s ex-RAF. Made it to warrant officer or flying officer, whatever rank it doesn’t matter. The government of the day saw to it that his people skills were used offshore to the benefit of Britain. He made a new life in Spain. Go and see him, tell him I sent you. Ask him about the albatross. And then you’ll know.”
“Why can’t you tell me?” Cade had a furrowed brow. It was similar to dealing with a child. Frustrating and yet rewarding if he got it right.
“Because, Jack, I can’t bloody remember.”
“Well, how do you bloody remember these parts?”
“Because I bloody do. Now, I’d like a cup of tea and to read the paper. I hear we are leaving Europe soon, so you might want to think about heading to Spain before they build a damned great fence around the place. Still here? No sugar in mine. And I would really like a jam tart.”
“Strawberry or raspberry?” He felt he may as well play the game.
“Apricot. I can’t abide the other two, a bloody nuisance, their pips get stuck in my teeth.”
“I know how they feel.”
Cade flicked the switch on the kettle and watched the bubbles beginning to rise in the clear glass flask, cascading off the side, jostling for position. It reminded him of something. A moment later he smiled as he dropped a tea bag in each cup.
It reminded him of his state of mind. Simmering, occasionally boiling.
“Spain it is then Tom. Do you have his address?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And it’s in the south. An hour from Granada. Near the coast.”
“Luckily I’m a detective Tom. I suspect your clues have narrowed my search down to around twenty thousand square miles.”
“Well then, you’d better get going.”
“I need someone to look after you first.”
“That Carrie would be ideal.” He grinned – the sort of grin that announced to the world that it wished it was on the face of a twenty-year-old.
“I bet she would.”
“That’s what I said. Lovely pair…”
“Lieutenant Commander. Please. Remember…”
“Of eyes.”
“Tea wasn’t it?” Cade walked back to the kettle. “Dirty old bugger.”
“I heard that.”
“Good. Now stay away from the windows.”
“Jack. If someone shot me, it would do me a favour.”
“I’ll do you a deal. Keep ignoring me and I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Who said that?” Denby screwed his bearded face into a happy ball of mischief. “I’m not as bad as you think. Just trying to have some fun whilst I still can.”
The question that hovered on Cade’s lips eventually spilled out. “On that point Tom, just how long have you got?”
He nodded. Wiped a gentle tear from his constantly damp eyes and said “They say I’ve got a few months Jack. If you know anything about this disease and the cancer, then at best, three weeks to a month.”
Cade exhaled noisily. “Then you’d better have a biscuit too.”
The van moved easily through the traffic. Street lamps began to illuminate, cameras panned and tilted, some zoomed, pigeons found a place to roost, the homeless too. London was bedding down for the night. Her inner-city boundaries were attractors; crime, criminals, the rich and the poor. The diamond trade, the gold, the sex trade from rent boys to high-class Russian girls, drugs, and money, bucketloads of money.
It was just the same as any other van in any other street in the City of London. Black, two doors up front, a side door and a pair at the rear. All of the glass was heavily tinted and like the van, clean. It was taxed and registered to Odyssey House, a company in Essex – a place that actually existed, as far as any police checks were concerned. On paper at least it was viable. In reality, it was a PO Box an hour north of where the van now negotiated light traffic. A postal box that was opened now and then and occasionally spilled over, just like all the others.
Along the A20 onto the A2, the van kept pace with the traffic. No calls were made or received. It was how they worked. A cellular structure, each cell having its own task. Most never working with their neighbour. Only those at the very top of the triangle knew who was in charge.
There were whispers. But no one would say it aloud, certainly not down in the darker depths of van-land. They were the bottom dweller, inhabiting six-up lower-rent flats ten miles away, but grateful for a job in the land of milk and honey.
“Where to now?” The voice was familiar to her. It was the man who had almost choked her to death earlier.
The front seat passenger checked the phone, listening to voice instructions over the map software repeating the route clearly.
“Take the next right in three hundred and fifty metres.” Another male voice. Where was she? The woman that Adaeze called her sister?
They joined the A3, into Kennington, turned right again, alongside The Oval, the famous English cricket ground, detoured onto Parry Street and onto Vauxhall Bridge. The road surface changed. It didn’t help her at all. She had no idea where she was, just a vague sense she was possibly heading north.
They crossed the Thames, its surface dark, lit at the edges by street lamps and the glow of nearby buildings, then onto Vauxhall Bridge Road, passing myriad iconic buildings.
Now was not the time to sightsee.
They were minutes out.
She could smell cologne. Paco Rabanne. She liked it. Normally. And leather, clean, and from her lowly vantage point it was light grey. This was no ordinary work van. It was luxurious.
Onto the prosaically named A3213, avoiding the obvious camera hotspots alongside Buckingham Palace, Kensington Road and onto Princes Gate.
“Almost there now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cade leaned back into the red leather chair, opposite the old man who was sleeping soundly.
He folded the newspaper and placed it on the side table, headline up. The United Kingdom was still in turmoil about its potential separation from Europe. He’d read enough to last a lifetime.
