by Mark Leggatt
Kirsty shook her head. “This is my home now.”
He could see the look in her eyes that told a story. Not a good one. “You know, I’ve got to ask.”
Her features relaxed and a cheeky grin crossed her face. “You mean in case we end up in a body bag before lunchtime? Go on.”
“Those guys in Soho, the ones you dropped with the Sten gun. That wasn’t a lucky shot, was it?”
“You’re part of the team. Mr Pilgrim trained you too, no?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, so you are a gun–totin’ super spy after all, eh?”
“No, Kirsty, I’m just an IT guy.” He looked out over the water. “But you’re more than just some hacker chick. The guy in the Jag?” He jerked his thumb back towards the Embankment. “You emptied a clip into his head. That’s not exactly in the training manual.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes I get carried away.”
He pictured the rage on her face when she opened the door of the Jag and pointed the gun. “I ain’t got a problem with that.”
She sat silent for a moment, staring out across the water. “I was once a victim.” Her shoulder twitched and she tried to hide it by shaking her head. “Never again.” She blew out a breath, then pushed her legs straight, resting her hands on her lap. “I came to London ten years ago. A runaway. My father... abused me. It started when I was too young to remember. Yeah, far too young.”
Montrose sat still, but felt a tremor down his spine. Her childhood voice and her accent was one of the sweetest things he had ever heard, but it was laced with sorrow.
“My mother was a drunk. But she was also a victim. The endless beatings, I...” Kirsty closed her eyes and stretched her neck, resting her head on the side of the boat. “When she died, it got worse. Then there was only me.” She let her head fall to the side, resting against his shoulder. “That was then. This is now.”
He looked down to where her hands were clasped tight in her lap.
“It was worse when he was drinking. And that was most of the time. But he was a policeman. And when I was old enough to know the law, I was old enough to know I had no chance. I knew how it was going to end, one way or the other. As I got older, I started going out, down to the village, trying to have a normal life with my friends, but knowing that if I came home late he would beat the shit out of me. Or worse, if the drunken bastard could manage it. Then one night, in the winter when the valleys were thick with snow, I came home early, before the weather closed the roads. I waited in the dark, pretending I wasn’t home. After a while he came home, drunk out of his mind. I saw him lose his keys as he was walking through the garden. I watched him from the window, crawling about in the snow. Eventually, he gave up and sat on the step, waiting for me to come home. He fell asleep. I watched him all night. It must have been minus fifteen. And I watched him freeze to death.” The spray brushed her face, but she didn’t move, then she sat up with a jolt and clapped her hands together.
“Kirsty...”
“Best bloody thing I’ve ever done.” She wiggled her bottom on the seat and bumped him with her hip. “And then I packed my bags and ran. Through the snow, down to the village. I hitched a lift on a tractor, right down the valley and took the first train to Cardiff.” She held out her hands and gazed around. “And the runaway came to London Town.”
“But nobody followed you? Looked for you?”
She shrugged. “It was a natural death. Happens every winter. Anyway, I didn’t give a shit. There’s plenty places to hide in London, if you know the streets. I made them my home. Nobody was looking for me. I did it right. I rebuilt my life here. Then I got a job and saw a shrink to find out who I am.” She pointed her chest. “This killer. And I found out I’m a nice person. I didn’t tell her everything, but it turns out I’m a really nice, gentle, sweet person, who has absolutely no qualms about killing any man that threatens me. I can live with that.”
Or any man that betrays you. He felt a chill and knew it wasn’t the weather. “How did you meet Mr. Pilgrim?”
“I was a hacker. I still am. Those guys are my people. I went for the sick bastards in power, all the perverts that hide behind their position and status. I pursued them across the internet. I dragged up every sordid secret they had. The abuse, the beatings and the murders. The orphanages where they preyed and the people who ran them. I uncovered a pedophile ring that led right up to Downing Street. Right up to the desk of the fucking Prime Minister. And the Secret Service who killed people to keep it quiet.” She slumped back into the seat.
He watched her eyes, fixed on the horizon, never wavering. “What happened?”
“I was an amateur. A very clever amateur. But a lamb to the wolves. I tried to tell the press, but GCHQ caught me. They had been following my every move. I’m lucky to be alive. They destroyed everything I had and they would have destroyed me too, but I had a guardian angel. Zac. I met him at university. I didn’t know he worked for Mr. Pilgrim. They both rescued me. And Pilgrim showed me how to use a gun. Amongst other things.”
“And the pedophile ring?”
She wagged a finger in the air. “One day I will have them. The lords in their ermine robes, the cabinet ministers, the vile, sick bastards and murderers sitting in that pile of shit down the Thames called the Palace of Westminster.” She stared straight at him and her voice shook. “And I will fuck them up. With or without the law.” She turned away and blew out a breath. “All the evidence is gone. But they’re still out there, most of them. Some died naturally.” She smiled at him. “And some just died.” She sat back and pulled out her phone.
