by Mark Dawson
He opened the door and stepped out into the damp night. He started across the road toward the shelter. Shepherd followed him.
Hicks’s phone buzzed. “Wait,” Woodward said.
Hicks stopped. Shepherd stopped, too.
“He’s coming out.”
Hicks watched. He saw Edward Fabian as he stepped down from the shallow step onto the pavement and walked to his cab. If Fabian turned, he would see him, and then this brief possible reprieve would be irrelevant, but he looked distracted and he did not. He got inside the cab, started the engine, and pulled away.
The Maserati’s lights flicked on and it, too, pulled out.
Woodward spoke again. “We’ll follow him and wait for the right moment.”
Hicks felt a wave of relief, although he knew it would only be temporary. “What about the second man?”
“Leave him.”
“Copy that.”
Hicks turned back and got into his Range Rover once again. Shepherd was already back inside. Hicks drove off in the direction that Woodward and Gillan had taken and, as he passed the shelter, he looked across at the entrance. There was a man there, standing in the light of the open door. He was watching the Maserati and, as Hicks passed, the man turned his gaze to take him in, too. Hicks looked at him and for a moment their eyes locked.
Hicks frowned. The man was average in appearance, the kind of man who would be difficult to remember, but there was something about him that he recognised.
Shepherd was looking at the cook, too. “Jammy bastard,” Shepherd observed. “He doesn’t know how lucky he just was.”
Hicks drove on, trying to think what it was about the man that bothered him. Suddenly it came to him. He couldn’t stifle a gasp.
“What?” Shepherd said.
“Nothing.”
“It was something. You had a fright?”
“Forget it.”
Hicks drove on, willing the surprise from his face.
It was something.
It was Number One.
He was certain.
It was John Milton.
#
MILTON TOOK out a cigarette and watched as Eddie crossed the road to his cab. He lit the cigarette and drew on it, then exhaled. It was a cold night; his breath mingled with the smoke. He heard the cab’s engine turn over and then saw the headlights flick on. Eddie pulled away, raising his hand as he went past the shelter.
Milton was about to go back inside when he heard the sound of a second engine. He looked back. There were a handful of cars parked near the shelter, and, as he watched, he saw a black Maserati pull away from the kerb outside the Hotel Russell on Bernard Street and drive forward, turning right into the Square. Its lights were still off as it drove by the shelter. The windows were darkened, but Milton could see the silhouettes of the driver and a passenger in the front seats. The car picked up speed, the lights finally coming on.
He heard the sound of a car door closing and, as he turned in its direction, he saw another set of headlights snap on and a second car pull out. This one was bigger. It rolled slowly away from the kerb, turned in the same direction as Eddie’s cab and the Maserati, and went by the shelter. It was a Range Rover. Something about the car bothered Milton. He didn’t know what it was—and knew that it could very well be paranoia on his part—but as it passed through the pool of light thrown down by the streetlamp outside the School of Oriental Studies, Milton looked for the registration plate and memorised it.
The big car rolled slowly by and Milton could see the shapes of two figures in the front. The streetlamps reflected off the windscreen, making it impossible to see inside, but he thought that the two figures were male and it felt as if they were looking at him.
Milton waited in the doorway as the car disappeared to the south-east, following the same route that Eddie and the Maserati had taken.
He went inside, closed the door, collected a dirty plate—sticky with the residue of baked beans—and took it to the sink to be washed. He ran the water and looked out into the night. He felt uneasy.
Chapter Fifteen
HICKS FOLLOWED the black cab at a reasonable distance. Fabian had turned onto Gordon Street, following it until he reached the junction with Euston Road and then turning left, headed to the west. They passed Warren Street and Great Portland Street tube stations, continued through Regent’s Park, and then picked up speed as the road merged into the Westway.
Shepherd had two radio units with him and he handed one of them to Hicks. They both put them on, clipping the receivers to their belts and pushing the ear buds into their ears. As Hicks dabbed the brakes to allow Fabian to gain a little on them, the radio crackled into life.
“Woodward to Hicks and Shepherd, come in.”
Shepherd reached for the pressel on his receiver and thumbed the channel open.
“Shepherd here.”
“Status?”
“We’re behind him. Just going through White City. Where are you?”
“We’ve gone ahead. Connolly is engaged, too. We’ll box him. Stay in formation.”
Hicks tapped his fingers against the wheel. So it was a three-car pursuit, operating in a “floating box” pattern. It was a standard SAS tactic designed to ensure that the pursuit cars could be interchanged to minimise the possibility that the target might realise that he was being followed. Hicks had been involved in surveillance operations with as many as ten cars, enough assets to ensure that the target would never see the same tail car twice. They didn’t have the manpower for that tonight, but the three vehicles that they did have would be more than enough for the job.
“A little closer,” Shepherd said.
Hicks gripped the wheel just a little tighter.
“Closer. He’s pulling away.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Hicks said in as even a tone as he could manage, doing his best to mask his discomfort and irritation. Shepherd had provided a constant stream of unwelcome advice ever since they had started the pursuit. Hicks was more than capable of tailing a single vehicle through the streets of London.
