The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  “OK, let’s just rewind this bloody story a few paces, shall we? You are telling me that your grandfather was involved in Griffon but was both good and evil at the same time? Respectfully Susan, that’s the kind of monumental pack of bollocks that not even my best detectives could come up with.”

  “Appreciate it sounds like one Jason, but you are not listening. Two ears, one mouth. Listen to what my mum has to say.” Kate bit her tongue. “Please.”

  “Your mum? Christ, this just gets better and better. What next? Elvis? That’s it, isn’t it? He’s alive and well and performing tonight in a working men’s club in Kent, that’s where we are all going…bloody hell Kate.”

  “Yes, Jason. My mother. Now I suggest you sit back and listen to the next bit. All I will say is there is good and bad in every family…”

  “You know, I literally cannot wait for this.”

  “Jason, respectfully shut up.” Reddington had heard enough.

  “My grandfather Edward Reddington was knee-deep in debt. He was for much of his life. His wife, my grandmother, on paper at least, drank all the profits, overstretched them, slept around society functions, balls, fox hunts, you name it, she did them all.”

  “Quite literally, by the sound of it.”

  Red continued, “Grandfather Ted couldn’t keep up, so he resorted to desperate measures, and when the opportunity to extract wealth from Griffon happened, he took it, hand over fist, but not as fast as she could spend it. That’s when he first dabbled in a new stock.” She went quiet.

  “People?” Roberts asked softly from the back seat.

  “Yes. By their thousands. Many didn’t make it, but by the time they had died the money was in the bank. Two things you never lost money on he said, precious people and precious metals.”

  “Stocks and scares?”

  “It would be funny if it wasn’t so true. And I haven’t told you the best part yet.”

  Kate Briton slid her hand across the seat onto Roberts’.

  “Edward was my grandfather. But Tom is much closer to me. That’s why I’ve been tracking him, trying to get him before you lot did. He has no idea who I am. I managed to hack into some inside information that told me you were working on Griffon, and assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you were as corrupt as the next lot.”

  “Why didn’t you just say when you had the chance? Why embed Katie onto my team – nice work by the way – I fell for your charms like the poor deluded fool that I am.”

  Briton replied, “It was genuine Jason. Time and place and all that. But, yes, I was given a hand up by outside forces, and to use your scissors, paper, Prime Minister line would be appropriate right now.”

  “You got the PM to get you a job? Well, strap me to a table and apply the dynamite anally if that isn’t quite the most explosive thing I’ve heard today. Jesus…” he stared out of the tinted glass onto a street where bus stops and lamp posts blurred.

  “She’s on board with us Jason. One hundred percent. She has to be. You know she had problems when she took over the job, or rather had to clear out the old and bring in the new? Well, some of the legacies are still there and she trusts them as far as she could dropkick them. All smiles in the house, sharing the party line, sherry receptions etcetera but behind closed doors believe me it’s a warren of venom.”

  “And old Tom Denby is the white rabbit that has disappeared down the rabbit hole?”

  “Spot on. Or rather, he was until Jack Cade found him. Or rather, we found Jack.”

  “You set him up?”

  “We risk assessed things first, then set him up. He was a risk. He’s a company man through and through. He was observed closely during the whole Seventh Wave issue. We liked what we saw and all we needed to do was get him on board – and in turn you and for that we used hearts and minds.”

  “About twenty away now, boss,” called McGee from the front seat, making progress via a set of indiscreet lights and sirens.

  “Do go on. I’m intrigued, however, you know if I find one reason to lock you both up I will.”

  “Of course. You’ll have to lock up the PM too, and that might be career-limiting. We knew Jack had a strong connection to the hospice where his father was.”

  “Cruel.”

  “Necessary. But we needed a feasible story. Jack is no fool. Clever man, in fact. The story took a while to concoct, and getting Tom into the hospice was a master stroke. Blame his great granddaughter for that, well, her and her stepfather.”