The sun came out from behind the clouds. The boat bounced as it passed the bow wave of a long barge and Montrose held on to the side rail. They had a gun and a Taser. One to live, one to die. He glanced sideways, but she was engrossed in her phone. Kane said she could walk. But he sent his goons to shoot her in the street. He pulled his phone from his pocket. This is all fucked up. Kane is going to have an army of people trying to kill us and Pilgrim is lying somewhere in a hospital bed. Or a morgue. He rubbed his forehead. Kane showed his hand. Now I’m going to play mine. The good ol’ US of A is big enough to look after itself for a few hours. And when we get clear of here... If we get clear of here, I’m going to find Kane and nail his fucking throat to the floor.
He checked the phone, but there were no messages. Yeah, he’ll know. The battery level had dropped. That isn’t right. He flicked through the apps and spotted a blank browser running. Shit. The text message. He began to hold the phone up to Kirsty, then pulled it back. You don’t want to show her. You know what it is. He tucked the phone into his palm. Don’t fool yourself. You need her. He glanced down, but her gaze was fixed on the far bank. He lifted his arm to the side of the boat and let the phone slip from his grasp. You can’t find me now, shithead.
“Your turn, Connor the Whistleblower. How did Mr. Pilgrim find you?”
He pulled his arm back into the boat. “Shit-scared in a café in Casablanca is how he found me.”
She laughed and sat up in the seat. “Really? My, you get around. So, how did you get from Morocco to a boat on the Thames with a crazy Welsh chick?”
Montrose shook his head. “Long story.”
“You know what you are?”
He half-turned his head towards her.
“You’re a nice guy. I’m not sure you’ve got the balls for this, but I like you. And you know that. But something flicked your switch, Connor Montrose. One day you went over to the dark side, long before you became a whistleblower. Or you would still be behind a desk staring at a screen and eating a tuna sandwich. What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a degree in psychology. I can see right through you. And I like what I see. But something set you on a path and brought you here today.” She shrugged. “You know, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. I’m in
terested, that’s all. I care.”
He cleared his throat and pictured a pale, white body lying on a mortuary slab, remembered walking out into the midday heat of a Californian summer, unable to breathe. “My sister.”
Kirsty held his hand. “You lost her?”
“She got caught up with the wrong people. People in Mexico and Colombia. When they had finished with her she was too far gone. She died before she got back to the border.”
She squeezed his hand.
“I didn’t know. I couldn’t save her.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“And when I found the CIA and the US government covering up a shipment of enough Afghan heroin worth enough money to feed all the kids in Europe, I... I went off the reservation.”
“I hear you.”
“A lot of people died. A lot of people deserved to die. And one day I will find who took my sister.”
The pilot throttled back the engine and the boat edged towards the shore.
Kirsty sat up. “One day, Connor. Let’s make sure you live to see it.”
Montrose cleared his throat. “Where is this place? Where are we going?”
“Southwark. The old railway arches under London Bridge station. There are hundreds of them, but I know the ones that Pilgrim means. The ones in the best locations have been converted to coffee houses or artisan shops selling overpriced crap jewelry. Others are small businesses or auto repair yards. But there are some that are too dark and damp for anyone. And that’s where the homeless go. And have done for a hundred years. Southwark was always edgy. This side of the river deserves its reputation.”
The pilot pulled into a dock and Montrose found his feet on the damp wood as it rocked on the choppy water. He heard the whump-whump of rotor blades and looked up.
Kirsty caught him looking and turned towards the west. “Too low for tourists. Let’s go.”
*
There was a soft knock at the door. Purley sat bolt upright at her desk. “Enter.”
A young man in a tweed suit pushed open the door and quickly crossed the room to stand before her desk.
“No pack drill, Lockhart, spit it out.”
Lockhart glanced over at Madame Raymonde who was sitting in a wing-backed chair to the right of the desk.
“My guest isn’t here,” said Purley.
Lockhart nodded. “I overheard the Americans, ma’am. They were asking why you were seen walking over Lambeth Bridge. They intimated that they expected you to be available at a moment’s notice.”
Purley let out a bitter laugh. “They have control of my entire department and they’re wondering where I go for lunch? No matter. To quote one of my friends in Lambeth, I’m as welcome in this investigation as a bacon sandwich at a bar mitzvah. Any other news?”
“They are keeping things tight to their chest, ma’am, but I know there was an incident on the Embankment. CIA agents are reported dead.”
“Any other casualties?”
“No, ma’am. And there are no reports of any arrests, but helicopters are searching the Thames and they have a tracker leading towards Southwark.”
Purley leaned forward. “They’re too damn’ close.”
Lockhart shuffled his feet. “Earlier, ma’am, there was some activity regarding a search for, how shall I say, an elderly lady in Soho.” He flicked his eyes over to Madame Raymonde.
“I’m sure there was,” replied Purley. “And I do hope that there have been absolutely no sightings of this lady?”
“None whatsoever, ma’am.”
“Good man, carry on.”
Lockhart nodded and headed for the door.
Purley waited until the door closed behind him then slumped down in her seat. “I can’t take the chance. They may have tracked me to Lambeth. If they have, they’ll find Pilgrim.”
“Move Pilgrim to the East End,” said Madame Raymonde. “They’ll take care of him.”
