Each Day I Wake: A gripping psychological thriller: US Edition

by Seb Kirby

  Ives turned to face the still open doorway as the medical team came in. “We’ll get the technical team onto it. Shouldn’t take them more than a few hours to work out those logins.”

  As the medics began to attend to Brogan, Ives sought to reassure him. “I’ll need to talk to you again once you’re out of immediate medial care.”

  Brogan nodded. “One thing, I need you to know. If you catch him, keep him away from me. A long way from me.”

  CHAPTER 64

  I made my way out of London Bridge Station, past the base of the Shard with its perpetual self-made wind and on towards Southwark Cathedral.

  It was going to be some time before Janet made it to London and this was as good a place as any to avoid being found by Ives, as I hid in plain sight amongst the bustling crowds around Borough Market.

  There is something that draws people to this place from all over the world. It’s a concentration of human industry and endeavor that stretches back over two thousand years, century on century, one chunk of time laid on top of the other, a continuity you can smell and touch. From the foundations of the outer wall of Roman Londinium now exposed and on display, to the pre-Norman origins of the Cathedral, to the subterranean ruins of Shakespeare’s first theatre, The Rose, now recovered in a water-filled basement beneath a concrete office block, to the medieval Borough Market now overarched by the railway, to the walled remains of the Marshelsea, the debtors’ prison of Dickens’ father, to the Victorian railway itself and onward to the dominating presence of the Shard, the tallest building in London. History on history, lives upon lives, all lived out in this one special place where the Thames reaches out to the darker side of the world.

  I knew this place. Just as I knew Lichfield.

  A part of me belonged here and I was part of its story.

  It was another keystone in my journey back to knowing myself.

  I walked the length of Borough High Street and found the alleyway that preserves what remains of the walled perimeter of the Marshelsea and, a small distance along, turned right under an archway to take a seat on a bench in Little Dorrit Garden.

  The layers of history of this place were like the layers of my memory. Known and knowable each in themselves but difficult to connect into a single thread of history because of the gaps left by those who left no mark. My past was like its past. I needed to fill in the gaps. I needed his story to become my story and, as I took in more of the sights and sounds and smells around me, I knew this was something I could and would achieve.

  I would recover all of my past. Then, and only then would I have a future.

  My thoughts returned to Janet. According to our plan, she could be arriving in under an hour.

  I returned to the station, took the Underground to Euston and joined the crowds on the concourse waiting for news of train departures and arrivals on the illuminated screens overhead. It was another good place to be hiding in plain sight, providing I was careful.

  Two police officers in combat uniforms moved through the melee, holding oversize automatic weapons in clear view across their chests. But they were here to deter terrorism and they had no interest in people like me.

  As trains were announced, the rush of arrivals was matched only by the surge of passengers jostling to find seats on departing trains. The concourse emptied and filled and remained as crowded and protective as ever as I waited for Janet’s train.

  I kept my head down. The place was a goldmine for those collecting information. A line of five cameras, there to be seen if you knew where to look, peered down on the crowds below. As each soul raised a head to look up at the display boards to see if their train was ready to depart, those cameras were presented with a perfect opportunity to gather input for the growing databank of faces that the police were assembling. Facial recognition technology would soon link each face to images provided to the database from digital passports, drivers’ licenses and the like. Anonymity was fast becoming a thing of the past.

  A Lichfield train arrived and there was no sign of Janet. I began to think she wouldn’t make it. The tasks she’d agreed to were too difficult. She’d been unable to shake off the police surveillance. They’d detained her and were questioning her on my whereabouts.

  Then another train arrived without her and I was becoming ever more certain something had gone wrong.

  I turned and began to pick my way towards the nearby café area where centralized seating is shared by the surrounding ring of takeaway food and hot drinks outlets that competed for custom.

  Before I could make much progress through the crowd, a voice I knew. “Tom.”

  It was Janet. I’d missed the arrival of her train but she’d found me after all.

  She came up close and kissed me. “You knew I wouldn’t let anything come between us again.”

  It was then that she noticed my split and swollen lips.

  “I could tell you were in more trouble than you were letting me know. What happened?”

  “I’m OK.” I changed the subject and led her toward the café area where we found seats. “You weren’t followed?”

  She shook her head. “Ives’ man is a fool. Wrapped him round my little finger.”

  “You turned off your phone.”

  She nodded.

  “And you had no trouble getting the cash.”

  She tapped her shoulder bag. “There’s enough in here to keep us going until this thing is sorted out.”

  I told her about my interview with Ives, how he was building a case that I was the killer of the girls.

  Janet looked shocked but still responded with cool logic. “Everything he has is circumstantial. He has no proof.”

  “They’re waiting for DNA analysis from Cathy Newsome’s body.”

  “And that’s why you decided to run?”

  “He left me no choice.”

  “Why? You have nothing to hide. You couldn’t possibly be guilty.”