  “Christ sake Susan, couldn’t you just have blindfolded me, put me on a tightrope, that was on fire, over a canyon of crocodiles and tossed a Rubik’s Cube at me? Who is Kate’s stepfather?”

  “Digby Denby?” asked McGee from the front. She’d been paying attention and had been doing her own investigation.

  “What? You mean when Jack travelled halfway around the world to listen to the ramblings of an old man because he felt it was the right thing to do you were all sitting back waiting for him to crack the next best thing to the bloody Enigma code?”

  “Yes.”

  Roberts’ phone vibrated continuously until he could ignore it no longer. “Jack, how’s it going up in the air?”

  Cade had come so far, and now Roberts felt disloyal too. He valued his friendship but knew now that he had to hold off, even if just for the rest of the day.

  “Everything’s peachy so far. We are over the English Channel, tracing and retracing and hoping Tom can remember something.”

  “Good to hear. Listen, mate…” He stopped. “Is it just you that is listening?”

  “Yes, just me. Everything OK, Jason?” Cade asked, intuitively.

  “Yes, everything is fine. Just be aware our new intel indicates that a few more parties are interested in what Tom did many years ago.” He looked at Red. She nodded. “And that this goes nearly all the way to the top, including the old Griffon team and whoever is left.”

  Cade whispered, “JD?”

  “Not sure. Sorry.”

  Cade looked down at the patchwork of fields to his left. He felt as if someone had just poisoned the Garden of England.

  “Roger mate. I’ll get back to you, but thanks for the new intel.”

  The Bentley engine was ticking quietly, cooling down after a high-speed run. She had handled brilliantly.

  “We go over there and we demand what we want. Make them realise we mean business. When this is done you will be able to buy a car just like this one. I know you love it. I can tell.”

  “Doto, I’m getting worried. We still have no idea what we are doing.”

  “Jacqui, do you trust me?” She put her arm around Clarke’s neck and drew her close.

  “Of course.” It would be a fool that said no.

  Doto brought the pathology technologist a little closer and squeezed her neck just a touch more. She wasn’t her type, but she’d try her luck, perhaps. One day. When all of this was over. Or not, as the case may be.

  “Good. Then do as I say and we will be fine. Richer, too. This is a waiting game. Call it our fate.”

  “I call it cheating.”

  “Fools never prosper, Jacqueline my dear. You call it cheating, I call it grabbing an advantage. You gathering all the data on young African girls and making sense of their human Sudoku was the chance I needed. You Jacqui are a very clever lady and you will get your rewards in heaven.”

  “And on earth too, I hope?” asked Clarke, now struggling to breathe.

  “Of course, dear. Now stop enjoying being choked and let’s go sailing.”

  Clarke rubbed her neck. She had enjoyed the experience as much as a dose of chlamydia. But she knew Doto was correct. The answer might lay in the small flaps of dried skin, each with a number, carved from between the shoulders of young girls, girls who had fled to England for a life, not just a better one. Cut, pulled and ripped from their backs, leaving a vivid raw patch on their bodies as they lay in mortuaries, old buildings, bushes and roadside gullies. Dumped.

  She just hoped she
had got the numbers right. She was adamant the first ones were correct. That was almost a given, given what she knew of Denby. He’d chosen the three digits of his safety deposit box for a reason. Servicemen were creatures of habit.

  And her deliberate, but apparently casual fling with the ex-copper who worked at the vault was literally a seam of gold. Barry Hackett turned the cameras off at least twice as they did it over the counter, on the desk and everywhere and anywhere else he wanted to. He once even had her up against the shop door. In the middle of bloody Hatton Garden. It was almost too exciting.

  Retired, greying with a sagging physique, he thought he still had it, still had that special gift that the ladies liked. And he loved it when she talked, non-stop if he’d had his way. Filthier the better and boy was she filthy that last night in the vault.

  He’d been working there a few years now and had earned their trust. The owners trusted him like a son, an older brother, paid him well and allowed him to advise on security too. But for him, the Romanian team that raided the place a few years before would have got away with a load of jewels and cash.

