She sat towards the back of the carriage, in the left-hand row of seats. Ronnie was on the right, near the front. If she leant forward, Caelan could see the side of his face. She was confident he hadn’t seen her, but she knew she couldn’t be too careful. She took off her jacket and shoved it into her bag, then pulled out some black-framed glasses and slipped them on. It was an old trick, but a different-coloured top and pair of glasses was a subtle way to change her appearance quickly. She had straightened her hair that morning, and now pulled it back into a ponytail rather than leave it loose around her shoulders. Taking out her phone, she settled back in her seat. They would be in London in less than three hours, and then she would need to concentrate.
11
It was warmer in London, the sun trying to peer around the clouds.
‘We’ve left the station,’ Caelan said. ‘We’re in King’s Boulevard.’
There was a pause. ‘Which is?’ said Nasenby.
‘Between King’s Cross and St Pancras.’
‘Got it.’ There was another silence. Caelan assumed Nasenby was pinpointing their location on Google Maps. Then again, it was possible he still used an A–Z. ‘You’re heading towards Camden Town?’
Caelan considered it. ‘If we keep going in this direction, yeah, I’d say so.’
‘Keep me informed.’
Nasenby ended the call and Caelan kept walking. They were passing between the two railway stations, in a pleasant pedestrianised area with a few trees and potted shrubs. There were coffee shops and restaurants, a vendor selling hot dogs from a barrow. Frying onions scented the air, an elderly man hobbling in front of Caelan pausing to take an appreciative sniff. To the left of the path was a circular concrete platform, and people sat on the steps leading to it, enjoying the sunshine. Though the sky was bright, there was a chill in the air here, and Caelan was tempted to put her jacket back on. Not yet. There was a group of people wearing business suits, chatting and laughing, between her and Ronnie, and she was confident he hadn’t noticed her. He hadn’t looked around, or checked over his shoulder. Caelan knew that being ultra-aware of her surroundings was part of her job, but she was always surprised how little notice others took of those around them. Vigilance could help you stay alive. Her eyes searched the crowds constantly, her mind recording details of those she saw. She smiled to herself. No one was invisible.
The day Charlie Flynn had died barged into her head again. The house had been nondescript from the outside, a tiny terrace at the end of a row of identical properties. The adjoining house had been a squat, the people sheltering there unable to answer any questions about the comings and goings next door. They’d seen nothing, heard nothing.
Smelt nothing.
When they’d entered the house, silently, covertly, the smell had confirmed they were in the right place. Urine, faeces and the underlying stench of fear and desperation. Next to Caelan, Nicky Sturgess had frozen. Caelan had guessed her imagination was conjuring terrible images, halting her, forcing her to take a breath and calm herself. There was no indication that Charlie was already dead, not then. They’d found the cellar door quickly, reinforced with metal bars and double-padlocked. Overkill when the prisoner was a skinny ten-year-old boy. Sturgess had laid a hand on Caelan’s arm as Sam Clifton worked on the padlocks. ‘Steady,’ she had said. She hadn’t taken her own advice, had rushed inside, her training, her caution evaporating when she had seen the huddled form of the boy lying against the wall. Lambourne had been waiting in the shadows. His knife had torn into Nicky’s throat before Caelan had even realised he was there. As Nicky hit the ground, Lambourne strode forward, stepping over her body. In Caelan’s mind, he was smiling.
She dragged herself back to the present as ahead of her, Ronnie Morgan stopped, gazing around. Rebuking herself, Caelan pulled her phone from her pocket and lifted it to her ear as if receiving a call. She stopped walking, waited to see what he was doing. He had paused outside a restaurant, steps leading up to an outside seating area, white-shirted serving staff visible flitting between the tables inside. She watched as he bounded up the stairs. A young woman approached with a smile, handing him a menu. Ronnie spoke to her and she nodded, waving him inside. Caelan called her boss again.
‘You think he’s meeting someone?’ Nasenby wanted to know.
‘It seems likely. A place close to the station, easy to find …’
‘Can you get inside?’
Caelan shifted her feet, peering at the restaurant.