Shepherd was oblivious. “What do you reckon that was all about back there?”
It was the second time Shepherd had asked him that. “He was thirsty. Fancied a cup of tea. I don’t know, Shepherd. What do you think?”
Shepherd tapped his fingers against his knee and then turned to look at him across the cabin. “That’s not what you think, though, is it? What was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something bothered you back there. When Fabian came out with the other man. What was it? You recognise him?”
Hicks stared dead ahead at the lights of the cars ahead of them. “I don’t know…” He started to speak, then shook his head. “I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
“Who’d you think it was?”
“Someone from the army.”
“And it’s not? You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m seeing things.”
But that was a lie. He had recognised Milton at once. He hadn’t seen him for years, but there was no mistaking him. So why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he admit that he knew who Milton was?
Shepherd changed the subject. “The general told you what Isaacs gets up to?”
“I know. He’s a pervert.”
“That’s an understatement. He’s a pervert, all right. A rapist, too. Kids. Boys, mostly. Higgins has evidence that proves at least some of it. Photographs and videos.”
“He didn’t say that. He said it was just protection.”
“One thing you need to know about the general,” Shepherd said. “He doesn’t do anything unless he can get something out of it. And I’m fine with that. I paid my mortgage off with his money. I bought my Lexus, cash. I took my woman to the Maldives, first class all the way. I’m not going to rock the boat.”
The taxi slowed for a red light and rolled to a stop. They stopped, too, three cars behind it.
“Where did he get
the evidence?” Hicks asked.
“He had a brother. He’s dead now, got shot during some funny business the old man will hint at if you get him drunk enough. The brother used to be in the Met. Head of the Diplomatic Protection squad. Top brass. Most of this is gossip, but Isaacs made his money in Saudi during the ’70s. I heard that the company got into hot water, and there was a suggestion that the regime wanted him dead. Higgins’s brother was Isaacs’s personal protection officer when he was a minister. Followed him around, drove him to meetings, the usual. From what I heard, Isaacs had this idea that he could trust him to keep quiet about the things he got up to in his private life. That was crazy, obviously, and, I’m just guessing here, but it sounds like the Higgins boys decided they’d get some evidence on what a nasty little shit he is just in case it might be useful later.”
The lights changed and Fabian pulled away.
“Blackmail, then,” Hicks said as he squeezed down on the accelerator.
“Of course it’s blackmail, but you can dress it up any way you want. The way I heard it, they told Isaacs and the others that they had seen the evidence. They said they’d make sure it never came to light if they paid them. Think about it: these men, the longer it went on and nothing came to light, the more they trusted Higgins and his brother. The more they felt grateful to them. The more they felt like they were keeping them safe.”
The taxi picked up speed.
“Where is he going?” Shepherd said.
“How long’s it been going on?” Hicks asked, not finished with the subject yet.
“The thing with Isaacs and the old man?” Shepherd took out his Browning and ejected the magazine. “Years. Once him and the others started paying, anyone who came along and threatened the arrangement had to be dealt with. Isaacs got into trouble on Hampstead Heath. You remember that? It was in the news.”
“I read about it tonight.”
“Higgins made the evidence go away. The case collapsed. And then, when it was safe, he offed the man who was making the threats. Made it look like it was suicide. Put yourself in Isaacs’s shoes. How’s he going to feel after that? It must feel like Higgins is his guardian angel.”
“Even though it’s Higgins who’s threatening him the most.”
Shepherd laughed bitterly. “I know. It’s Stockholm syndrome. Classic.”
“How much are they getting?”
Shepherd used the heel of his palm to drive the magazine back into its slot. “I don’t know. A lot. Isaacs is a millionaire. The other men are richer than he is. They’re golden geese. They have to be looked after.”
The traffic thinned out now, and Fabian continued to head west.
“Have you seen it?” Hicks asked. “The evidence?”
“No.”
“Where does he keep it?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Same place he keeps everything else: he’s got a safe deposit box. God knows what else he has there.”
Hicks thought back to the drive to Hatton Garden yesterday, the general disappearing into the anonymous building with the imposing security doors.
He nodded toward the taillights of the black cab. “And this guy? Fabian? He was involved?”
“You tell me,” Shepherd said. “You went to see Isaacs. What did he say?”
“Just that Fabian accosted him. Said that he remembered him. Said he remembered being taken to his apartment and abused. Isaacs said that he threatened to go to the papers.”
“Whatever he said, it wasn’t smart. The old man says he’s involved, he’s involved. The old man says he has to go, he has to go. You don’t ask questions; you just do it.”
Hicks clenched his jaw.
“What’s wrong with you now?” Shepherd asked.
“Nothing.”
“You know we’re not following him so we can have a little chat, right?”
Hicks clasped the wheel a little tighter. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“That he’s got to go?” Shepherd leaned all the way back in his seat and stared out the windscreen. “No, Hicks, it doesn’t bother me. Life can be a real bitch. It’s just tough luck.”