  Swapping sex for secrets had been around since Roman times. Each time they did it, and always at his workplace, he would reveal another number to Clarke. She was hoping for the whole set. He pushed a little each time too. A genuinely wonderful game in which he set the rules, and she was most willing to obey.

  ‘If you were to do this to me, I might let you have a little number in return.’ He’d say.

  The night she asked him to deposit a gold bar somewhere he’d never done before, never thought of before, and then allowed him to photograph it, was the best. It was incredible. Just quite incredible. A beautifully polished, hallmarked, lustrous gold bar – that belonged to a sultan from somewhere exotic.

  He posted the photo on one of the more discreet dark web sites and the reaction was swift. The crowd wanted more. Never had the interest in precious metals been so high. They’d pay a small collective fortune to see other things from the vault glide gently into Jacqueline Clarke, pathology technologist and whore.

  Clarke got what she wanted. Could have smuggled out a king’s ransom if she’d been so inclined. She got exactly what she needed. She shuddered now at the thought of men lusting over her images. A black, bobbed wig and a fake tattoo would hopefully call off the dogs if they ever came looking for her. Her chosen name was ‘Jeanette’.

  The men couldn’t get enough of Jeanette, and tonight Barry Hackett had promised them the world. Tune in later guys and have your credit cards ready.

  He would be cashing in the last of the online customers later that evening, sat in his precious vault, pre-aroused and ready for another show when a dark-haired girl that could have easily been Jeanette would enter, smile at him, turn him around, get him to drop his trousers, put three rapid rounds into the back of his head. All on camera. Just like he liked it. Bye-bye Barry. Nice knowing you.

  The girl leaned forward, a plunging top giving the audience a last thrill, most of whom thought it was all part of the show. Then she typed ‘Funds withdrawn due to lack of interest’ and quickly closed the laptop.

  Doto had made a call. A debt had been paid. No money had changed hands. It was business in its rawest sense. And she had got what she most desired. A third of the puzzle.

  The burly ex-prison officer and sailor stood on the quayside at Hoo Marina, smelling the salty air and looking forward to the day when he and his wife could finally set sail for the Mediterranean and begin their dream.

  His much-loved boat Medway Girl was a rare vessel indeed. With a pure white hull and a teak and oak superstructure, she was a popular sight on the river. A 35ft Medina class motor cruiser with a small clinker-built dinghy resting on her aft coachroof, she had a fine history too.

  Its owner Michael Baker, Mick to his friends, had been retired for ten years and was now living a far less stressful life with his wife Jan. He knew the local waters well and often went up the river as far as the sea before heading home again, back down into the quieter stretches of the River Medway. It had been on their last run upstream that Jan had asked him to take the plunge and set sail for warmer waters – before it was too late.

  “One day, love. One day soon.” It had been his standard reply for over a decade as he steered a course for the marina once more.

  Baker also knew the smell of what he called a con. And a con, or prisoner, gave off a signal, or a smell, or a sense that all was wrong. And the large black woman strutting towards him now, with a smaller white woman in tow, set the hairs bristling on his neck.

  “Jan, get below love. Do as I say.”

  He discreetly put his hand on the boathook and waited as they approached.

  “Can I help you ladies?”

  “Yes, you can. I need you to take me out onto the river.”

  No, please or thank you, no buildup, or subtle interplay. Direct.

  “Well, forgive me, but that’s not how it works. For a start, I’m not a charter vessel so I can’t just take passengers out onto the water. And secondly…” He stopped. Jan screamed. She’d never seen a gun up close before. The one that was tucked into the black woman’s trousers looked real. It was black and grey. It had to be, didn’t it?

  “It’s OK, love. Just stay down there and I’ll deal with this. Look lady, I don’t know what is happening here, but the boat is our home, but for now, she’s yours. Take her, but please don’t harm us. We’ve done nothing to offend you.”

  “Take us out onto the water and you will live. Simple?”