‘There are plenty of free tables, but it’s open-plan. There’s no cover.’
‘If he’s there for a meeting, I want to know who he’s with and what’s said. This could be vital.’
‘You want me to go in there.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘What if he’s meeting his father?’
Nasenby snorted. ‘In the middle of London? Lambourne wouldn’t take the risk.’
‘He doesn’t know we’re watching him.’
‘Of course he does. He’ll guess. He might even be expecting us to follow Ronnie.’
‘No doubt, but expecting and knowing are two different things.’
Nasenby sucked in a breath through his teeth. When he spoke again, his tone was decisive. ‘Go inside. You know how to play it, Caelan.’
Pushing the phone back into her pocket, Caelan strode towards the entrance, knowing Nasenby was right. She could do this. Her stomach jolted, anxiety she hadn’t experienced since her first days of training coursing through her as she asked for a table for one.
* * *
As each minute passed with no sign of the person who was supposed to meet him here, Ronnie Morgan grew more self-conscious. What a twat. He’d followed the instructions in the letter he’d received without question, and now he was sitting here alone. No one was coming. He’d been set up. His cheeks were red as he bent his head to study the menu again.
‘I think I’ll go ahead and order now,’ he told a passing waiter, who gave him a sympathetic smile.
When his food arrived, Ronnie dug into the burger and fries hungrily. As he chewed the last mouthful, the waiter approached again.
‘There’s a call for you,’ he said. His expression remained neutral, but receiving telephone calls for customers was clearly a new experience for him. Hiding his own surprise, Ronnie wiped his mouth and pushed back his chair. His mobile was in his pocket: full battery, decent signal. He’d passed on his number, so why call the restaurant?
He followed the waiter over the scuffed floorboards to the bar. It was semicircular, built in the centre of the restaurant, allowing the staff to keep an eye on their patrons wherever they sat. Above it, rows of glasses loomed, hanging from wooden frames, reflecting the faces of those scurrying below on each gleaming surface. Ronnie gazed up at them as he reached the bar, wondering if they were ever used. The waiter beckoned to him.
‘Here you go, mate.’
Ronnie took the handset with a nod of thanks, waiting for the waiter to move away before lifting it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Ronnie. Enjoy your meal?’
A male voice, distorted and tinny, with no discernible accent. Not his father, at least he didn’t think so. The caller sounded amused, and Ronnie glanced around, startled. How did they know he’d finished eating? Was he being watched? There were a few other people dining, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. A middle-aged couple ignored each other at one table, while at another, a woman with glasses and a ponytail stirred a cup of coffee. There was a man eating alone in a booth close to the bar, but his eyes were fixed on his plate as he concentrated on shovelling pieces of gammon into his mouth.
Ronnie moistened his lips, wishing he had stayed in Lincoln. He was being dragged into his father’s world, ignoring the promises he’d made to his mother and even to himself.
‘I did, thanks,’ he managed to say.
Another bark of laughter. ‘Good. Now, leave the restaurant. Get the tube to Northolt. We’ll be waiting.’
He was gone.
Ronnie blinked, confused. Where the hell was Northolt? He’d never heard of it. Fear danced around his head. This wasn’t what he had agreed to.
The waiter was back, his smile fixed in place.
‘Your friend paid the bill,’ he said. Ronnie stared at him.
‘My friend?’
The waiter nodded to the phone Ronnie was still clutching. ‘The one you were supposed to be meeting? He paid by credit card, over the phone. His treat, as an apology for not showing up, he said.’
‘Okay …’ The man eating the gammon had finished. He glanced at Ronnie before getting to his feet. As he headed for the bar, Ronnie thrust the phone back at the waiter and fled.
* * *
‘She’s ditched the boy wonder already,’ Richard Adamson murmured.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Nasenby complained. ‘Either speak up, or ring back when you can talk freely.’