Cade needed to keep his wits about him for a while longer, until they could figure this all out. He scratched his head, rubbed his eyes, tried to stop the ground moving. Jet lag.
‘I could be lounging on the deck of my summertime home twelve thousand miles away, a glass of American Honey over three ice cubes, all without a care in the world – worst case, wondering how I would entertain Miss O’Shea tonight. But no…once more unto the breach dear friends.’
He stood, paced, and then walked back to the chair.
His phone vibrated. Once.
He swiped the screen and checked. A message.
“I’ll be there in fifteen. How clever am I? I’ve got us a separate room, adjoining Tom’s. You are going to have to be quieter tonight.” Saucy. Did she ever stop?
Cade grinned. If only.
He was about to lock his phone when he saw the message icon. He checked for incoming calls. There. A few hours ago. Another message. This one a voicemail. He rang the number.
‘You have one new message and…five saved messages. To listen press one.’
He listed, nothing. Another pocket dial. Probably Roberts demanding he visit the team down at the Sanctuary. An old-fashioned pub, in the heart of the city, favoured by police staff and particularly Roberts’ team, since the day they were formed.
He continued to listen. Curious. Birdsong. A thrush or was it a blackbird? As nice a tune as it was, he was getting bored now, time to delete. Then he heard a voice. Distant, not speaking to him, in the background.
He sat upright, then stood. And listened. A voice. It was similar to Adaeze’s. Accented, probably African, a hint of some other dialect.
“I am disappointed you don’t know me. I am your sister. I have been looking for you for so very long.”
“No. My sister died many years ago. You are mistaken.”
He pressed the phone against his ear, trying to cut out the ambient noise. The voices became muffled. He could only hear two, both female. Then a struggle. It was Adaeze. She was struggling, unable to talk. A minute passed then the phone signal shifted, three bars, he could hear now. The sound was different, an echo.
They were in a room, or a vehicle. Another voice, deeper, male, a husky clipped voice. He was asking for directions.
Cade listened intently.
“Baki Maciji. Take the side roads. Keep off the cameras.”
He grabbed the notepad and pen from the bedside table and wrote down what he heard, tore the paper off the pad and stuck it in his wallet and pressed two to save the message.
Denby was stirring. There was a light knock at the door. Three taps, then two, then one. It was her. He slid the spyhole open, scanned the corridor. She was smiling back at him.
He ensured Denby was comfortable. His jam tarts had arrived, two, the same, still sat on the bone china plate.
He opened the door and pulled O’Shea inside.
“Mr Cade you are insatiable.”
“Carrie be quiet. Please. There’s been a change of plan. You found us then?”
“No. I just like knocking on men’s doors until one drags me in and insists I partake in filthy, businessman-abroad sex till the sun rises.”
“No time for sarcasm O’Shea.”
“I was being serious. I’ve knocked on eleven doors now. Not one offer” Her smile could be disarming at times. “Anyway, did you not get my message? I got us another room, but it seems I was a little late. This isn’t the original one is it?”
“No. I’d say long story but honestly I have no idea. We are staying in the original one. The old bugger asked for a new room whilst I was down in the basement sorting the car out. By the time I got back up here he’d not only sorted it but
had moved too. He might be a tad slow but he’s not daft.”
“But he’s settled now?”
“It would appear so.”
Denby was sat up in bed, trying to focus, pulling on his glasses. “Hello lass, you look lovely. Is everything ticking along just fine Jack?”
“You tell me Tom.” He paused, pulled the paper from his pocket.
“Who or what is…” He looked at the words and tried to repeat it just so. “Baki…”
“Maciji?” Denby was trying to stand. “Did you say Baki Maciji? Jack, I need to know.” The sailor was strutting now, as if someone had injected him with Fentanyl, his worries appeared over. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“I did. So, what is it?”
“It’s not what. It’s who. In our language it translates to the black snake. To be more accurate, the Black Mamba. The most feared animal in the part of the world where I learned so much about human kind and inhuman greed.”
“Tom. You are not making sense. Who is this Black Mamba you are talking about? Where will I find him?”
“If you are looking for a him, you’ll be searching for ever. He is a she. And she is as feared by her people as the snake with the same name. Some even go as far to say they named the snake after her. Now lad, talk to me. Is there something I need to know?”
“Tom. I hate to tell you this, but I think she has Adaeze.”
His shoulders and head dropped. “Then we will never see her again lad.”
The van stopped, smoothly coming to a halt right outside the impressive façade of 47B Exhibition Road, on the corner of Princes Gate, Knightsbridge, SW7.
As postcodes went, they rarely came any better.
The side door opened and two large men seamlessly guided Adaeze up some small stone steps, past a pair of innocuous stone lions and through a deeply glossed black front door. To the left, as you looked at the door, two small motion sensor cameras edged downwards, collecting data.
Six floors, eight bathrooms, a media room, two reception, two dining, a bar, study, rooftop terrace and all within striking distance of some of the wealthiest properties in the city.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 15