  “Simple.” He drew in a lungful of air. “Then welcome aboard.” He looked down at his wife of forty years. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.

  “Can you both drive this little thing?” she asked with a sneer, as if the size of the boat was inadequate.

  “We can. And it may be little, but it’s our life, and she’s saved a few in her time. Let’s all calm down and make sure you get what you need and we can go on living our lives and not upset the old girl. She has feelings.”

  She nodded arrogantly.

  He felt that he had the advantage.

  As he allowed Doto and Clarke to pass him on the stern of the boat, he grabbed the boathook and lunged at Doto. He considered her the greatest threat of the two so he’d deal with her first, just as he did during his days behind the wire. Pick off the strongest member of the group first and dump the cow in the harbour.

  With the sixth sense of the snake they named her after, she edged slightly to her left, grabbed the wooden pole and pulled it towards her. Her speed and strength took Baker by surprise. This girl was strong, she looked strong, not unlike a pro-tennis player; lean, with noticeable muscles, but he was a former prison officer, used to dealing with chaos and surprise. This should be a fair fight.

  In a second she had the upper hand, spinning with the hook and pushing him backwards onto the wooden deck. He landed on his backside, then fell backwards again, spread-eagled. In another second, without any thought of the consequences, she rammed the wooden-handled hook into him.

  It was one of his favourite items on board. Traditional, just like the boat herself. She was a survivor. Where he now lay troops had too, back in the day.

  The polished brass end of the hook that he’d bought from a small firm called Sheridan Marine played two roles; one as a hook to catch ropes and buoys or even people, the other sharpened to a clinical point was for protection, just in case. Boats were valuable things, and the Medway Girl was worth fighting for.

  Baker lay on his back, staring up at the woman who seemed to fill his entire field of vision. She was huge. She was leaning over him. She was smiling. Scars on her chest gave her a tribal feel. A warrior. That’s what she looked like, a bloody warrior.

  “Now you stay there!” She spat the words at him, as if she were chastising a dog.

  “And you, you drive this boat.” She pointed at Jan Baker. “Now.”

  Jan did as she was told. Never one to quarrel, and certainly not with anyone
so violent. She started the boat and began to head away from the marina. Where were all the nosey neighbours when you needed them?

  “I need to call in to the local coastguard. Tell them we are setting sail and I need to check on my husband. Please.”

  “No. No radio. And he’s going nowhere. And if he does, I’ll pull that thing out of his stomach and push it back in again, this time into his heart. He’ll survive if you want him to.”

  The varnished wooden pole was protruding from his lower right abdomen. The brass end now embedded in the wooden planks beneath him. As the head of the hook had penetrated his skin it had torn it, leaving a gaping wound which bled onto the deck and blended in with the older blood shed some seventy years earlier.

  “Clean that up. Patch him up. Do something with him.” Doto ordered Clarke into action. She was used to dealing with the dead, not the dying.

  She scowled at Jan Baker. “How long? Make this thing go faster. Come on.”

  “This old boat goes as fast as she is now. I cannot make her go faster. Look.” She pointed to the controls. She was right.

  “Well then, how long?” Fair question.

  “It depends on where we are going.” Better answer.

  “Navigate to this place.” She handed a piece of white linen over to Jan. On the cloth was a set of numbers written in dark graphite. Waterproof. Clever.

  “Look, I’m no expert, but you’ve got numbers missing.”

  “How many?”

  “At least two off each set. That one is north, that one is east. Probably.”

  “Then you had better work out where we need to be before he dies by bleeding to death.”

  Jan Baker stared at the cloth, then at her husband. He was pale. The outside temperature was dropping too.

  “Look, the light isn’t good, those dark clouds, they mean bad weather, we should turn back.”

  Doto grabbed Jan’s head and rammed it onto the housing, pushing her eye up against the numbers.

  “Read. Then read again and work it out. Or you go overboard and you will die a cold and lonely death away from your husband.”

  Baker began to cry, but there was no way this vindictive bitch was winning. “OK, OK, you have your way.”