Richard swore to himself. Speaking to his boss while following Ronnie Morgan and Caelan Small was no easy task. Caelan had removed the glasses again, allowed her hair to fall around her face. Richard swerved around a group of giggling American tourists as he followed Caelan back towards King’s Cross. He hadn’t risked following her inside the restaurant, choosing to hide behind a newspaper outside, knowing she would recognise him instantly if she saw him. His grey woollen beanie and two-day growth of stubble wouldn’t fool her.
‘I said there’s no sign of Davies.’
Nasenby chuckled. ‘Already? Well, you know Caelan works best alone. It took a few years, but even I accepted it.’
Richard hesitated as Caelan was caught up in a crowd of people outside the familiar red and yellow brick arches of the King’s Cross St Pancras Underground station. Within seconds, she had disentangled herself and disappeared inside. She didn’t look back.
‘I’ll call you again when I know where we’re going.’ Adamson knew he’d have to hurry. Losing them now would end his assignment, leave him in disgrace.
‘Be sure you do, Richard,’ Nasenby said. ‘Have a chat with our friend Ian too, won’t you?’
Furious, Richard cut Nasenby off without replying or saying goodbye. More than ever, he felt like a puppet, one with two puppeteers.
* * *
The train was busy. Caelan pushed her way aboard, squeezing in behind a woman wearing a brightly patterned hijab. Ronnie Morgan stood to her left, further along the carriage, his back to her. If she stayed in position, she could watch him without turning her head. She rolled her shoulders, tensing then relaxing her neck. As she raised her head, a baby peeked at her over the shoulder of the woman in front of her, its face breaking into a smile as Caelan stuck out her tongue. Grinning back, Caelan flicked her eyes towards Morgan. The baby ducked its head for a second, then popped back up, giggling. The woman turned briefly. Caelan met her eyes, and she gave a shy smile. The baby reached a chubby hand towards Caelan, but its mother took a step away, lowering her eyes apologetically. Caelan understood. A parent providing an early lesson on not talking to strangers. She concentrated on Ronnie. As she watched, he shifted, lifting his head, studying the list of stations displayed near the roof of the carriage. She readied herself to follow if he left the train.
They arrived at the next station, Warren Street, but Ronnie didn’t move to disembark. As passengers left the train and more boarded, Caelan studied their faces quickly, scanning their features, disregarding them. No threat. No danger.
Then, through the crowd, she saw him.
12
Caelan froze, the baby and their game forgotten. He hadn’t looked at Ronnie Morgan yet, but this could be no coincidence. Glen Walker, Seb Lambourne’s right-hand man, only one rung below his boss on the ladder of Britain’s most wanted, was on the train. He hadn’t been seen since Charlie Flynn’s death, and it had been assumed he had left the country with Lambourne. Now here he was in London, a scruffy beard offering scant disguise. Caelan recognised his eyes, a cool grey, and his broad frame. He stood at the far end of the carriage, beyond Ronnie and thirty other innocent people. Caelan shifted her body. There was no way she could get between Ronnie and Walker, but she could observe.
What was Walker doing here? Was he the person who had asked Ronnie to travel to London, who had phoned him at the restaurant? Was he still working for Lambourne? Caelan knew that Nasenby, Penrith and their superiors had scoffed at Walker, labelling him the brawn behind Lambourne’s intelligence and cunning. Caelan had never been convinced. Walker was no fool. She watched his eyes as the train began to move, the possibility that he would recognise her racing through her mind. Should she abandon Ronnie and attempt to apprehend Walker? Down here, beneath the city streets, there was no way of contacting Nasenby for instructions, no opportunity to call for backup.
As she watched, Walker allowed his gaze to settle on Ronnie. A curious expression crossed his face, gone before Caelan could fully process it. Fury? Anticipation? As if Walker were a starving man, and Ronnie a plate of his favourite food. Her heart rate increasing, thumping a warning, Caelan took a step to her left, jostling the man beside her, who frowned. Muttering an apology, she stood still, knowing that drawing attention to herself would be a mistake. She looked up at the list of stations again, confirming what she already knew. The next stop was Oxford Circus. It would be busy with shoppers, tourists and other travellers. It would be easy to lose sight of Ronnie, and Walker too if he intended to stick around. It was possible to board trains on the Bakerloo and Central lines at Oxford Circus, as well as remaining on the Victoria Line. The number of locations Ronnie could head to from here was frightening. If he went out onto Regent Street or Oxford Street, the crowds would make tailing him even more difficult. If she lost him now, there would be no chance of finding him, and their link to Lambourne would be gone. If he was going to exit the train at Oxford Circus, as she believed he would, she had less than a minute to decide on a course of action.