“Maybe. But his team? Montrose and the girl? They’re heading for Southwark.” She scratched the nape of her neck. “Kane is too close. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Then you may have to clean down everything. I know what it means to you, but it is the only option. We have come to the last resort. Prepare to give the order, Elizabeth. Before it’s too late.”
Purley held her head in her hands.
“And Pilgrim too.”
“No.” Purley stood up. “One last chance. But if Captain Wolff is compromised, I’ll do what needs to be done.” She felt her mouth dry. “The East End boys can pick up Pilgrim. They won’t like it, but they know the score. And they can take care of him if required.” She reached down to the desk and a copy of The London Times, opening it at the crossword. “You know what this is?”
“I can guess.”
Purley lifted a pen from her desk and her hand hovered over the paper.
“If my assumptions are correct,” said Madame Raymonde, “that will only work if he is listening.”
Purley dropped the pen.
“Don’t leave it too late, Elizabeth. We cannot let them win. At any price.”
“I understand.” She picked up the phone on her desk and punched a button. “Major Salter, I need the Blue team. One target Holland Park and three targets Southwark. Mobilize for action. Wait for my command.”
Chapter 12
The switch from fashionable waterfront to the grimy back streets of Southwark was just a case of turning the wrong corner. Montrose followed Kirsty past the over-priced artisanal shops, through a car park and into a narrow back street. On one side of the street a high fence enclosed a junkyard, barely holding back the haphazardly stacked hulks of rusting cars.
“That’s second on our list,” said Kirsty, pointing to a rotting wooden shed, just inside the entrance to the junkyard. “We need a motor as bent as a nine-pound-note.” She crossed the road and turned into an alley at the side of a boarded-up video store, walking to a yard at the back, strewn with rubbish, broken furniture and a stained and torn mattress. She squeezed past a burnt-out dumpster and stepped carefully through a gap in a broken wire fence.
Montrose looked over her shoulder at an overgrown wasteground where ramshackle huts lay at all angles, held together with plastic sheeting. Outside the huts, groups of men gathered around braziers made from oil drums, Slavic and North African faces tracking their every move. Several dogs sniffed around, occasionally turning their heads towards them. At the far end he saw a line of railway arches below a wide span of tracks leading into London Bridge station. He counted the overhead power lines and worked out there must be at least twenty tracks converging into the station, just visible above a line of warehouses. “What is this place?”
Kirsty pointed to the east. “London Bridge Station is over there. As for here, what do you think it is? Welcome to the United Nations.”
Montrose scanned the long line of low arches, framed in sooty black bricks.
“Some go back a quarter of a mile,” said Kirsty. “You could hide an army in there. Watch your feet. Syringes.”
Montrose stepped gingerly around the trash and wished he wasn’t wearing sneakers. Some of the arches were boarded up, but had large holes roughly cut into the plywood.
Kirsty headed for an open arch. The sun was behind the railway line and daylight only penetrated a few yards inside. She pulled a small Maglite torch from her bag and took out her phone. “Switch your phone off and hide it,” she said. “They’re as good as cash in here.”
“I ditched it.”
“Yeah?” She had only stepped forward a few feet, when a voice, thick with drink, came out of the gloom.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Kirsty turned on the torch and pointed it at the floor. “Relax. Just visiting a friend.”
“Visiting, eh? You think this is the fucking Ritz?”
<
br /> Another voice sniggered and joined in. “Yeah and I’m the doorman, so have you got the entrance fee, sweetheart?”
Kirsty flashed up the torch and scanned two bearded young men crouched over a cardboard box, littered with scraps of tin foil and syringes. “Listen, mate. I used to sleep here. I had enough of your shit then and I’ve had enough of it now. So, you can help me or you can get out of my fucking way. Captain Wolff. Where is he?”
Montrose widened his stance, knowing they would only see his silhouette. Let’s hope that’s enough.
One of the men rolled a syringe between his blackened fingers for a few moments, weighing up the options. “Down on the right. He’s in his office.”
The other man stood up. His eyes were glazed and he rocked back and forward on the balls of his feet. “So, you used to live here, eh?”
“Yeah,” said Kirsty. “And I’ve got to say, it’s gone downhill a bit since then.”
Montrose followed close behind as she stepped around them and into the darkness. She traced the torch along the walls, scanning quickly over bags of rubbish and discarded furniture. A few faces turned away from the light with muttered curses. Some lay still, their mouths open and eyes glazed, hardly registering the beam.
Too young. This guy’s got to be in his fifties at least. He stopped and looked back into the darkness. Yeah, far too young for this shit.
Kirsty shone the torch on a heap of rags and flattened cardboard boxes wedged into a gap where bricks had collapsed. Rotting mortar lay strewn across the floor and green stalactites hung from the broken bricks where the wall had collapsed. The edge of a hat peeked over the stained and threadbare blankets.
As they approached, Montrose could make out part of a face, just visible between a matted grey beard and the brim of a battered trilby.
“Excuse me.” said Kirsty.
A filthy hand slipped from under the blankets and gently pushed up the hat.
“Captain Wolff?”
The bloodshot eyes gave a flicker of recognition as they came into focus.
Kirsty squatted beside him and held the Maglite to her side.