“She would.” Roberts missed her too. Cynthia was a naturally gifted analyst who saw numbers as a plaything, Sudoku as a warm-up. The team she had helped track down only months before had captured her and killed her, a form of summary execution at the hands of a cold-hearted killer.
Yes, he missed her very much too. Losing one of your police family was always tough. He’d been to enough funerals to hate them and the bagpipes even more so. He was fine until they started to play.
DCI Jason Roberts tapped something into his phone. And laughed like he once had as a probationary constable, back in the day when it all seemed so easy.
“If it helps to narrow down the search field a little, my friends at Google tell me there are…” He squinted at the screen. “Four hundred and seventy-nine million permutations. So, Carrie, perhaps by Thursday instead.”
“This Thursday, Guv?” she asked, head tilted slightly.
“With those odds I’ll settle for any bloody Thursday, Carrie!”
She looked at Cade. “Penny for them?”
“I’m not sure where this is heading Carrie. Got a bad feeling and we all know where that ends up. It’s such an enormous city. What if we don’t find these women, can’t work out the sequence? What happens if our one major line of inquiry dies on us?”
“There’s a lot of what-ifs there Jack. You always tell me off for doing that.”
“Ah but that’s your job to ask what and if?”
“It is and right now along with Dave I’m your very best bet. Fancy a coffee? Jamaican Blue? My treat…”
“Another time but you are on. I need to go with Jason and take Dave to this funeral. It could be a who’s who of the military world but we are hoping a few skeletons might drop out of the cemetery.”
“OK, but for God’s sake be bloody careful. I do not want to end up kidnapped, mutilated and my head shaved. Not again. Not ever. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal. You found that sequence yet?” He turned and walked quickly out of range. She had a fearsome throw on her did Catherine O’Shea.
In a darkened office in Whitehall, civilian analyst Frank Deighton had lasted about ten minutes. She was an expert and hated every minute of it, almost wanting to file her nails whilst he performed behind her, a panting out of shape wreck.
She had kept her blouse on; it was cold, no point in being uncomfortable.
Now she leant on her desk buttoning it up again, quicker than she had undone it. She pulled her knickers up and adjusted the satin-lined skirt. She’d kept her shoes on. He liked that.
Now he stood, awkward again, shamefully withered and feeling the cold too.
“Was that nice?” she asked, matter-of-factly.
“My God Susan you have no idea…”
“I think I do Frank. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of experience. Anyway, your darling wife rang for you. The call came through to me. She’s been on hold all this time.” She pointed to her desk phone. Deighton began to panic as he saw the light flashing.
“Frank. Seriously, you think I’d let her hear her husband – what was it you said? ‘Giving the Captain a good seeing to’?”
“Sorry but I thought…”
“I know what you thought. The early bird gets the worm Frank. Literally in your case.” She pointed mockingly. “And get rid of that horrid thing somewhere other than my bin and for God’s sake pull your trousers up. I recorded us, that much goes without saying and it wasn’t for any pleasurable reasons. It’s down to you whether she hears it. We are finished here.”
“But Susan…”
She responded briskly in a voice that left him in no doubt who was in charge.
“It’s Captain Reddington to you and it’s clear you need it spelling out. You owe me. I expect a return on my ten-minute investment.”
Deighton leant across and put his hand on Reddington’s. She was quick. He wasn’t. The silver lion’s head paper knife, a gift from her grandfather, sunk into the web between his thumb and his forefinger and pinned it to her desk.
She pulled his face closer. Kissed him fully on the lips.
“You disgust me, but I needed that. I’m a little unsure of who or what I am at the moment Frank and that didn’t really help.” She pulled the knife from his hand causing him to yelp.
“Get out. And when you’ve explained away that pathetic war wound to your colleagues check your emails.”
Deighton did up his belt, which strained onto the first hole, composed himself and went to leave.
“Leave the door open Frank.”
He got back to his desk five minutes later, a pink plaster covering the small entry wound on his hand. He sat down, actually slumped into his chair. There she was again, that skirt, those stockings, that look. Her shiny blonde hair in a ponytail that smelled of something exotic, that he had grabbed hold of only fifteen minutes before.
‘I am well and truly fucking you Captain Reddington!’ He had hissed into her disinterested ear, malodourous smells of what he had for breakfast making her retch.
At his desk he paused, then tapped in his password Susan_2016 then opened his emails.
The one at the very top stared back at him. Unread. He looked around. The only person looking back was now filing her nails indifferently and smiling at him.
The email opened. It was succinct.
‘Frank. Thanks for attending the meeting earlier today. If you can get back to me as a matter of priority, I would really appreciate it. Best regards. Sue.’
It was non-descript. Vague. Almost anonymous. It was brilliant.
It finished with the usual email signature block. He read it three times. Was he missing something? He looked back into her office. She was actually holding her thumb up. How bloody arrogant was this woman?
She mimed a square, then wiggled her fingers.
Computer screen. Typing. It meant that the world over.