  I placed my hand on hers. “You know that, Jan, and it’s wonderful that you have faith in me but, I have to tell you, right now, if I’m asked on oath, I wouldn’t be able to reply. The gaps in what I can recall are too great. Until I can fill those gaps, I’m in no position to defend myself.”

  “And how do we fill those gaps?”

  “By finding the person who all but killed me and dumped me in the North Dock. It’s the only way I’m going to be able to face Ives again.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Tyrone Montague never liked meeting Quinn. It reminded him too much of the unpleasant side of the business they were in. Better, for that reason, to reach Quinn as normal by phone. But that wouldn’t do now. What he had to say to the man had to be face to face.

  As arranged, Montague parked his car on the third floor of the car park on Tottenham Court Road and waited. A few minutes later, Quinn arrived, told his driver to circle until needed, walked over and sat on the front seat next to Montague.

  “You look worried, Ty. Must be important to need to meet like this.”

  Montague came straight out with it. “Terry Morgan is a copper.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “I always told you there was something wrong about him. And that you should keep off the filth that he peddles. How much does he know?”

  “Enough.”

  “Want me to ex him?”

  “Not yet. He’s made an offer.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “One-eighty thou and he wants to leave the country. Says he has issues with the police enough of his own and needs to start a new life a long way from us.”

  “So, ex him anyway.”

  “He knows about something we need. About Stella.”

  Quinn shrugged. “She’s gone now. What’s the worry?”

  “She kept a secret diary, Mike, with enough in it to bring the whole house down. That diary is being sought by the police in another case and if it comes to light we’ll all get put away.”

  “What other case.”

  “The Newsome girl. A copper cal
led Ives is heading up a manhunt for her killer.”

  Quinn clenched his teeth to show his distaste of what he’d just heard. “If I could find the sick mother that killed her, I’d ex him myself.” He paused. “So what led them to the diary?”

  “That doesn’t matter. We need to find it before they do.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  Montague handed over the contact details Delaney had given him. “Give Terry Morgan a helping hand. You can ex him once we have the diary.”

  Quinn waited. “Anything more?”

  “Just that I need you to tell me the roof’s not about to fall in, Mike. First Tunny and The Herald digging into our business. Now this. Should I be forgiven for feeling that problems come in pairs?”

  “It’s under control, Ty. You know you can always depend on me to see you right. We’ve seen to Tunny. We’ll find whatever it was he had on us.”

  “But we don’t have it yet?”

  “Not for want of trying. We found nothing when we searched his place in Paddington. We’re beginning to think he must have had another address, somewhere he kept secret. But don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

  “All the more reason to keep up the pressure on Hamilton.”

  “That’s a given. He’ll tell us if anything comes into play about OAM. I’m sure of that.” He paused. “And we’ll find the diary. Trust me. Haven’t I always delivered?”

  “Just make sure you do, Mike. Just make sure you do.”

  CHAPTER 66

  We checked into The Wentworth, a budget hotel close to Euston station. It was one of those places where, to lower costs, staff numbers had been pared back and no one had time or interest in logging who came and went once you’d checked in.

  Janet handled the formalities when we arrived, giving a false name. We were now Mr. and Mrs. Collins. James and Emily. She booked us in for four nights, paid in cash and there were no questions asked and no request for ID. Janet purchased internet access to cover the stay, again using cash. I remained silent throughout check in and did my best to keep out of line of sight of the security cameras.

  We reached the ground floor room and unpacked the necessities from the small case that Janet had brought from Lichfield. The room was small. There was a desk against one wall and Janet had her tablet with her. She typed in the login she purchased at reception and we checked the internet for developments.

  Janet looked up after completing the search. “There’s a little more on the Cathy Newsome case. Press interviews with her parents showing their grief and appealing for the killer to come forward. Distressing but, sadly, what we’ve come to expect. And there’s no mention of you.”

  I was sitting on the bed beside her. “I wouldn’t expect it. Ives wants to trap me first.”

  “You shouldn’t think that way. We’re going to outwit Ives. But first we’ve got to believe we can do it.”

  I knew she was right. The greatest danger was that I placed myself in a corner and become an easy prey for Ives’ questioning. “You’re right, Jan.”

  I told her about what happened at Brogan’s apartment.

  She interrupted. “I wondered why you weren’t saying much about him and where you got that swollen lip.”

  “Nothing was right about him, for all the time he was playing the blood brothers card, he was setting me up. Using me to find his sister’s diary.”

  She held up her hands. “Whoa. You’ve found Della Brogan’s diary?”

  I nodded. “You were right, Jan. The leather bound version was a decoy. The real one is online. We found the login amongst Della’s things. I printed out two copies at The Herald. Gave one to Marshall, kept the other myself.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I took both copies with me and locked them away in left luggage at Charing Cross station.” I showed her the paper receipt. “They’re safe there.”

  “OK. But you have the login. We can access the journal here on my tablet.”

  I gave her the log in details and, with a few taps on the virtual keyboard, we were in.

  She sat back. “Two years. A mass of detail. Where do we start?”

  “You’ll see she uses initials.”