The train slowed again and Ronnie turned towards her. Walker watched, noting the movement from his end of the carriage, and Caelan knew she had no option. Ronnie was her priority. She had no way of knowing what Walker was planning to do, but she would have to alert Nasenby to his presence as soon as she could.
On the platform, Ronnie glanced left and right. Caelan pushed through the crowd and paused by the wall, pretending to tie her shoelace as Walker stepped onto the platform. He smirked as he saw Ronnie’s confusion, and Caelan straightened as he approached the younger man, one hand in his jacket pocket. Her mouth was dry, adrenalin coursing through her as she took a step towards Ronnie. What was Walker planning? More importantly, what did he have concealed in his pocket?
‘Are you lost?’ Even in the hubbub of the station, Walker’s voice was easy to hear. Ronnie frowned.
‘No. No, I’m fine, thanks.’
Walker lifted his shoulders. ‘Suit yourself. Thought you might need a map.’
Caelan tensed, raising herself onto the balls of her feet, ready to spring at Walker if necessary. Walker whipped his hand from his pocket and thrust it towards Ronnie, who flinched. Caelan took a breath, telling herself to calm down. Walker was holding out a Tube map, the pocket-sized version you could pick up in most Underground stations.
‘Take it,’ he urged. Obviously uncomfortable, Ronnie did as he was told, and Walker nodded, satisfied. He stepped back, was soon lost in the crowd.
Ronnie stared after him, bemused, then opened the map and studied it. Once again, Caelan wished she could see through his eyes, read what he had read. After a moment, he lifted his head, stuffing the map into his jeans pocket as he began to walk. They were heading for the Central Line, Caelan realised. Ronnie was planning to catch another train. No British Transport Police officers down here, no way of passing a message on to Nasenby. She would have to allow Walker to disappear again, for now.
* * *
Ronnie’s stomach felt as though it had liquidised. He held onto a nearby yellow metal pole as the train hurtled through the darkness, keeping his eyes on the floor. Thi
s had been a mistake. Glen Walker was here. He hadn’t recognised him at first, but when the man’s face had twisted, somewhere between a smile and a grimace, he had remembered the face leering out from the news reports and photographs. His father: dark-haired, handsome. Beside him, Glen Walker: bald and built like the proverbial shithouse. And the map he’d forced Ronnie to take. What had that been about? Was he part of the scheme to lure Ronnie to London? There was nothing written on the folded paper, no directions or messages. It was just an Underground map, indistinguishable from thousands of others. Ronnie had to assume Walker was making a point, letting him know he was in London, and worryingly, terrifyingly, that he knew Ronnie was too.
Walker had been around occasionally when Ronnie had spent time with his father, back when he had thought his dad worth the effort. Before he’d fully realised what sort of man Seb Lambourne was. He hadn’t wanted to see him again after the kid had died, but when the letter had arrived … Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe his dad could explain why he’d killed a child and allowed his son’s life to be destroyed.
Tightening his grip on the handrail, Ronnie made his decision. He would go to Northolt, but no further. If no one showed there, if he was sent to another far-flung part of London, he would be on the next train back to King’s Cross. His gut was already telling him his trip down to the capital had been a mistake, but he needed to hear the truth. They’d banked on his curiosity being stronger than his fear, and it had been, until the phone call at the restaurant. Now, fear had the upper hand.
Thirteen stations before Northolt. Ronnie shook his head. He knew such superstition was nonsense, but a shiver passed through him all the same. Maybe he should get off at the next station, ignore their command and head home. He swallowed, longing for a drink of water. At least Walker had disappeared. As the train halted at Bond Street, Ronnie hoped never to see his dad’s old mate again.
Ask No Questions Page 8