Their radios crackled into life again. “Woodward to Shepherd.”
“Shepherd here. Go ahead.”
“We’re at Hanger Lane underground. We’ll pick him up here. You can drop back.”
“Affirmative.”
Hicks saw the circular station building, the illuminated London Underground roundel glowing red and blue. He saw the Maserati pull out of the parking lot of the Crowne Plaza. It accelerated, pulling into the outside lane, and quickly overtook them.
“Drop back,” Shepherd said.
“Jesus, Shep, I know.”
He touched the brakes and reduced his speed to fifty, allowing the black cab to increase the distance between them until they lost sight of it as the road wound its way through Perivale.
Hicks maintained a steady sixty, his eyes losing their focus as he stared ahead at the red lights of the cars ahead and the glare of the headlamps from those approaching on the other side of the road. He found his thoughts returning to the purpose of the night’s operation. The realisation that he knew John Milton had distracted him from it, but not any longer.
He didn’t know where Eddie Fabian was going at so late an hour, but he knew that he wouldn’t be returning this way again.
Chapter Sixteen
THEY FOLLOWED the cab west until they were on the outskirts of London. Woodward dropped back and handed Fabian off to Hicks and Shepherd again, and they passed through Uxbridge and Beaconsfield and High Wycombe. The M40 was quiet at this late hour. There were trucks rumbling along in the slow lane; Fabian had moved over into the middle lane and was maintaining a comfortable seventy miles an hour. The rain had started to fall as they passed out of London. It had been apologetic at first, just a few spots, but it was coming down heavily now, and the wipers were working hard to keep the windscreen clear.
“Where’s he going?” Shepherd said, as much to himself as to Hicks.
They had just passed signs for Junction 8 when the left-hand indicator of the taxi started to blink.
“Here we go,” Shepherd said, reaching for the radio on his belt. “Shepherd to Woodward. Come in.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re coming up to Junction 8. He’s turning off.”
“Stay with him.”
“Where are you?”
“A mile behind. We’ll catch up and you can hand off to us.”
“Affirmative.”
There were fields on either side of the motorway. Hicks could see for twenty or thirty yards before the darkness absorbed the glow from the lights of the passing cars. Junction 8 was for Oxford and Cheltenham. He took the slip road off the motorway and joined the A40, continued past the turning for Wheatley services, and then indicated again as they passed a sign advertising a turning for Wheatley and Tiddington.
Hicks slowed down to forty, allowing the cab to pull farther away from them. There was no other traffic now, and if Fabian was being vigilant, they would have to be careful for fear of spooking him.
“We need to hand off,” Shepherd said. “He’s going to make us if we follow much longer.”
Fabian turned onto a smaller road that was marked on their satnav as London Road. They followed the cab through Littleworth, and then, as they exited the village, they continued onto Old Road. It was a narrow lane, only just wide enough for two vehicles, and, as they continued to the west, it narrowed even more. The vegetation grew taller and thicker on either side of them, reaching up and touching above them in a dark green roof.
Hicks had allowed the cab to draw perhaps half a mile ahead of them and, as the road turned to the left, they lost sight of it.
“We should turn back,” Hicks said. “There’s no reason why we’d be out here, too. He’ll make us.”
He glanced over at Shepherd and saw he was chewing the inside of his lip, w
orking out what they should do. The satnav showed that the road continued for another mile before it fed into the Eastern Bypass that led north to south along Oxford’s eastern boundary.
“Stay on him,” Shepherd said.
They turned the corner and came upon a house. It was bounded by a stone wall, with a pair of cast-iron gates that had opened to admit Eddie Fabian’s cab. There was another car inside the gates. Both it and the cab had their lights on.
Hicks dabbed the brakes. “What the fuck?”
“Keep driving,” Shepherd said.
He was right. They couldn’t stop.
Hicks maintained a careful pace and glanced out of the blackened window as they passed the two cars. The door to the taxi was open and Fabian was standing behind it. The other car was a Jeep, its registration plate lit up in the glow of the taxi’s lights. Hicks memorised it. He looked in the mirror and saw the house’s front door open and three figures step out. They were all male, but that was all that he could tell before the Range Rover turned the corner and the house was out of sight.
Shepherd spoke into the radio. “Abort,” he said.
“What’s happening?” Woodward said.
“Target is meeting someone. There’s a house here, another car waiting for him. Three males. Some kind of rendezvous. The road is too minor. If you come down it too, they’ll know he’s been followed. Suggest you stop in Littleworth.”
“Copy that.”
Hicks drove to the end of Old Road.
“Pull over,” Shepherd said.
Hicks did as he was told.
Woodward radioed again. “Do we know who he’s meeting?”
“Didn’t get a good look,” Shepherd said. “We couldn’t stop.”
“Three males, like I said. That’s all I saw.”
Woodward cursed. “Higgins is going to hate this. What about the road ahead of the house? Is there any other way on or off?”