  “No surprise there. It’s common enough amongst the journal crowd. Adds to the sense of secrecy.”

  “Even if the same initials apply to more than one person?”

  “That’s a little more strange but still not that uncommon.”

  I knew I had to tell her. “The reason Brogan tried to kill me is in there. An entry Della made just before she died saying that someone she called TM was going to kill her. Brogan is convinced that TM is me.”

  She looked worried by what she’d just heard but tried to conceal it. “Why would he think that?”

  “I think that was his motivation in coming to Lichfield all along, in seeking me out. Something Della must have told him in the time they spent together before she died that he took to mean I could be involved. And when he found that in the diary he took that to be proof enough.”

  “We’ll just have to show otherwise. You’re not the only man in the world with those initials, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s something more, Jan. When I was leaving Brogan’s apartment, I had to stay out of sight as Ives and Lesley arrived. Something about the way they made their way to Brogan’s door makes me think they weren’t coming for me but for Brogan. And the more I’ve thought about it, the more certain I am. Brogan wouldn’t have called them, not if he planned to kill me. So why was Ives there? What did he want from Brogan?”

  Janet looked back. “Ask yourself, Tom, what did Brogan have that might have been of importance to Ives? The diary. And I think we’ll find the proof of why that mattered to Ives in the diary itself.”

  I lay back on the bed as Janet began speed-reading the entries to Della’s journal.

  I could feel fatigue taking over, tempting me to sleep, but I tried to force myself to stay awake.

  CHAPTER 67

  It didn’t take Mike Quinn long to discover what he needed from Terry Morgan – or should he call him John Delaney. That was not the most difficult call. It was only Montague’s instruction to keep the man alive as long as they needed him that prevented Quinn from finishing Delaney the first time he had him in his sights. But Ty was right. The undercover cop had to be kept on side, at least until the time was right. He knew too much and there was no knowing who he’d told.

  They met as arranged on the St Paul’s side of Millennium Bridge and stood talking, looking down onto the Thames flowing beneath them.

  Quinn was working hard to appear to be supportive and it hurt the more knowing that he was standing next to an undercover copper. “I understand, Terry. There are times when it’s best to split. Make a new start. With Ty’s help you can make that happen.”

  “He filled you in on the deal?”

  “Yeah. One-eighty for the diary. Seems no more than fair.” Quinn paused. “So, you know who has it?”

  Delaney shook his head. “I have info from the Ives operation. The one working the Newsome case.”

  Quinn determined to not let mention of the girl’s name divert him from the main task in hand, no matter how revolted he felt that sex crime had impinged on his world. “OK. Who does Ives think has the diary?”

  “Brogan. Marshall Brogan. Stella’s brother.”

  Quinn clenched his fists. Brogan. Interfering once by trying to capitalize on the break-in to Ty Montague’s office was a bad enough incursion into their affairs but here was the Irishman named again. “And what makes Ives so sure?”

  Delaney smiled. “He has the diary. It was signed out to him as part and parcel of the things he collected from Stella as next of kin.”

  “So, Ives now has the diary?”

  “That’s the important thing, Mr. Quinn. I’ve heard that, yes, Ives has the diary left in Stella’s things but, no, there’s nothing of any importance in it.”

  “So what are we worried about?”

&nbs
p; “There’s another diary. The real one. The one Ives has is a dummy, a decoy.”

  “And Brogan has the real one?”

  “Who else?”

  Quinn began to turn to walk away. “We’ll be in touch.”

  The undercover policeman pulled him back. “You don’t want me to help?”

  Quinn gave a stare that said don’t ever touch me. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Delaney took his hand away. “Sorry, Mr. Quinn. I didn’t mean anything. But you need my help, you really do.”

  “OK, Terry. If you insist.”

  CHAPTER 68

  I’d been asleep for over three hours when Janet woke me.

  “I think I’ve found it, Tom. The reason why Ives was going to see Marshall Brogan. He’s trying to make a connection between Cathy Newsome’s killing and the death of Della Brogan.”

  I came round and focused on what she was telling me. “Slow down. What makes you so sure?”

  “It’s here in the diary. One of her clients is a serial killer. A serial killer who boasted to her that he’d killed young women like Cathy Newsome. Someone with the initials TM.”

  “More evidence to allow Ives to pin this on me.”

  “Don’t think that, love.” She showed me the new file she’d made on her tablet. “Look, Della wasn’t fazed by using the same initials for different people. If their initials happened to come out the same, so be it. She still knew what she meant; it was her journal and she could post there just as she wished. No one else was ever meant to see it. So, I made a list. Each time an entry appears in the diary with someone referred to by a set of initials, I added them to the list together with the date that entry was made and a guess, if you like, of the kind of person that might be. Female friend, dating agency colleague, client – you get the idea.”

  “Very organized.”

  She smiled. “That’s the only way to be.” She paused and scrolled down to the entries she’d made for TM. “This is where it gets interesting. There are different people she’s referring to here. Two of them I get straight away.”