He looked at the screen. In the bottom corner was a partially completed search of the Ministry of Defence database.
The search contained three names:
Jack Cade.
John Daniel.
Thomas Denby.
He hadn’t started the search, just entered the names into the secure system. Or rather someone had. That someone had worked out his password, earlier that morning, before he got to work. Whoever it was – perhaps that delightful young French girl? It had been far too easy. Before what had just happened, in her office, with the door closed and the blind down. Far too easy.
He got up and walked into Reddington’s office.
“Boss. Susan. I can’t provide that data. You know that. I need an official reason. Look, about earlier…”
“Frank. Look at my filing cabinet.”
He looked. He saw her phone.
Propped against a pile of books. The angle was perfect.
She’d spent a while ensuring it was. The footage showed Deighton in all his glory, telling her what he was going to do to her, then doing it.
He moved towards the phone.
“Too late Frank. Already saved. Already sent. Twice. Now, that data please, in my tray, no emails when I get back. Fail and you can kiss goodbye to your wife, your job and your pension. Might even go to prison. Your call. I’m just the victim here. You’ve been eyeing me up for months now. Even Monique spotted it.”
He ran his hand over his chin, across his mouth, his shaven face felt rough, scruffy, his head hurt. He was damned if he did. And finished if he didn’t.
“OK. I’ll get you the data. But we have a deal, yes?”
“No, Frank we don’t. You get me the data and I’ll think about forgiving you. Call it payback for your days and weeks and months of lechery. We both got what we wanted. However, frankly you were awful. The worst. Ever. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get changed. I’ve got a funeral to attend. I’ll text you when I need picking up. Be ready near Highgate in two hours. No later. And get that information.”
Deighton was one less member of the syndicate to worry about.
She knew, he knew, and better still he knew that she did.
Game, set, match.
One down. A lot more to go.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Highgate East Cemetery, London
The varied family members of a fractured family, some serving soldiers, veterans, a few politicians, senior police officers, and a retired judge had braved the biting wind to attend the service of Brigadier Reddington.
Highgate is arguably the most famous cemetery on earth. Karl Marx lies there along with a string of personalities, scientists, activists, historians and military and civilian heroes. It had become so popular as a tourist attraction that the cemetery had started charging an admission fee to those folk who wanted to see the famous and the dead.
At Highgate fifty-three-thousand graves contain one-hundred-and-seventy-thousand people. Set on thirty-seven acres it is a curio, a living museum almost, a nod to the Victorian era and littered with the famous and the infamous. The West Cemetery is full and still attracts tours on a regular basis. The East is still open, a working cemetery that will eventually run out of space.
The gathered clans of the family Reddington, five of them to be precise, paid nothing to enter the place, but a king’s ransom to bury their relative.
And here he was. The powerful former leader of men. A mover and shaker from Whitehall. The man who had made a name for himself and a small fortune from the misery of others, lying in a pine box with polished handles and a small brass plaque, motionless in his uniform – the one without the medals.
The first of the official cars pulled into Highgate. It was what many termed a ‘bloody awful day’. This was meant as a reference to the weather which made the place look even more miserable. Long-forgotten graves and tombs littered the place, some still tended, others abandoned.
The cemetery staff kept the place beautifully, however, there was a sense that nature was just waiting in the wings to take over, as it had done in the nineteen seventies when the company declared bankruptcy.
Vines and trees and grass had slowly reclaimed the place until a famous film company began to use the location for its horror films. Within a year, the cemetery was once more a popular place to be – for both the living and the not so lucky.
The wipers performed a slow arc on Roberts’ navy-blue Mondeo – a pool car that he liked for its anonymity.
“I absolutely hate this time of the year. Look at ‘em poor bastards, as if burying your dead isn’t enough, they’ve got to freeze their bollocks off in the rain.”
“From what I’ve heard from Tom Denby, Brigadier Reddington wasn’t exactly a Christian person Jas. I’ve no sympathy if what he told us is true.”
“Come on mate, you still believe the army are involved in people smuggling? And even if they were it’s old now, past tense.”
“I’m not so sure. And I’m only saying a miniscule part of the army is involved. Probably a few individuals. And it was for money. Everyone has a price. But one thing that I don’t understand is if this is all in the past like you say then what is her role?”
He pointed to an elegant woman in a military trench coat, oblivious to the rain. She was walking alongside other personnel, many different shades of green and blue, medals one and all.
“She’s his granddaughter mate. You telling me she’s still involved in the age-old game of slavery?” Roberts looked at him as he turned the air conditioning on to demist the car.
Dave Francis took his seatbelt off and prepared to be met by the deluge. “I’ll ring you when I’m done?”
“Sounds good. Enjoy mate. I love a good funeral. All that inane chat about Uncle Jimmy and his penchant for tap dancing that no one knew about, and then there’s the finger food and the lukewarm tea…” Cade didn’t turn around, his eyes fixed on the woman in uniform.
