Conspiracy

by Adrian Wills

  He snatched her arm and steered her out of his room, expecting her to protest, but she seemed satisfied with his explanation, for now. They took the stairs to the lobby and hustled out into the car park. ‘You okay to drive?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Parkes, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘It is my car.’

  ‘Good, I need to make a call.’

  As she reversed out of the space, Blake slipped the gun into the glove box, aware of Parkes’ wary gaze. ‘Put your foot down,’ he said.

  They tore away in a squeal of rubber, passing out of the town and skirting the edge of the moor along a twisting narrow road, eventually picking up a dual carriageway where Parkes gave the Volvo its head and sat in the outside lane cruising at ninety-five.

  Blake dialled Patterson’s number and clamped the phone to his ear as he settled back into his seat. ‘We’ve got that ID,’ he said. ‘The guy’s name’s Shazhed Ali. He’s twenty-eight, British-born to Pakistani parents. His address is listed in the Bristol area. He has minor convictions for theft and assault, all pretty low-level stuff. We’re en route there now.’

  ‘Known links to any groups or organisations?’

  ‘Nothing on the police records.’

  ‘I’ll double check this end. You need back-up?’

  ‘Negative. We’re just going to have a nose around. See what we can find out about him.’

  ‘All right. Keep me posted.’

  Blake hung up and watched the headlights of the vehicles flashing past. At least it was a lead to follow. He’d been beginning to wonder if Patterson had been seeing conspiracies where they didn’t exist. But if Hopkins had been abducted, where the hell was he? There was only one reason for a terror cell to kidnap a British soldier, and that was for the publicity. But so far there had been no video. No demands. No one claiming responsibility. And it had been almost a week since Hopkins had vanished. It was becoming more likely Fletcher was right, and Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance was nothing more sinister than a tragic story of a man who’d lost his way and taken the coward’s way out.

  ‘If you’re a number cruncher, how come they gave you a gun?’ asked Parkes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said your job is analysing data. So why would they give you a gun?’

  ‘I do some fieldwork from time to time. It’s standard procedure for officers in the field to carry a weapon.’

  ‘Bullshit, I don’t think you’ve been behind a desk in your life.’

  Blake desperately wanted to tell her the truth, but the lies were his way of staying alive, and the need to obfuscate so deeply ingrained in him that the distinction between what was real and fictitious often became blurred anyway. It was a long time since he’d been entirely honest with anyone outside of Echo 17, but he didn’t want to string Parkes along, so said nothing, watching the sun dip beyond the horizon.

  ‘So you can’t talk about it,’ said Parkes. ‘Fine. I get it. Tell me about the army instead.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘You said they’d let you go. Why?’

  Blake pondered his answer for a second. ‘I guess I was getting a bit long in the tooth. Soldiering is a young man’s game.’

  ‘So they made you redundant?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘Like they’d cut off my arm,’ said Blake. ‘It was all I’d known for the best part of twenty years.’

  ‘Christ, I can’t imagine loving a job that much.’

  ‘It was more than a job. It was my life. And my family.’ He wanted to tell her he’d felt betrayed and abandoned, that after risking his life more times than he could remember, a furious rage had burned inside him. The rage had eventually quelled, but the bitterness remained, twisting in his stomach like a nest of snakes.

  Of course, there were no protests when the decision was made. Nobody marched on parliament or waved banners. No one appeared on the evening news complaining how disgracefully the top brass had behaved. Because no one knew of the existence of Echo 17, apart from a select few senior politicians and civil servants. Blake had no choice but to accept the decision. No handshakes. No leaving party. No gratitude. Only a new passport in someone else’s name and a civilian plane ticket back from Afghanistan in time to read about his funeral in The Times.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Parkes, the tone of her voice suggesting she meant it. ‘I know what it’s like to lose something you truly loved, but life goes on, doesn’t it?’

  Waves of light washed over her face from the headlights of passing cars and lorries, but even in the darkness Blake saw the pain behind her eyes. She was hurting, but he had no words of comfort. He wouldn’t know what to say. Instead, it was easier to sit in silence for the rest of the journey, both lost in their own thoughts and regrets.

  It was gone eight-thirty when they swept into the outskirts of Bristol, slowing as they entered a densely packed residential area. The satellite navigation mapping on Blake’s phone took them into the dark heart of a grey housing estate where the city planners had crowded the poorest, most deprived inhabitants into ugly concrete blocks. Satellite dishes pockmarked the brickwork, and narrow balconies were cluttered with drying clothes, plastic chairs and junk.

  Blake leaned forward in his seat to read the street signs. ‘It’s up here on the left,’ he said.

  Parkes pulled over opposite a languorous gang of young men in baggy jeans, white trainers and over-sized baseball caps. They stood with rolled shoulders and snarling dogs on leads, staring at the Volvo like an unwelcome guest had just walked unannounced into their party.

  ‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Parkes, her fingers hovering over the key in the ignition as if wondering whether it was such a good idea to kill the engine.

  Some of the taller boys, who looked barely old enough to be shaving, drifted towards the car, sauntering with a casual indifference that was probably meant to be intimidating. Blake took a good look. Most of the boys were in their mid to late teens, but there were a few kids who could have been no more than eight or nine. Baby-faced boys too young to be hanging out on street corners.