“You know I want YMCA to be played at mine don’t you?” Roberts was doing a close-up version of the hand moves.
“Nothing would surprise me less DCI Roberts.”
Francis left the car, put up a black umbrella and joined the procession towards the Anglican chapel.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that they didn’t hold a military service somewhere in Whitehall Jack?”
“Very. It speaks volumes. Almost as if the hierarchy wish to distance themselves from him and his past, yet turn up to celebrate his life. Smacks of hypocrisy.”
“Who are we looking for then? Good, this isn’t it? Like the old days, hunkered down in the rain waiting for the target to show up, playing I-Spy and missing the bloke altogether!”
“Did that actually happen to you?”
“Happened to everyone didn’t it?”
“No! It didn’t. My force were professionals.”
“Ooh. Hark at you. OK, Sherlock you go first.”
“Do you think I’m eight Jason? You go first…”
“Alright. I spy with my little eye something beginning with G.”
“Graves.”
“Oh. Ok. Your go.”
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with TBB.” Cade shifted in his seat to look in the passenger mirror.
“Ooh now this is good. Give me a clue.” asked Roberts.
“That blue Bentley…” Cade pointed to the car which was about a hundred metres away.
Both men sat back and waited. The blue Bentley that had caused them issues previously had rolled quietly up and parked.
“This is interesting. Let those windows steam up a little, I don’t want them to see us.”
“What’s going on here Jack? This lot are chalk and cheese. Not even that. This lot are chalk and dolphins. But the other night JD and Johnnie got into that little pursuit and who should be there but Susan Reddington and the hired henchmen of the Black Mamba herself. There’s a link, but it makes no sense.”
“Let’s just watch. That phone got a decent camera?”
“The best.” He held it as discreetly as possible and started shooting.
Doto Adesida stepped out of the car and under a large blue umbrella. Her driver, or bodyguard was quick to ensure she stayed dry. The front seat passenger joined them as they walked up the driveway to the burial plot, a small affair among many others, in between saplings and larger trees.
The two bodyguards stood in the rain, careful not to pay too much attention to it as it initially bounced off their expensive suits but eventually seeped through. They were about as discreet as a black panther in a kindergarten.
Doto waited until the short service had ended, giving the appearance that she was attending a different funeral entirely, then walked up to the grave and placed a simple yellow rose on the mound. It matched the one that Susan Reddington had placed. They made eye contact, but that was all.
It was as if the woman that half of Africa’s west coast feared wasn’t there at all. A ghost along with all the others that had stepped back into the shadows to watch their new neighbour arrive.
Reddington made small talk with other officers, some current, most retired, the latter speaking fondly of her grandfather. One in a wheelchair, with a blanket over his knee, wore a set of medals that caught her eye.
“You must have served around the same time as my grandfather, sir?”
“I’m no sir, Captain, just a warrant officer who did his job. Here to ensure the old bastard got a good send off.” He grinned through what was left of his teeth. Eighty if he was a day.
“He would love that. So kind of you to attend.” She went to shake his hand, but he wheeled himself back, out her way. She froze.
“Sorry have I offended you?”
“You? No, hardly unless you’ve got a couple of skeletons in your wee closet. Fresh out of Sandhurst by the looks of you. I think you missed my eulogy for your grandfather. Like I say I am here to ensure he’s gone. And now he has. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He spun the chair on its axis and moved away. She was quicker.
“No. Excuse me. I haven’t finished talking to you yet.”
“Oh I need your permission to
fall out do I? Well, Captain give the bloody order ‘cause I’m in a hurry to avoid my own grave so I am. Time is my enemy, not you.” He had a broad Irish accent, from the north, harsh but equally wonderful to listen to and at its best in full flow and brimming with vitriol.
“Give the order ma’am so I can go. Not that you’ve ever seen active service in your bloody life.”
“I’ll have you know…”
Cade and Roberts had the windows down, the rain could wait. This needed listening to.
“I’ll have you know what? Go on, I dare you. Speak or wind your neck in girl.”
“How dare you speak to me like that.”
He began to wheel himself away. The funeral cortege was rapidly dispersing. The official cars all but gone. One waited, its exhaust gently discharging a cloud of white from both tailpipes. There was to be no wake as such, all money to a retired servicemen’s charity. End of.
“Lassie I’ll speak to you how the fuck I like. The best thing you can do for yer man there is make sure he can’t escape from that hole, then help me to my feet.”
“So you can actually pay your last respects?”
“No. So I can piss on his grave.”
Cade looked at Roberts. “Crikey, he is one unhappy Irishman. What do you reckon?”
“Think he served with Reddington or Denby?”
“Not sure but my money is on Tom and he’s getting a little pissed off right now. Think he needs some backup?”
“Looks like it’s moving in, in the form of our very own Dave Francis.”
Francis had waited, sheltering under a tree. He walked over to the couple, aware that Doto Adesida and her hired thugs were also on the fringe, waiting, watching.
“Everything OK folks? Need a hand?”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 30