  As a crowd began to gather around the car, staring in through the windows, Blake slowly reached for the glove box. Maybe they’d have second thoughts face-to-face with the barrel of his Browning.

  ‘No,’ said Parkes, touching his arm. ‘They’re only kids.’

  One of the boys jumped onto the bonnet and stuck his face up to the windscreen. The driver’s door clicked open, a draft of cold air swirled in, and Parkes squealed with fright. A boy with a cherubic face and a cheeky smile leaned in, hands on the roof. The whites of his eyes were a liverish yellow and his pupils full and black like polished onyx stones. ‘I’m Degsie,’ he said, his wide smile showing off a row of impossibly white teeth. He offered his hand to shake.

  Parkes stared back at him, horrified.

  ‘So who are yous? The Feds or somethin’?’ he said, glancing from Blake to Parkes and back again.

  In a flash, his hand moved to the ignition. He silenced the engine and pocketed the key.

  ‘We’re looking for someone,’ said Blake.

  ‘Ain’t we all,’ said the boy. The crowd of lads gathered behind him laughed.

  ‘Do you know Shazhed Ali? I think he lives around here.’

  The boy looked long and hard at Blake with his head cocked. The sweet, pungent smell of cannabis was heavy on his clothes and breath. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know Shaz.’

  ‘Great. Can you show us where he lives?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Blake smiled. ‘Friends.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘We just need to have a quick word.’

  ‘Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘You sure you ain’t the Feds? Cos you look a lot like ‘em.’

  ‘Degsie, can you take us to see him?’ Blake held the boy’s intense stare, unblinking. He wasn’
t about to be cowed by a teenage boy.

  Degsie grinned from ear to ear. ‘Yeah, course I can, bro. Degsie’ll look after you. Come on.’ He stepped away from the car, inviting Parkes to get out.

  She glanced at Blake for reassurance, the muscles in her neck and jaw tight.

  ‘It’s okay. It’ll be fine,’ he said, not really sure he meant it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Blake jumped out of the car, confident and bold, the gaggle of insolent-looking youths on his side of the vehicle shrunk back, giving him a respectful space, watching him like an Amazonian lost tribe encountering their first white explorer. Parkes had no such luck. She unbuckled her seatbelt, slowly swung her legs out of the car, and as she stood and shied away from Degsie, his leering mates immediately surrounded her, crowding her space.

  ‘You looking for a toy boy?’ Degsie asked, draping an arm around Parkes’ shoulder and grabbing his crotch with his free hand.

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll break every bone in your hand,’ she said, batting his arm away.

  ‘Oo, she’s a live one, innit,’ said Degsie, cackling.

  The pack laughed nervously.

  ‘So you were going to show us where Shazhed lives,’ said Blake.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Degsie nodded. ‘I’ll take you there. Follow me. No problem. Easy.’ He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. Dead. ‘Would you like to follow me,’ he said, putting on a ridiculous cut-glass accent that caused another titter of laughter.

  Parkes zipped up her jacket and followed the boy along a path between two high-rise blocks. Blake filed in behind, eyes scanning for trouble, sensing it brewing, while the other kids loped along behind. The place had the feel of lawlessness, not the kind of area you wanted to be caught alone at night, where a wrong turn or a wrong look could wind up getting you into all sorts of trouble. Especially for two pale, white strangers asking questions.

  As they entered deeper into the estate, Blake sensed they were being watched by unseen eyes, and wished he’d thought to grab his Browning from the glove box, regretting leaving it in the car.

  Degsie led them to a towering concrete eyesore that looked fit to be condemned. Ugly blocks of flats just like it had sprung up right across the country as a cheap solution to a burgeoning post-war population, designed to accommodate the largest number of people on the smallest pockets of land. At least this one had been recently tiled on the outside with red and white panels, no doubt installed with the noble intention of modernising the block. But if that was the plan, they’d wasted their money. Nothing short of tearing it down and rebuilding it would have improved its appearance.

  ‘After you.’ Degsie bowed as he held open a door and ushered them into a dingy hallway that stank of stale urine and concrete dust. To Blake’s relief, the other kids waited outside.

  ‘What about my car?’ said Parkes. ‘Will it be safe?’ She looked Degsie square in the eye with an indignant raised eyebrow.

  ‘It’s fine. The boys’ll look after it.’

  ‘You took the keys.’

  He couldn’t have looked any more hurt if she’d suggested he’d mugged the Queen. He put his hand in his pocket and hung the keys on the end of his finger. ‘You mean these?’

  ‘Give them to me.’

  Degsie pondered her demand for a second, his pleasure in her desperation written large across his face. ‘I think I’ll look after them for a bit.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Blake, touching Parkes’ elbow. They’d deal with the problem later. No point antagonising him. ‘Which floor is Shazhed on?’

  ‘Up here.’ Degsie bounded up a staircase with the exuberance of a spring lamb.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Parkes whispered. ‘We should call for back-up.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Blake. He peered up the stairs, his fingers twitching for his Browning.

  Degsie was waiting for them on the first floor, at the end of a long, covered corridor overlooking an identical building opposite. He sauntered along the gangway with his hands in his pockets, swaggering like a man who’d just won the lottery. Somewhere a door slammed, a baby screamed, and the bass notes of loud music thudded with the intensity of a pneumatic drill. Degsie stopped at a scruffy door and hammered on it with his fist. The door opened a crack and a pair of frightened eyes peered out.

  ‘What you want, Degsie?’ said a woman’s voice. Behind the challenge Blake detected a note of fear.

  He shoved the door open, pushing a woman with a young child balanced on her hip stumbling back inside. ‘Where’s Shaz?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, scowling.

  ‘You sure?’

  The woman looked Blake and Parkes up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘These two’s looking for him. They say they ain’t the Feds, but I think they’re lying.’

  ‘May we come in?’ asked Blake.

  The child struggled to be let down and screamed when his mother held him even more tightly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We have some questions about Shazhed,’ said Parkes.

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Blake.

  The woman stared at them as if making up her mind, then stepped aside. Degsie was waiting for them in a filthy kitchen at the back, where the smell of chip fat tainted the air, cupboard doors hung off their hinges and the walls were smeared with dirty marks that could have been food or something worse.

  ‘Sit down.’ Degsie pulled out three chairs from under a square table.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The woman eyed Parkes suspiciously. ‘Keisha.’

  ‘And who’s this?’ Parkes asked, squeezing the child’s pudgy knee.

  ‘Jayden.’

  She took the child’s hand and bobbed his arm up and down, gurning and smiling like women did with small children. The boy screamed. He flinched away and buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.

  Degsie laughed. ‘I don’t think he like you very much.’

  ‘Keisha,’ said Blake, leaning across the table. ‘We need to find Shazhed. Do you know where he is?’

  Keisha stared back at him, stony faced. ‘No.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  She rolled her eyes to the mildew-speckled ceiling. ‘Dunno. A few days ago.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I ain’t his keeper,’ she said, gold-hooped earrings swinging.

  Degsie straddled a chair the wrong way around and pulled a hunting knife from the waistband of his trousers. He banged it down on the table, making everyone jump. ‘What is it with all these questions?’

  The knife was a vicious piece, at least the length of Blake’s forearm, with a black oxide coated stainless steel blade, and back serrations. Not the type of weapon they’d sell you over the counter anywhere in Britain that Blake knew of.

  ‘We’re worried he may be in trouble.’ Blake leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, aiming to look nonchalant. The boy might have a knife, a dangerous looking one at that, but he doubted he had any idea how to use it in a fight with a man trained to kill with his bare hands. But it looked the part, and had the desired effect on Parkes, who sat in silence staring at it.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Degsie, with a sneer.

  ‘We’re here to help him.’

  ‘So if you’re not the Feds, who are you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Blake.

  ‘You don’t look like a copper.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not.’

  ‘What about her?’ he said, nodding at Parkes.

  Blake sighed. ‘Look, Keisha, we don’t have much time. Is there anywhere Shazhed might have gone you can think of?’

  ‘I dunno,’ she said.

  ‘Did he say anything to you about travelling to Devon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned Tavistock?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ The boy on her lap flopped
around, whining with boredom.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Blake.

  ‘I told you, I dunno where he is. He don’t tell me where he’s going, okay?’

  Parkes tried to distract the child, who was working up to a full-blown tantrum. ‘Well, have you seen him since last Monday?’

  Keisha twiddled one of her earrings as she thought long and hard. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I ain’t seen him this week.’

  ‘Does he stay away from home often?’

  ‘He does what he likes.’

  The child threw his head back and screamed.

  ‘Can you shut that fucking kid up?’ Degsie snapped. He snatched up the knife and stabbed the table, embedding the sharp tip of the blade in the wooden surface. ‘Don’t you hear her? She don’t know nothing. Leave her alone.’

  Blake had half a mind to frog march the teenager out of the flat with his arm twisted behind his back, squealing for his mother. It might teach him some manners and a little respect. But with his gang of flunkies waiting out on the street they were hopelessly outnumbered and needed him on side to get safely off the estate. ‘Just one more question. Is Shazhed a religious man? Does he attend the mosque?’

  Keisha laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Does he have a computer? A laptop?’

  ‘That’s two questions,’ said Degsie. He yanked the knife out of the table and ran a thumb along the blade.

  ‘Well done, you can count,’ said Blake. ‘And you didn’t even have to use your fingers.’

  Degsie’s face clouded. ‘What’d you say, bro?’

  ‘Keisha, does Shaz have a computer?’ Blake repeated.

  ‘We ain’t got no money for no fancy computer.’

  ‘But I bet he has a phone?’ asked Parkes.

  ‘Everyone got a phone.’

  ‘Who does he talk to?’

  ‘I dunno. His mum?’

  ‘You know I could cut you open like a fish.’ Degsie stood, knocking his chair over and aiming the knife at Blake’s face. ‘Maybe I’d start with your ear.’

  Blake kept his gaze focussed on Keisha, refusing to meet Degsie’s eye. ‘That wouldn’t end too well for you.’